Уолтер Тевис - The Hustler

“Well,” he said, smiling at Eddie, “that always feels pleasant, doesn’t it?”

Eddie did not answer.

And Findlay made the next one, an easy three-rail air shot—the kind where the cue ball is sent for the three required bounces off the cushions before hitting the other two balls. He shot the same way, with the fluttering little finger, the swooping stroke, the phony frown of concentration. It was disgusting to watch his mannerisms. But he made two billiards.

When Eddie shot, he tried to play calmly, dispassionately, and he succeeded in making a good, smooth stroke and giving the cue ball a clean hit and roll. But he missed.

Findlay made another on his next turn, and then played him safe, by leaving Eddie’s white ball at one end of the table and the other two balls at the other end. This, immediately, was a new problem; Eddie did not know exactly how to play safe from that position, and, irritated, he shot a wild shot which missed by several feet. The cue ball came thunking out of one of the corners and dropped dead in position for a simple three-rail cross shot for Findlay.

They continued playing and after a while Eddie began to make an occasional billiard. But he could not seem to get hold of the balls properly, could not get the feel of the table and of the game; and Findlay beat him. Twenty-five to eleven. When the game was over Bert handed Findlay a hundred-dollar bill, wordlessly.

“Thank you, Bert,” he said, and then smiled at Eddie, the same supercilious, irritating smile. “Play another?”

He tried to concentrate on the simple shots during the next game, avoiding the tricky English—the kinds of spin that added extra variables to the way the ball would roll and bounce—and trying to cinch whatever shots he found. He lost, but he scored fifteen before Findlay beat him. He was not saying anything, was trying to keep himself from becoming angry with the silly, foppish way that Findlay played, trying to concentrate on winning—just winning. And every shot he played he could feel Bert’s eyes, spectacled and quietly disapproving, watching him, his stroke, and the way that the balls rolled. But he did not look at Bert any more; he watched what he was doing.

And in the fourth game he finally began to get the sense of the balls and the table—the old, fine sense that always came to him, sooner or later, and let him know that it was going to be time for him to start to win. He began to loosen up, to put a little more wrist action into his stroke—although it hurt his wrist to do this—and he won the game, by a close score.

He won the next one, and then Findlay stepped behind the mahogany bar and fixed them drinks, strong drinks, and Eddie began to feel better, looser. It was time to bear down now, time to begin thinking of profits. And the game of billiards seemed to open up for him; the balls began to respond to his touch; and he began to enjoy the game, watching the balls fly around the table, enjoying the pretty little click at the end of each successful shot.

He won four out of the next six games and they were even again. He looked at his watch. A quarter to ten. The evening was just beginning; and, at last, he was feeling good, back in his element again. Now Findlay’s exaggerated style of playing seemed only amusing, an opportunity for easy contempt.

After Eddie had won the game that put them even in money, Findlay went behind the bar to mix the drinks, and Eddie walked over to Bert and said, quietly, “When do I raise the bet?”

Bert considered this for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said.

Findlay was clicking ice behind the bar.

“I think I’ve got him,” Eddie said.

“You’re not supposed to be thinking.”

“All right, boss.” He grinned at Bert, amused. “I know I’ve got him, then. I’ll beat him from here.”

Bert looked at him carefully. “I’ll let you know,” he said.

But after the next game, which Eddie won, it was Findlay, surprisingly, who brought it up. He held his lighter out for Eddie’s cigarette, and then, after clicking it dramatically shut, said, “Like to raise the stakes, Mr. Felson?”

Eddie looked at him for a moment, and then turned to Bert, “Okay?”

Bert’s voice was noncommittal. “Do you think you’ll beat him?”

“Of course,” Findlay said, smiling. “Of course he thinks he can beat me, Bert. He wouldn’t be playing me if he didn’t. Right, Felson?”

“It figures,” Eddie said, smiling back at him.

“I didn’t ask him can he beat you,” Bert said. “I already know he can beat you. What I asked him was will he. With Eddie that’s two different things.”

Eddie looked at Bert for a moment, silently. Then he said, his voice level, “I’ll beat him.”

Bert pursed his lips, unimpressed. “We’ll see.” And then, to Findlay, “How much?”

“Oh…” Findlay scratched his chin, delicately. “What about five hundred?”

Instantly, Eddie felt a small tightening in his stomach, not unpleasant. They would be getting down to business now.

“All right,” Bert said.

Eddie, looking at Findlay’s hands, noticed that the nails seemed to be polished. Even after playing pool they were impeccably clean, perfectly trimmed, and slightly glossy.

Findlay beat him. The score was close, and Findlay did not seem to shoot any better, nor Eddie any worse; but Findlay made more billiards than he did. It cost Bert five hundred dollars, and Bert paid it silently.

Eddie lost the next game the same way. Findlay’s playing was still as affected, as silly looking, as ever; but he won.

And it was during that game that a very revealing shot came up, one that changed for him the whole aspect of the game. It was Findlay’s shot, and the balls were spread in a very tricky position. There was what appeared to be a simple, easy set-up; but actually the balls were arranged so that a last-minute kiss—a collision between the two wrong balls—would have been inevitable. A poor player would not have seen this, a player as poor as Findlay seemed to be.

But Findlay did not shoot the shot in the obvious, predictable way. He put a great deal of reverse English on the cue ball, skidded it into the side rail, across the table twice, and into the middle of the third ball. The shot did not look like very much; but Eddie immediately recognized it for what it was, and the recognition was a pronounced shock. It had been a professional shot, the shot of a man who knew the game of billiards very well.

“Well,” Eddie said quietly, “maybe I ought to sign you up.”

Findlay laughed softly, but did not say anything.

Eddie began watching him closely, and began to notice some things about his stroke. It seemed jerky and awkward, but on the shots that counted there was a slight smoothness that was not there on the others.

It was hard to take, hard for Eddie to swallow: he was being hustled.

After the game Findlay offered to fix them another drink; but Eddie said, “I think I’ll sit this one out.” He walked over to the bar beside Findlay, though, and leaned on it casually and watched while he fixed his drink. Something was going on in his mind, obscurely. Then, when Findlay was stirring the drink, he looked at him closely, looking at his eyes, and said, “You play a lot of billiards, Mr. Findlay?”

And when Findlay said, “Oh… every now and then,” in his supercilious voice, Eddie saw in his face what he had been hoping he would see. He saw self-consciousness and deceit. And over it all the general sense of weakness, of decay.

But he did not beat Findlay the next game. He started with confidence of his superiority, with calm confidence; but he lost. And the next one. This made him two thousand dollars—of Bert’s money—behind.