Two high director’s chairs sat against the back wall. Eddie took Arabella by the arm, led her over to them and seated himself with his cue case across his lap.
The Japanese was impeccably dressed. His hair, his nails and his shave were perfect. Eddie liked the quiet way he concentrated on his shots. The other player was quiet too, but sloppy in appearance, at least compared to the Japanese. He looked like Lon Chaney in the werewolf movies, at about the middle of the transformation, with bushy hair coming down over his forehead and the full beard.
They watched for about a half hour, and then Arabella leaned over and said, “When are you going to play?”
“If somebody comes in. Or if one of them quits.”
Just as he said this the bearded man, who had lost four games since they started watching, lost another. He handed the Japanese some money, unscrewed his cue, and left.
Eddie looked at the Japanese and grinned. “Do you want to play some more?”
“Eight-ball?”
“What about straight pool?”
The little man smiled. “We usually play eight-ball here.”
“All right.” Eddie stood and unfastened the clasp on his cue case. “What were you two playing for?”
The man continued smiling. “Twenty dollars.”
“How about fifty?”
“Sure.” Eddie could hear Arabella draw in her breath behind him.
The Japanese was easy to play but difficult to beat. There was no belligerence or muscling to him, but he shot a thoroughly professional game. He ran the balls out when he had an open table to work with and played simple, effective safeties when he didn’t. When Eddie made a good shot he would say, “Good shot!” He made a great many of them himself. Eddie had difficulty with the heavy cue ball. All bar tables used them, so the ball would bypass the chute when you scratched; and he knew he would have to get accustomed to the sluggishness. It caused him to misjudge his position a few critical times. After an hour had passed, he was down by a hundred dollars. He was racking the balls and considering raising the bet when the other man spoke. “Would you like to double the bet?”
Eddie finished racking, hung the wooden triangle at the foot of the table and said, “Why don’t we play for two hundred a game?”
The Japanese looked at him calmly. “Okay.”
But at two hundred Eddie went on losing. On some shots the cue ball seemed to be made of lead and would not pull backward when he needed it to. During the third game at two hundred, Eddie ran all of the stripes without difficulty but failed to make the eight ball because the weight of the cue ball threw his position off. There was no life to the damned thing; it was maddening.
The Japanese seemed unconcerned with the problem, making balls steadily, clicking them in like a tap dancer. They hardly spoke to each other. Eddie kept paying, racking the balls, and watching the other man shoot. Being short, he bent only slightly from the waist; his long cue stick seemed more intimate with the table, more neatly parallel to it, than Eddie’s. Eddie felt that pool tables were too low for a man of average height, and he himself was taller than average. When the Japanese stepped up to a shot, the way he bent his waist and extended his left arm, the way his right arm cocked itself for the stroke, and the way his quiet eyes zeroed in on the cue ball and then on the line extending from the cue ball to the ball he was going to pocket were perfect. The open front of his powder-blue jacket hung straight down, missing the side of the table by an inch; the crease at the bottoms of his silver trousers broke neatly above the tops of his polished shoes; and his brown, unlined face showed a hint of exquisite sadness. When Eddie stepped up to shoot now he felt, compared with the other man, big and clumsy, like the big, clumsy barroom cue ball he had to hit.
When Eddie was nine hundred dollars down, the man excused himself to go to the bathroom. Eddie walked over to Arabella. “I hope you’re not bored,” he said.
“It’s really a thrill,” she said. “I wish you’d teach me more, Eddie, so I could understand it better.”
“Sure.”
She looked behind her to see if the other player was still gone from the room. Then she leaned forward. “When are you going to start beating him, Eddie?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Aren’t you losing on purpose? Isn’t that the way you do it?”
“I told you,” Eddie said, frowning, “I’m not a pool shark. I’m trying to beat the man.”
“Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed.
“I’m having trouble with the cue ball….”
She just looked at him.
Just then a waitress came in. “Anybody here want something from the bar?”
“Sure,” Eddie said, and then to Arabella, “What would you like?” He realized that his voice was cold.
Arabella spoke to the waitress. “Do you have white wine?”
“Sure, honey,” the waitress said brightly. “You want dry or extra dry? We’ve got a nice dry Chablis.”
“I’ll have a glass of that.”
“Bring me a Manhattan on the rocks.” Eddie was feeling uncomfortable. The man on the far table ordered beer.
Just then the Japanese came walking back into the room. “Do you want a drink?” Eddie asked.
“Bourbon and soda.” He smiled at Eddie. “Tough work, shooting eight-ball.”
There was something about him. Eddie could not help liking him. A lot of hustlers were that way, since their livelihoods depended partly on charm; but the feeling for this little man was stronger than that.
The Japanese picked up his cue, set its butt on the floor between his feet and held it so its tip was level with his chin. Then he slipped a small metal rasp from his coat pocket and began tapping the cue tip with it. It was something Eddie hadn’t seen for so long that he had forgotten: the man was dressing the tip to make it hold chalk better.
When he finished, Eddie said, “Could I use that a minute?”
He nodded and handed it to him. Eddie stood his cue in front of him and gave it a few taps.
“That’s a very pretty stick,” the Japanese said.
“Thanks.” Eddie scuffed the center of the tip where there was a hard spot, and then began chalking it heavily. The other man took a square of chalk and did the same thing. He looked at Eddie and said, “I’m Billy Usho.”
“Ed Felson. This is Arabella.”
“I’ve enjoyed watching you play.” Arabella twirled her wineglass by the stem.
“That’s nice.” Usho smiled. “My wife says it bores her. Out of her skull.”
“That’s a shame,” Arabella said. “I think it’s a beautiful game. Very intricate and bright.”
Eddie began racking the balls. He felt, as he had before in his life, that if he didn’t do something his money would drift away from him and he would go on losing. He did not like Arabella’s sympathy with the little man. He did not like his own. The Japanese was like Fats: another cool man who dressed impeccably. Another star. Eddie was better than this dapper Japanese, better maybe than Fats.
“Let’s play for five hundred,” Eddie said.
“That’s a lot of money for eight-ball.”
Eddie straightened up from racking and shrugged. At the table across the room, the men who had ordered beers were staring at him. They must have heard him say five hundred dollars. He noticed for the first time that the kids had left the other table, had apparently been gone for some time. He looked over at Arabella briefly; her face was expressionless. He turned back to Billy Usho. “What have you got to lose?”