The Hustler

17

He could feel the tension, the excitement of the place even before he opened the door, could hear the heavy undercurrent of voices, the clickings of many balls, the soft cursing and dry laughter, the banging of cue sticks on the floor. And when he went in he could almost smell the action and the money. He could even feel them, down to his shoes. It was like a whorehouse Saturday night and payday in the mines; the day the war was over and Christmas. He could feel his palms sweating for the weight of his cue.

Every table was going—two, four, even six-handed games. And on almost every table was a hustler. Near the front was the Whetstone Kid, short, red-headed, and wearing chartreuse slacks; Eddie had seen him play nine ball in Las Vegas. On the table behind him was another small man, an incredibly shabby person who specialized in shooting pool with drunks and in selling playing cards which, on their backs, illustrated the fifty-two classic positions in three colors. This fellow was known as Johnny Jumbo; Eddie had seen him in Oakland. In the middle of the room, surrounded by a small crowd of miscellaneous jockeys and tout types, Fred Marcum from New Orleans, a man with patent-leather hair and olive eyes, was talking with quiet agitation to a man whom Eddie knew only as Frank, and who was supposed to be the acknowledged master at jack-up pool, a seldom-played game. And there were others; he could tell by the styles of playing, by the feel of the games, even though he did not know the players, that there must have been dozens of them.

It was a panorama, a gallery. Bert had said that they followed the races; but Eddie had expected nothing like this, this convocation of the faithful, this meeting of the clans.

The room was packed with people. There were a few lost innocents: college boys with sweaters, and on one table a few men who could only be salesmen. These were playing a silly and awkward game of rotation pool, laughing uproariously whenever one of them miscued or knocked one of the balls off the table or shot at the wrong ball by mistake.

Eddie walked on into the room, was greeted by Fred Marcum and the Whetstone Kid, saw a few men glance at him furtively—and this made him feel very good and important—and found himself a place to stand over by the wall, where he could watch several games at once….

After a few hours, after the crowd had thinned down somewhat—although the air was still full of smoke and money—Bert came in. He was still neat, but his hair was slightly mussed, and his trousers horizontally creased. He came making his way through the room purposefully—a stern broker walking smugly across the floor of the exchange.

Eddie looked at him. “Where’ve you been?”

“Watching a card game.”

“Were you in it?”

“Not yet. It won’t get worthwhile until later, anyway. But it should be a good one. There’s some big men in it.”

“There’s some big men here, too.” Eddie nodded toward the poolroom in general.

“I know.”

“Is it like this here all the time? Is this what they do in Kentucky?”

Bert smiled thinly. “No. I never saw it this way before. These boys follow the races, like I said; but I never saw this many pool players before. Or poker, either. It’s like a convention.” He looked at Eddie. “How’re they doing? How’s the money moving?”

Eddie grinned down at him. “The money’s moving fast.”

Bert pursed his lips, thoughtfully, pleased. “That’s nice,” he said.

“So what do we do?”

“Well, first,” Bert said, slowly, like a woman about to decide on a hat, “first I put you in a game of pool. A medium-to-small game. Then I’m going back and see what’s happening with the card game.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, and then, “What about Findlay—the man we came to see?”

“He’ll be here. Maybe later tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe we should go out to his house. You know where it is.”

Bert shook his head. “No. That’s not the way to play it. Findlay’s not the kind you go ringing his doorbell and asking please can you shoot a little pool. He’ll be around—just wait. You’ll find enough to do while you’re waiting.”

Eddie laughed. “Okay, boss. Pick me a game.”

“That’s what I just been doing. See the jockey on the back table, practicing? His name’s Barney Pierce.”

“I see him. He doesn’t look very good.” The jockey was an immaculately dressed and loud-talking little man. He shot nervously and too fast.

“Well, he’s better than he looks. He plays nine ball, and you ought to be able to beat him if you work at it.”

“Okay,” Eddie said. “Fine. But one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to play him on my own money. I need the profit.”

Bert started to answer and then did not. He thought a moment, chewing softly at his underlip, and then said, “All right. But don’t pull that on me when I put you up against Findlay.”

“I won’t.”

“Go ahead then. He probably won’t go over twenty a game, in any case. You can start him at five.”

“Thanks,” Eddie said, walking over toward the end table, carrying his leather case….

The jockey was considerably better than he looked, and as Bert had said he would not go past twenty a game. He knew more about nine ball than Eddie did, knew some very nice, safe shots that Eddie had never seen before, and he was very good at cutting balls thin; but Eddie beat him by shooting straight, concentrating on what he was doing, and playing carefully. He was able to win more than a hundred dollars before the little man quit, slammed his cue into the rack, and departed. Eddie had started off in Lexington with a victory, a small one, and he liked the feel of it. Also, he liked the feel of money in his pocket, although that was not the important thing, not yet.

It was eleven o’clock when they finished and although there was still action in the poolroom it was too late to try for a new game. Bert was not around; there would be no telling when the poker game would be over.

Restless, he left the poolroom and began walking. It had been raining and the streets were wet and the air cool, clean, and moist. There were not many people out—a few drunks, some newsboys, a cop. The city seemed pleasanter at night than it had when they had first driven in, shortly after supper. He continued walking, looking abstractedly into store windows, his hands in his pockets. Through his mind were circulating, slightly out of focus, images of Sarah, of Findlay—he had already formulated a hypothetical picture of Findlay, although Bert had never described him—and of Minnesota Fats. Somehow none of these people were very important at this moment, and he found himself mulling them over with detachment. It all seemed to have become very simple, walking here, alone, through a clean-washed and new town at midnight; what had been problems did not seem to be problems anymore. Findlay would be easy; he would win a good deal of money from him and that would be that. And Sarah was not really a problem. He did not owe Sarah anything. He would not even go back to Sarah’s when he got back to Chicago; she had nothing more to offer him, nor he her.

It began to drizzle slightly, and the sprinkling of rain that fell was surprisingly cold. Eddie ducked his head down and walked fast until he found an open café.

Inside he got coffee and scrambled eggs and listened idly to the juke box while he ate. The eggs were better than Sarah would have cooked them, and he caught himself grinning wryly at the thought of Sarah’s poorly cooked eggs. He looked at his watch. A quarter of twelve. He would probably be having coffee with her now, if he were home. Home? What in hell did that mean—he didn’t have any home. Certainly not with Sarah. But the idea stayed with him for several minutes, the idea of a house somewhere and Sarah, doing whatever women are supposed to do in houses. Him, reading the paper, buying a new car every year. Children—a back yard. At first it was amusing, but after a few minutes thinking it became unpleasant. He had lived in a home for too many years, with his parents, and he did not want any part of it. It had occurred to him once before that the whole institution—marriage, the home, the paycheck—was something invented by women, something they grew fat on at men’s expense. What had Bert said—about wanting glory? Maybe that was right, maybe that was what was wrong with the house and the paycheck and the cute wife. Maybe that was why the married men all talked about the war they had once been lucky enough to be near to, while the women could make a whole, stupid life out of the new kitchen and what the baby was doing. He thought of his father, the tired and confused old man who had never quite made it. There were two things his father could talk about with love: what he had done during the first war, and what he was going to do when he got money. The poor bastard was probably right about the war, but he had never done anything about the money. Eddie had not seen him in four years, but he was probably running the same beat-up electrical shop, the We-Fix-It, in Oakland, and still wishing for a new car or a house or whatever tired old men wish for—maybe just a good lay.

He grinned to himself again—he could use a good lay himself. Then, struck by an unpleasant thought, he asked the man behind the counter, “What time do the liquor stores close?”

“In ten minutes, mister. Twelve o’clock even.”

He paid his check quickly and left. For some reason which he did not fully understand he felt that it was very necessary to buy a bottle. He found a store in time and got a fifth of bourbon, which cost him forty cents more than the same brand in Chicago. It was Kentucky bourbon, and the label said, “Made in Bardstown, Kentucky.” It didn’t figure; but the types of hustle used in business seldom did, since the ways of the dollar were always devious. Or maybe it was taxes.

Bert had given him a key to the hotel room, which he had not been in yet. Still restless, he walked the four floors to the room and, bottle under his arm, unlocked the door.

The room was the living room of a suite; that was immediately obvious from the long and elegant gold couch, the big, soft armchairs, the little bar in the corner, and the door leading into the bedroom.

On the couch were two girls, both overdressed, both drinking.

He stopped in the doorway, holding the cue case, bottle and dangling key, thinking that maybe he had opened the wrong door, entered the wrong room. But one of the girls, the taller one, a blonde, said, giggling slightly. “You must be Eddie.”

He paused. “That’s right,” he said. Then he walked in, set his things down in an empty chair, and began looking around the room. Inside now, he could see that there were two bedrooms. The living room was very big and expensive-looking. The carpet underfoot was thick.

“My name’s Georgine,” the blonde said. “Have a seat.”

“Have a drink,” said the other. She had brown hair and was prettier than the blonde.

“She’s Carol,” the blonde said. “Carol, meet Eddie.”

“Hi,” Carol said, smiling. Her teeth were somewhat uneven and she wore too much lipstick, but she was pretty.

“Hello,” Eddie said, sitting in one of the armchairs. He wondered if Carol’s bosom were real. Probably not, but nice if it were. Also the blonde’s—Georgine’s. Georgine walked to the bar and began pouring him a drink. She was wearing a black silky dress and it seemed that her butt might split it at any moment, but it did not. Her shoulders, he noticed, were round and very smooth, with a nice color to them. He wondered if they painted or powdered their shoulders, or if that was the way they looked naturally.

The blonde gave him the drink and then went back to the couch to sit down. She put a cigarette in her mouth, and when Eddie made no move to light it for her, shrugged her shoulders and lit it herself, with a match.

Eddie tasted his drink, which was strong. Then he leaned back and said, “You girls welcome all strangers in town this way?” He was watching the blonde’s bosom as he said this, speculatively.

The brunette seemed to think this remark was very funny. When she had stopped laughing she said, “We’re friends of Bert’s. Didn’t he tell you we were coming up? I mean, he told us you were coming.” She seemed to think this was funny, too.

“Somehow, honey,” he said, “I didn’t get the word. But now I’ve got it I’m glad to hear it.” He was not certain how he felt about all this, and with Bert it didn’t figure. Anyway it was interesting enough.

“I’m supposed to be your date,” the blonde said.

“I’m glad to hear that too,” he said. It occurred to him that the blonde had already drunk too much.

After a few minutes Carol turned the radio on and got dance music and when he finished his drink Georgine fixed him another.

And then Bert came in, looking very neat and collected but his face slightly flushed. “Hello, Georgine,” he said, “Carol.” Then to Eddie, “How’d you come out?”

“Fair. You were right about him. How did you make out?”

“All right.” He took off his glasses and began wiping them with his handkerchief. “Fix me a drink, Carol, will you?” Eddie noticed an unfamiliar looseness in his voice. Then Bert smiled at him. “As a matter of fact I did very well. The game’s still going on.”

Then, when the girl brought Bert his drink he did a surprising thing. An amazing thing. He pulled the girl down beside him gently, took her chin in one hand and said, “Honey, you look great tonight.” Then he laughed. Eddie had never heard Bert laugh like that, and he found it shocking.

Eddie watched him while he finished his drink. Then Bert set his glass down, stood up, and began dancing with Carol. He danced too precisely, but well.

“Come on, Eddie, live it up,” he said.

For Christ’s sake, Eddie thought. Then he laughed himself. “Okay, Bert,” he said. “You’re the boss.”

Georgine had come to sit by him on the arm of the chair. “You wanta dance?” she said.

“I’m a lousy dancer.”

“That’s the kind I like,” she said. Then she pulled him up from the seat and he took hold of her and began moving around in approximate time to the music. She stood so close to him, however, that he could not do even that very well, and he finally stopped trying to move his feet and just held her and swayed. She seemed to go for this. She was all round protuberances, all of them very warm, all moving, and she rubbed against him a good deal. After a while this had the intended effect, and he was forced to sit down, pulling her into the seat beside him. He started to kiss her, and then stopped. Something was not right. “Get me a drink, will you?” he said.

“Now?”

“That’s right. Now.”

She got it and he drank it. Then he leaned around and kissed her.

Instantly her tongue was in his mouth, straining at his throat. And instantly he found his hand inside her dress. She smelled strongly of whiskey and of perfume.

She pulled back from him slightly. “You wanta go to bed now, honey?”

“What do you think?” He got up, taking her by the arm. Walking, he found, was difficult.

But in the bedroom she began doing something he did not like. She sat on the side of the bed and began methodically undressing, finishing her cigarette as she did so. She eased her stockings off quickly and neatly, set them beside the bed, then unzipped her dress. He did not like that. But he said nothing and just watched her….

When they had finished he put his clothes on and went into the living room, which was empty. A hillbilly voice on the radio was pimping for a cut-rate jeweler’s, “Just ninety steps from Main Street.” The man sounded like a fool. The door to the other bedroom was closed. After he had mixed himself a drink and sat down he could hear them, Bert and the other girl. He could not imagine what Bert would look like in bed. Probably like everybody else looks, like some kind of awkward, sweating idiot. He wondered if Bert took his glasses off. Then he tried listening to the music, which had started again.

The blonde laid a hand in his lap, warm.

“No,” he said.

“Later, maybe?” She was trying now to look at him lovingly. Apparently the pitch was that he had won her over by his little performance in bed. A commonplace hustle, probably always good for a second round. He wondered if Bert had paid them for the night, or only for each time; he did not know how such arrangements were made. This was a big-time arrangement: a hotel suite and two rented whores in party dresses. Or “call girls”—he had read that term somewhere, in a newspaper. The big-timers had call girls. You made a phone call and they came out. Very refined women. High class. He looked at Georgine for a minute, looked quizzically, drunkenly, at the smile she turned on immediately when she saw him watching her. Georgine was probably a call girl, the kind the newspapers wrote about. And here he was, Eddie Felson from Oakland, California, with this high-class, big-time whore, in a hotel suite in the middle of the horse-race country. Here he was, in Kentucky, hustling the hustlers, winning big money—Christ! He had hustled an old man, once, for a dime a game, back in Oakland, the year after he had quit high school. Now he was drinking expensive whiskey and having this expensive, high-class, big-time woman all for his own.

He looked at Georgine again and decided that he would have another drink. He needed one.

Bert seemed to take forever. Finally he came back into the room, his face red. He poured himself a small drink, looked at Eddie, pursed his lips thoughtfully, and then went to the bathroom where he began washing his hands and face.

Abruptly Eddie laughed, loosely. “Like Minnesota Fats?” he called at Bert. “Getting ready for the clutch?”

Bert came out of the bathroom, drying his face on a towel. “You might say that,” he said, “but not,” nodding toward the bedroom, “in that game.”

“They say it’s a good game.”

“It’s one of the best. But so is cards. And they’re still playing upstairs.” He began combing his hair, carefully.

Carol came out of the other bedroom barefoot. Her hair was mussed. She took Bert by the arm and said, “You’re not leaving, honey? The night’s young.”

“That’s right,” Bert said, and then to Eddie, “and you better get some sleep. I got plans for you tomorrow.”

“You had plans for me tonight,” Eddie said, noticing with detachment that his voice was thick.

“All work and no play…” Bert said, leaving.

The girls went into the bathroom and began washing up and Eddie began working on another drink, although he felt that he shouldn’t be drinking it. The lights in the room were too bright. He noticed that the fifth of bourbon he had bought was still sitting, unopened, in the chair. Like the fifth he had bought in Chicago more than a month ago. It had sat around for a week before he had given it to Sarah. But, then, that had been a fifth of Scotch. A high-class drink. And this was a bottle of bourbon. He stared at the bottle of bourbon for a long while, but made no move to get up from the couch and pick it up. He was still staring at it, drunkenly and stupidly, when the girls left and he told them tonelessly, good-by.