The Hustler Read online

  “Chicago?”

  “Yes.” He set the glass down, only half empty, and began sipping from the water glass, glancing with apparent interest toward the group of four pool tables that filled two-thirds of the room.

  The bartender was not normally a garrulous man; but he liked the young fellow. He seemed sharp; but there was something very forthright about him. “Going or coming out?” the bartender said.

  “Going in. Got to be there tomorrow,” he grinned again. “Sales convention.”

  “Well, you boys got plenty of time. You can drive in in two, maybe three, hours.”

  “Say, that’s right,” the younger man said, pleasantly. Then he looked at his companion. “Come on, Charlie,” he said, “let’s shoot some pool. Wait out the heat.”

  Charlie, a balding, chubby-looking little man with the appearance of a straight-faced comedian, shook his head. “Hell, Eddie,” he said, “you know you can’t beat me.”

  The younger man laughed. “Okay,” he said, “I got ten big dollars says I beat your ass.” He fished a ten from his stack of change in front of him on the bar, and held it up, challengingly, grinning.

  The other man shook his head, as if very sadly. “Eddie,” he said, easing himself up from the bar stool, “it’s gonna cost you money. It always does.” He pulled a leather cigarette case from his pocket and flipped it open with a stubby, agile thumb. Then he winked gravely at the bartender. “It’s a good thing he can afford it,” he said, his voice raspy, dry. “Seventeen thousand bucks worth of druggist’s supplies he’s sold last month. Fastest boy in our territory. Getting an award at the convention, first thing tomorrow.”

  The young man, Eddie, had gone to the first of the four tables and was taking the wooden rack from the triangle of colored balls. “Grab a stick, Charlie,” he called, his voice light. “Quit stalling.”

  Charlie waddled over, his face still completely without expression, and took a cue from the rack. It was, as Eddie’s had been, a lightweight cue, seventeen ounces. The bartender was something of a player himself, and he noticed these choices. Pool players who know better use heavy cues, invariably.

  Eddie broke the balls. When he shot he held the cue stick firmly at the butt with his right hand. The circle of finger and thumb that made his bridge was tight and awkward. His stroke was jerky, and he swooped into the cue ball fiercely, as if trying to stab it. The cue ball hit the rack awry, much of the energy of the break shot was dissipated, the balls did not spread wide. He looked at the spread, grinned at Charlie, and said, “Shoot.”

  Charlie’s game was not much better. He showed all of the signs of being a fair-to-middling player; but he had much of Eddie’s awkwardness with the bridge, and the appearance of not knowing exactly what to do with his feet when he stepped up to shoot. He would keep adjusting them, as if he were unstable. He stroked very hard, too; but he made a few decent shots. The bartender noticed all of this. Also he watched the exchange of money after each game. Charlie won three in a row, and after each game the two of them had another drink and Eddie gave Charlie a ten-dollar bill from a wallet that bulged.

  The game they were playing was rotation pool, also called sixty-one. Also called Boston. Also—mistakenly—called straights. The most widely played pool game of them all, the big favorite of college boys and salesmen. Almost exclusively an amateur’s game. There are a few men who play it professionally, but only a few. Nine ball, bank, straight pool, one-pocket are the hustler’s games. Any of them is a mortal lock for a smart hustler, while there is too much blind luck in rotation. Except when the best hustlers play it.

  But this last was beyond the bartender’s scope. He knew the game only as another favorite of amateurs. The serious players around his place were nine-ball men. Why, he had seen one of the players who lived in town run four straight games of nine ball, once, without missing a shot.

  The bartender kept watching, interested in the game—for in a small-town poolroom, a ten-dollar bet is a large one—and eventually a few of the town regulars began to drift in. Then after a while the two men were playing for twenty and it was getting late in the afternoon and they were still drinking another one after each game or so and the younger man was getting drunk. And lucky. Or getting hot or getting with it. He was beginning to win, and he was high and strutting, beginning to jeer at the other man in earnest. A crowd had formed around the table, watching.

  And then, at the end of the game, the fourteen ball was in a difficult position on the table. Three or four inches from the side rail, between two pockets, it lay with the cue ball almost directly across from it and about two feet away. Eddie stepped up to the shot, drew back, and fired. Now what he obviously should have done was to bank the fourteen ball off the side rail, across the table and into the corner pocket. But instead, his cue ball hit the rail first, and, with just enough English on it to slip behind the colored ball, caught the fourteen squarely and drove it into the corner pocket.

  Eddie slammed his cue butt on the floor, jubilantly, turned to Charlie, and said, “Pay me, sucker.”

  When Charlie handed him the twenty, he said, “You ought to take up crapshooting, Eddie.”

  Eddie grinned at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know what I mean. You were trying to bank that ball.” He turned his face away, “And you’re so damn blind pig lucky you got to make it coming off the rail.”

  Eddie’s smile disappeared. His face took on an alcoholic frown. “Now wait a minute, Charlie,” he said, an edge in his voice, “Now wait a minute.” The bartender leaned against the bar, absorbed.

  “What do you mean, wait? Rack the balls.” Charlie started pulling balls out of the pockets, spinning them down to the foot of the table.

  Eddie, suddenly, grabbed his arm, stopping him. He started putting the balls back in the pockets. Then he took the fourteen ball and the cue ball and set them on the table in front of Charlie. “All right,” he said. “All right, Charlie. Set ’em up the way they were.”

  Charlie blinked at him. “Why?”

  “Set ’em up,” Eddie said. “Put ’em like they were. I’m gonna bet you twenty bucks I can make that shot just like I made it before.”

  Charlie blinked again. “Don’t be stupid, Eddie,” he said, gravely. “You’re drunk. There’s nobody gonna make that shot and you know it. Let’s play pool.”

  Eddie looked at him coldly. He started setting the balls on the table in approximately the same positions as before. Then he looked around him at the crowd, which was very attentive. “How’s that?” he said, his voice very serious, his face showing drunken concern. “Is it right?”

  There was a general shrugging of shoulders. Then a couple of noncommittal “I guess so’s.” Eddie looked at Charlie. “How is it by you? Is it okay, Charlie?”

  Charlie’s voice was completely dry. “Sure, it’s okay.”

  “You gonna bet me twenty dollars?”

  Charlie shrugged. “It’s your money.”

  “You gonna bet?”

  “Yes. Shoot.”

  Eddie seemed greatly pleased. “Okay,” he said. “Watch.” He started chalking his cue, overcarefully. Then he went to the talcum powder holder and noisily pumped a great deal too much powder into his hands. He worked this up into a dusty white cloud, wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, came back to the table, picked up his cue, sighted down it, sighted at the shot, bent down, stroked, stood up, sighted down his cue, bent down again, stroked the ball, and missed.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  Somebody in the crowd laughed.

  “All right,” Eddie said. “Set ’em up again.” He pulled a twenty out of his billfold and then, ostentatiously, set the still bulging wallet on the rail of the table.

  “Okay, Charlie,” he said, “set it up.”

  Charlie walked over to the rack and put his cue stick away. Then he said, “Eddie, you’re drunk. I’m not gonna bet you any more.” He began rolling down his sleeves, buttoning the cuffs. “Let’s g
et back on the road. We gotta be at that convention in the morning.”

  “In the morning’s ass. I’m gonna bet you again. My money’s still on the table.”

  Charlie didn’t even look at him. “I don’t want it,” he said.

  At this moment another voice broke in. It was the bartender from behind the bar. “I’ll try you,” he said, softly.

  Eddie whirled, his eyes wide. Then he grinned, savagely. “Well,” he said. “Well, now.”

  “Don’t be a sap,” Charlie said. “Don’t bet any more money on that damn fool shot, Eddie. Nobody’s gonna make that shot.”

  Eddie was still staring at the bartender. “Well, now,” he said, again, “so you want in? Okay. It was just a friendly little bet, but now you want in it?”

  “That’s right,” the bartender said.

  “So you figure I’m drunk and you figure I’m loaded on the hip so you want to get in, real friendly, while all the money’s still floating.” Eddie looked over the crowd and saw, instantly, that they were on his side. That was very important. Then he said, “Okay, I’ll let you in. So first you set up the shot.” He set the two balls on the table. “Come on. Set it up.”

  “All right.” The bartender came out and placed the two balls on the table, with some care. Their position was, if anything, more difficult than it had been.

  Eddie’s billfold was still on the rail. He picked it up. “Okay,” he said, “you wanted to get some easy money.” He began counting out bills, tens and twenties, counting them onto the middle of the table. “Look,” he said, “here’s two hundred dollars. That’s a week’s commission and expenses.” He looked at the bartender, grinning, “You bet me two hundred dollars and you get a chance at your easy money. How about?”

  The bartender tried to look calm. He glanced around him at the crowd. They were all watching him. Then he thought about the drinks he had served Eddie. It must have been at least five. This thought comforted him. He thought, too, about the games he had watched the men play. This reassured him.

  And the young man had an honest face. “I’ll get it out of the till,” the bartender said.

  In a minute he had it, and there were four hundred dollars in bills out on the table, down at the end where they wouldn’t affect the shot. Eddie went to the powder dispenser again. Then he got down, sighted, took aim awkwardly, and stroked into the cue ball. Now there was only the slightest difference between that stroke and the stroke he had used all evening—a slight, imperceptible regularity, smoothness, to the motion. But only one man present noticed this. That man was Charlie; and when every other set of eyes in the poolroom was focused in silent attention on the cue ball, an amazing thing happened to the set features on his round face. He smiled, gently and quietly—as a father might smile, watching a talented son.

  The cue ball came off the rail and hit the fourteen with a little click. The fourteen ball rolled smoothly across the table and fell softly into the corner pocket….

  4

  When they got in the car Eddie was whistling softly between his teeth. He threw his coat, gaily, in the back seat, slipped behind the wheel, and started fishing the crumpled bills, mostly fives and tens, from his pants pockets. He smoothed them out on his knee, one at a time, counting them aloud as he did so.

  Charlie’s face and voice were, as ever, expressionless. “Look,” he said, “it’s two hundred profit and you know it. So let’s drive.”

  Eddie gave him an especially broad grin. He enjoyed doing this, knowing that the charm had no measurable effect on Charlie. “So who’s in a hurry,” he said, enjoying the simple pleasure of victory. “This is how I get my kicks. Counting the paper.”

  The car was an incredibly dusty Packard sedan of middle age. After tiring of the money Eddie folded the bills neatly, slipped the roll into his pocket, and started the engine. “That poor guy behind the bar,” he said, grinning. “He’s gonna have a time explaining to the boss where that deuce went.”

  “He asked for it,” Charlie said.

  “Sure. We all ask for it, everybody. We all oughtta be goddamn glad we don’t get it, too.”

  “He was greedy,” Charlie said. “I could see when we walked in he was the greedy type.”

  They drove along the highway for about an hour, silently except for Eddie’s whistling through his teeth. He played the radio for a while, listened to some very bad music, was admonished to drink Mogen David wine, drive safely over the weekend, drink Royal Crown Cola (best by taste test) and buy bonds. After this last hustle Eddie flipped the radio off and said, “So how’re we doing?”

  Charlie fished out his cigarette case and automatically pulled out a cigarette for Eddie before lighting his own. Then he said, “You got about six thousand now.”

  Eddie seemed pleased with this, although he, of course, already knew where they stood. “That’s pretty good,” he said, “for a beginner. Four months out of Oakland; six thousand. And,” he laughed, “expenses. Hell,” he lit his cigarette with one hand, the other holding the wheel, “if I hadn’t of been a damn fool and dropped that eight hundred in Hot Springs we’d have seven thousand. I should of let that guy quit, Charlie, like you told me. I can’t give every hot shot I come heads up with two balls in a bank pool game.”

  “That’s right.” Charlie lit his own cigarette.

  Eddie laughed. “Well, live and learn,” he said. “I’m pretty good, but I ain’t that good.” Abruptly, he rammed the accelerator, cut the wheel and began shooting past a line of cars they had been dawdling behind for maybe ten minutes. Passing the fourth car he spotted a truck approaching and brake-squealed back into line.

  “You aren’t that good either,” Charlie said, and Eddie laughed again.

  “This car’s all right,” he said, grinning. “It plays a pretty tough game. And you know what, Charlie? After we finish up, after I get, say, fifteen thousand and enough money to fly back home, I’m gonna give you this car.”

  “Thanks,” Charlie said, with gravity, “and ten per cent.”

  “And ten per cent.” He laughed and cut back out into the passing lane. The old Packard, with surprising determination, shot past the rest of the line of traffic. Back in the driving lane Eddie settled it down to a steady seventy miles an hour.

  After a minute Charlie spoke again. “What’s the hurry?”

  “I want to get there. To Bennington’s.” He paused. “This is gonna be the part that counts. I been wanting to see Bennington’s place for a long time.”

  Charlie seemed to think about this for a minute. Then he said, “Look, Eddie. Remember I asked you to stay out of Chicago? Altogether.”

  Eddie tried to keep the annoyance from showing. He let the words sit a moment, then he said, “Why?”

  Charlie’s voice was flat as ever. “You might get beat.”

  Eddie kept his eyes on the road. “So maybe I shouldn’t gamble in the first place, I might get beat. Maybe I should be a salesman. Drugs, maybe.”

  Charlie flipped his cigarette butt out of the window. “Maybe you are.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re the kind of pool hustler sells a bill of goods. The kind of high-class con man every mark gets friendly with. First time you ever walked into my place back home you weren’t sixteen years old and you were selling a bill of goods.”

  Eddie grinned. “So I know how to set up a good game for myself, so what? Is that bad?”

  “Look, Eddie, you want to play one of the big boys at Bennington’s? You want to leave off this penny-ante hustling and try and clean up in one big lick?”

  “Who else is gonna let me win ten thousand in one night?”

  “Look, Eddie.” Charlie turned to him, his face still impassive. “You’re not gonna charm those Chicago boys into a thing. Like in Hot Springs, only worse. You’re gonna be playing people who know what’s happening on a pool table.”

  “In Hot Springs I made a bad bet. I learned something. I won’t make any bad bets in Chicago.”

 
; “I heard people say that when you walk in Bennington’s you’re making a bad bet.”

  Eddie, abruptly, laughed. “Charlie,” he said, “if you wasn’t my best friend, I’d make you get out and walk.”

  They drove silently for a while. It was getting late in the afternoon, the air was beginning to cool off now and there was more shade. They were passing clumps of buildings, getting into country that was more thickly settled. Traffic in the other direction was becoming thicker too, the beginnings of the weekend exodus from the city. Billboards hustling beer and gasoline became frequent.

  Finally Charlie spoke. Eddie had been waiting for it, wondering exactly what it was that he had on his mind. “Eddie,” he said, “you don’t have to go to Bennington’s at all. Why risk what we got? You can scuffle around in the little rooms and pick up at least a thousand, no chance of losing. Then we drive back home by a different way and you fill out your fifteen grand the same way you picked up what we already got.”

  Eddie let it all sink in. Then he said, almost pleadingly, “Charlie, you’re trying to undermine my confidence. You know I got to play at Bennington’s. You know I been a scuffler all my life, a small man out West. You know when I beat Johnny Varges—that’s Johnny Varges, Charlie, the man who invented one-pocket pool—he said I was the best he ever seen. And back home there were people who said I was the best in the country. The best in the country, Charlie.”

  “That’s right,” Charlie said, “and you let a nowhere bank hustler named Woody Fleming hit you for eight hundred dollars in Hot Springs.”

  “Charlie,” Eddie said, “I gave him two balls out of eight. For Christ’s sake, that’s the first money I dropped since we left Oakland, California.”

  “Okay. I take it back. I wanted to remind you that, sometimes, people lose.”

  Eddie’s voice was still pained. “Look, Charlie. Did you ever see a better pool player than me? Did you ever see, in twenty years running a poolroom, anybody ever who I couldn’t beat, heads up, any day of the week, any game of pool he could name?”