Уолтер Тевис - The Hustler

But as he became gradually more tired, more hypnotized by the steady movement of the sunlit road before them, the awareness and the insight began to fade, leaving, as these things always do, a few new ideas, or prejudices. And, possibly, a little more knowledge of what his own life was about….

After a while he dozed for a few minutes, and then wanted to talk. There was something he had wanted to ask Bert….

“Say,” he said, his voice drowsy now, “where does Fats get his bankroll?”

For a while he thought that Bert was not going to answer him at all, and he was about to ask the question again when Bert spoke. “I saw him beat a whorehouse operator named Tivey out of thirty-six thousand dollars. Tivey had heard about Fats and wanted to try him at one-pocket. That was about eight months ago.” Bert looked thoughtful. “He makes a mark like that once a year or so. There’s always somebody who likes to gamble with the best. And then,” Eddie could see him grin slightly, “there’s always people like you. What did he take from you?”

“About six thousand.”

“I didn’t think it was that much.”

“Maybe it wasn’t. My partner was holding it.” And then, “What do you think Fats makes a year?”

“Hard to tell,” Bert said. “One thing you probably don’t know about him, he hustles at bridge too. And he owns property. I went in with him myself once on a piece of property, a Chinese restaurant, and we did all right.” Bert was silent for a minute, driving, his eyes straight ahead. “Fats is smart. He gets along.”

“Like you?”

“Maybe.” And then, pursing his lips and looking straight ahead, “He does better than I do. I think maybe he’s got something I don’t have.”

“What’s that?”

Bert seemed to be concentrating with tremendous attention on his driving, although there was no one else on the road. Then he said, “Fats is a very talented man. He always was.”

For quite a long time, Eddie did not say anything. They stopped and bought sandwiches and beer and then, back in the car, Bert said, “Why all the questions about Fats? You thinking of replacing him?”

Eddie grinned faintly, “Not replacing, exactly. More like joining his club.”

“It’s a hard club to join. There aren’t fifty top pool hustlers in the country who make a living at it.”

Fifty sounded like a small number, but it sounded right. “Maybe,” Eddie said. And then, “We’ll see.”

When they were coming into Chicago Bert said, “Where do I let you out?” It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

After trying to think for a minute, Eddie said, “Where do you stay?”

“At home. On Sullivan Avenue.”

Struck by the word “home,” Eddie stared at him. “Are you married?”

“Twelve years.” Bert adjusted his glasses with one hand, the other on the wheel. “Two girls in school.”

“For Christ’s sake!” Eddie said. And then, “Let me off at a hotel. Any hotel, maybe near the Loop somewhere.”

The hotel was in a part of town he was unfamiliar with. When he got out of the car he stopped and said, “You coming up to Bennington’s tomorrow?”

“What time?”

“I don’t know. After lunch, I think.”

“Okay,” Bert said. “I’ll meet you here for lunch at two. Then we’ll go see George together.”

“George?”

“That’s right. George Hegerman. Minnesota Fats.”

“Well, what do you know?” Eddie said. “George Hegerman.” And then, “All right. I’ll see you at two.” He took his suitcase and his little round satchel and went into the hotel.

Normally this kind of thing could provide him with a good feeling, walking into a hotel lobby with three thousand dollars in his pocket. But he felt slightly uneasy, and he could not help wondering whether Sarah would be waiting for him.

After he had checked in and had unpacked he did not know what to do. He took a shower, and immediately was surprised to find how good that could make him feel—hot water, soap, and then cold water. It was so pleasant that he decided to shave. He did so, stung his face with shaving lotion, brushed his teeth, cleaned his fingernails, polished his shoes, put on clean underwear, and then began scuffling in his bag for a clean shirt and slacks. There weren’t any, and he was forced to put on the ones he had been wearing. Then it occurred to him that he could buy some new clothes, that, in fact, he ought to. This was a very pleasant idea, and he left the hotel and found a clothing store.

He bought carefully, enjoying it. He liked the power over all of the rows of suits, racks of ties, the fine wool, silk and cotton, that having a great deal of money gave him. He bought a dark gray suit, single-breasted and narrow at the shoulders, a pair of gray slacks, and a pair of tan ones. Then he bought a half-dozen shirts, another half-dozen socks, underwear and, finally, two pairs of shoes. Everything was of the best quality. When he was finished, the clerk was beaming and Eddie was beginning to feel a thing that he deserved to feel, after the strange and very satisfactory week in Kentucky. It was a kind of nirvana—like the sensation produced by a long drink of whiskey in the morning, before lunch. But, unlike whiskey, the feeling did not bode a dissolution into seediness and malaise; but, rather, a general tapering off into quiet pleasantness which, tomorrow, would be followed by something better, but of a different kind. There were pleasure and life in all of this; and they had come upon him unexpectedly, after taking a shower and while buying expensive clothes at suppertime.

It came to almost three hundred dollars; and he gave the man an extra five, telling him to have the pants cut to length for him right away. The man said it would take a half hour.

Eddie left the other things at the store and began walking around in the neighborhood, looking into store windows idly, amazed at how fine he was feeling and how pleased.

Then he came to a jewelry store and there were wedding rings and engagement rings in the window. He looked at these for several minutes, almost hypnotized by the way the gems flashed in the bluish light from the display lamps. You could buy a very fine-looking ring for two hundred dollars. Somehow, he had thought they cost more than that. Two hundred dollars, now, did not seem like very much money at all.

A strange thing about this line of thinking was that he did not really think of Sarah at all, nor did he think about the absurdity of offering her a ring, or of what, conceivably, he could say, holding out one of those little velvet boxes that rings come in and saying, “Let’s get married,” or whatever it is you say at such times. He just stood, looking at the rings. Then he walked into the store.

But, in spite of his peculiar condition of mind, Eddie was not a stupid man. He bought a two-hundred-dollar lady’s wrist watch and had it wrapped in a small white box.

The clothes were ready and he took them back to the hotel. He almost took another shower before he got dressed but settled with washing his face again, and then looking in the mirror. He looked good; his eyes and skin were clear, his hair glossy. When he put on the fine, clean, new-smelling clothes he felt as if he could sing. What was happening to him? He felt lovely, fine, as if the act of dressing in a new suit were a baptism and an orgasm, as if he were putting on wings. He had played pool all night the night before, with Findlay, and had slept lightly on the long car ride. His body was tired—he could feel the tiredness underneath the vigor that was infusing itself in him—but he felt more alive and aware, more perceptive and happy than he could remember ever feeling in his life. When he was dressed he threw the old clothes away, stuffing the wrinkled shirt and pants into the wastebasket.