Уолтер Тевис - The Hustler

And Fats’ one victory did not affect Eddie, for Eddie was in a place now where he could not be affected, where he felt that nothing Fats could do could touch him. Not Eddie Felson, fast and loose—and, now, smart, critical, and rich. Eddie Felson, with the ball bearings in his elbow, with eyes for the green and the colored balls, for the shiny balls, the purple, orange, blue, and red, the stripes and solids, with geometrical rolls and falling, lovely spinning, with whiffs and clicks and tap-tap-taps, with scrapings of chalk, and the fingers embracing the polished shaft, the fingers on felt, the ever and always ready arena, the long, bright rectangle. The rectangle of lovely, mystical green, the color of money.

And then when Eddie had won a game and was lighting his cigarette Fats spoke out grimly with words that Eddie could feel in his stomach. “I’m quitting you, Fast Eddie,” he said, “I can’t beat you.”

Eddie looked across the table at him, and at the large crowd of men behind him. There stood Minnesota Fats, George Hegerman, an impossibly big man, an effeminate, graceful man. One of the best pool players in the country, George Hegerman.

Then Fats came around the table, ponderously, gave Eddie fifty one-hundred-dollar bills—new ones, fresh from the bank—took his cue down to the front of the room, and placed it carefully in its green metal locker. He turned and looked back at Bert, not looking at Eddie. “You got yourself a pool player, Bert.” Under the armpits of his shirt were large dark stains, from sweat. For an instant, his eyes shifted to Eddie’s face, contemptuously. Then he turned and left.

Men began to get up from their seats and stretch, began to talk, dissipating for themselves the tension that had been in the room for hours. Eddie’s ears were buzzing, and his right arm and shoulder, although they were throbbing dimly, felt lightweight, buoyant. Vaguely, he wondered what Fats had meant, speaking to Bert. He turned and looked at Bert, smiling to himself, his ears still buzzing, his hand still holding the thick sheaf of new, green money.

And Bert sat small and tight. Bert the mentor, the guide in the wilderness, with the face smug and prissy, the glasses rimless, the hands soft and sure and smart—Bert. Bert, with the gambler’s eyes, reserved, almost blank, but missing nothing.

Bennington’s was almost empty already. It must have been very late. Eddie rolled the sheaf of bills into a fat cylinder and pushed this carefully down into his pocket, still looking at Bert. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Charlie, still sitting; and down at the front of the room Big John, the man with the cigar, was taking a cue stick out of the rack and inspecting its leather tip, thoughtfully. Behind Bert, Gordon, the big man with the glasses, the man who was always in Bennington’s, was still sitting, his hands folded in his lap.

Eddie grinned at Bert, tiredly. He felt very happy. “Let’s get a drink,” he said. “I’m buying.”

Bert pursed his lips. “I’ll buy,” he said, and then, “with the money you owe me.”

Eddie blinked. “What money?”

Bert peered at him a moment before he answered. “Thirty per cent.” He smiled tightly, thin-lipped. “It comes to forty-five hundred dollars.”

Eddie was staring at him now, the grin frozen on his face. Then he said, softly. “What kind of a goddamn joke is that?”

“No joke.” What had been barely a smile left Bert’s face. “I’m your manager, Eddie.”

“Since when?”

Bert seemed to be peering at him with great intensity, although it was impossible to tell exactly how his eyes looked behind the heavy glasses. “Since I first adopted you, two months ago, at Wilson’s. Since I started backing you with my money, since I taught you how to hustle pool.”

Eddie drew a breath, sharply. After letting it out, he said, his voice level, cold, “You little pink-assed son of a bitch. You never taught me a goddamn thing about hustling pool.”

Bert pursed his lips. “Except how to win,” he said.

Eddie stared at him, and then, suddenly, laughed. “That, you son of a bitch, is a matter of opinion.” He turned away and began unscrewing his cue, holding the butt of it tight to keep his fingers from trembling. “It’s also a matter of opinion whether I owe you a nickel.”

Bert did not answer for a minute, and when Eddie had finished with the cue and turned around he saw that Gordon was now standing by Bert’s chair, his arms together behind his back, looking at Eddie and smiling slightly, like a sporting goods salesman.

“Maybe,” Bert said. “But if you don’t pay me, Gordon is going to break your thumbs again. And your fingers. And, if I want him to, your right arm. In three or four places.”

For a moment, he was hardly aware of what he was doing. He had, instinctively, backed up against the pool table, and he was gripping the weighted, silk-wrapped butt of his cue stick in his right hand.

Bert was still peering at him. “Eddie,” he said quietly, “if you lay a hand on me you’re dead.” Gordon had his huge, meaty hands at his sides now, and was standing slightly forward of Bert’s chair. Eddie did not move; but he did not release his grip on the cue. He looked around, quickly. Charlie still sat impassively. Big John, heeding nothing, was practicing now on the front table, shooting a red ball up and down by the rail. Over the big door was the clock. It said one thirty-five. He looked down at the cue butt in his hand.

“You’ll never make it, Eddie,” Bert said. “And Gordon’s not the only one. We’ve got more; and if Gordon doesn’t, one of them will.”

Eddie stared at him, his head a buzzing confusion. “ We? ” he said. “ We? ” And then, suddenly, he began laughing. He let the cue butt fall on the table, and gripped the rails, trembling, with his hands, and laughed. Then he said, his voice sounding strange and dim to him, “What is this? Like in the movies? The Syndicate, Bert—the Organization?” The buzzing seemed finally to be leaving his ears and his vision was clearing, losing its fuzziness. “Is that what you are, Bert: the Syndicate Man, like in the movies?”

Bert took a minute to answer. Then he said, “I’m a businessman, Eddie.”

It did not seem real. It was some kind of melodramatic dream, or a television show, or an elaborate game, an indoor sport….

And then Bert said, his voice suddenly softening, as it sometimes could, after the clutch was over, “We’re going to make a lot of money together, Eddie, from here on out. A lot of money.”

Eddie said nothing, still leaning against the table, his body strangely relaxed now, his mind clear with dreamlike clarity.

And then Charlie said, “You better pay him, Eddie.”

Eddie did not look at him, keeping his eyes on Gordon, especially on his hands. His voice was soft, controlled. “You’re not in this, Charlie?”

Charlie did not answer for a minute. Then he said, “No, I’m out of it, all the way out. But they’re in, and you’re gonna have to pay.”

Eddie let his eyes move from Gordon’s hands to Bert’s face. “Maybe,” he said.

“No,” Bert said. “Not maybe.” He pursed his lips, and then adjusted his glasses with his hand. “But you don’t have to pay it now. You can think about it for a couple of days.”

Eddie was still leaning against the table. He lit a cigarette. “What if I leave town?” he said.

Bert adjusted his glasses again. “You might make it,” he said. “If you stay out of the big towns. And never walk in a poolroom again.”

“And if I do pay it?”

“Your next game will be about a week from now—with Jackie French. We’ve already talked to him about it, and he wants to try you. Then, next month or so, there’ll be people coming in from out of town. We’ll steer some of them to you.”