The Hustler (21 page)

But there was the rule—possibly the only real rule—that he had had to learn himself, the rule that Bert had not actually told him, the one that had come to him with such clarity when he had been playing Findlay, the rule that was a command:
Win
. And yet maybe that was what Bert meant by character—the need for winning. To love the game itself is a fine thing; it is loving the art you live by. There are many things to love in the art—the excitement of it, the difficulty, the use of skill—but to work at it only for those would be to be like Findlay. To play pool you had to want to win and to want this without excuses and without self-deception. Only then did you have a right to love the game itself. And this reached further. It seemed to Eddie now, sitting in Bert’s car, his body sore and his mind tremendously aware, that the need to win was everywhere in life, in every act, in every conversation, in every encounter between people. And the idea had become for him a kind of touchstone—or a key to the meaning of experience in the world.

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.

Then he went out, carrying the little white box with the watch in his pocket. He hailed a cab and gave the driver Sarah’s address.

And suddenly, walking up the steps to Sarah’s apartment, he became nervous. The door to the place was closed. He hesitated a moment, and then knocked.

And then the door was open and she was looking up at him. She was holding a book in one hand, the other on the doorknob. Her hair was neat around the sides of her face; she was wearing her glasses. She had on a new blouse, a dark one, tucked in neatly at the waist.

“Hello, Eddie,” she said, quietly. Then she stepped back from the door. “Come in.”

The apartment was clean, cleaner than he had ever seen it. Even the clown’s frame had been dusted off! and there were no scattered books or glasses. He took a seat on the couch and looked around him. He looked at her; but she was not looking at him.

Then, still not looking at his face, she said, “Can I fix you a drink?”

“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

When she was in the kitchen, opening the ice tray, she said, “How was Lexington?”

“Fine,” he said. “Better than I expected.”

She walked in and handed him the drink, then turned away. “That’s nice,” she said. She sat down in the easy chair, across the room from him.

He still felt very good. The room was cool, his body and clothes were very clean, and he let the whiskey send its warm hands rubbing comfortably against the lining of his empty stomach.

He had anticipated her coolness, and was amused by it. But there seemed to be nothing to say. When he had finished his drink he stood up. “You eaten dinner yet?”

She glanced at him momentarily. “No,” she said. “I haven’t.”

“You want to go out? To the place we went last time?”

She drew in her breath. “I don’t know.”

“Please.”

“That’s an odd word for you to say.”

“That’s right. Do you want me to say it again?”

She stood up. “You won’t have to.” She set her drink, unfinished, on the coffee table. Then she walked into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

She was through in fifteen minutes. The outfit did not look as good as it had the first time, because she had not dressed as carefully. But she looked very nice, high-class. He thought of the whore in Lexington. When they left he started to take her arm gently in his hand, but thought better of it.

She nursed only one martini before dinner, and did not finish that one. Nor did she talk very much.

He had two highballs, with bourbon, and after the second one began to regain his sense of pleasure, which had been showing symptoms of waning, but the pleasure was different now—strained, and not so intense. “How’s school?” he said.

“School is over. Until September.”

They both ate the roast beef, which was rare and very good. They went through the rest of the meal silently, and when it was over he gave her a cigarette and lit it for her before he spoke. “I bought you something.”

She smiled faintly, but said nothing.

He took the little package from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

She took it, glanced at it, and then looked up at him, quizzically. “Is this an apology, maybe?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She opened the box and took the watch out into her hand. It was a plain silver watch, with a thin black strap. He had picked it because it had the feel of class to it. She looked at it carefully for a moment, then put it on her wrist. “It’s lovely,” she said.

He took a drink from his coffee cup. “I almost bought you a ring.”

Abruptly she took her eyes from the watch and stared at him, closely. Her eyes were wide. Finally she said, slowly, “What kind of a ring?”

“What kind do you think?”

She was still watching his face, her eyes penetrating and puzzled. “Are you telling me the truth?” she said, “Or are you… hustling?”

“With me that’s sometimes the same thing.” He lighted a cigarette. “But I’m not lying to you. I almost bought a ring.”

“All right. Then why didn’t you buy it?”

He was not certain why, so he did not attempt to answer her. Instead he said, “Suppose I had?”

She looked down at the watch. “I don’t know. Maybe you did the right thing.” Then she smiled, and the puzzled look disappeared from her eyes. “Anyway it’s a fine watch. I’m glad you gave it to me.”

He looked at her for a minute, her face, neck, and shoulders. She seemed very young. Then he stood up. “I’ll take you home.”

***

They walked silently, and he listened to the odd rhythm of her heels, the uneven cadence that the limp made. They passed the bus station, and he started to say something but did not. He held her arm, crossing the streets, and he felt excitement at it, the soft bare arm, warm and smooth in his hand. But she did not look up at him, nor did she respond to his pressure. He felt now as if something were wrong; and he did not know what to do. The drinks were wearing away, and the work of the last several days was beginning to catch up with him. It seemed to be a very long walk.

Climbing the stairs to her apartment was very difficult. His feet were burning and there was lead in his shoulders and, when he got to the top, there was vertigo. He realized, abruptly, that it had been a long time since he had rested. Somewhere, his sense of pleasure had dribbled away. Suddenly, he wanted very much to go back to the hotel and sleep for a very long time, to stretch out and become unconscious. A bed in a quiet room would be very fine. His head was aching.

She opened the door, but instead of going into the room stood in the open doorway, looking at him. Then she said, slowly, “If you want a drink you’ll have to get a bottle, Eddie.” Her voice was tired, but not unpleasant. “I only have a little left on hand.”