He got to bed at three, slept until eight-thirty and managed a quick swim and a whirlpool before breakfast, but there was no time for a workout. At ten o’clock he beat his man handily. It was over by eleven-thirty, and Eddie, not seeing Boomer around, headed straight for the Nautilus machines and gave himself a light session, just enough for a sweat, and then immersed himself in the whirlpool. The next game was at two. He would not practice today; he needed all he had for the two upcoming matches. He had beaten Borchard, and in the one match had made almost as much money as he had put into those quilts. For a moment he thought of Betty Jo Merser’s round black face with her lips pursed, liking her. So few women could do anything. The loss of those quilts—especially of the Fiery Furnace with its three children on a shovel and its bright flames—had hurt him as much as losing a pool game could hurt. And the quilts could not be won back. They were gone forever. It was best not to think about it. He eased the back of his neck against the warm tiles and let the churning water come up to his neck and chin, relaxing his shoulders. He let his legs float out in front of him beneath the water. The music of a string quartet came across the broad pool to his right with a delicacy like that of the light coming through the ferns beside him. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off to near-sleep. The young men could be beaten. He had beaten Borchard. Nine-ball was only pool. He had played pool all his life.
He stayed in the whirlpool a long time and then dried off lazily and dressed. He had a sandwich for lunch, went back to the ballroom, warmed up for ten minutes on a practice table and then played and beat the man who had beaten him the day before, Willy Plummer. The score was ten-three and Eddie did not miss a shot. Plummer scored on the two breaks when Eddie made nothing, and he pulled a lucky shot out from one of Eddie’s safeties, but it was no contest. The next game was at nine that night.
Back on a practice table Boomer was playing eight-ball with one of the tournament officials. When Eddie came by, he looked up from his shot and said, “Cooley got beat. At noon.”
Eddie had not been paying attention to the pairings. “Who did it?”
Boomer cut one of the striped balls into the side pocket. “Who do you think? Earl Borchard.”
Eddie walked on to the hallway and then to the casino. To get out of the losers’ bracket, he—or somebody—would have to beat Cooley. After that was Borchard without a ten-seven handicap. For a moment, walking by the filled blackjack tables and then along a bank of slot machines, he felt weary. He felt like driving to San Francisco and taking the next flight home to Arabella. He went up to the room, which the maid had just finished making, and took a nap on clean sheets, falling asleep immediately.
That night at nine, the match was close and Eddie missed two critical shots that could have cost him the game but didn’t. The man he was playing was more tired than he, and rattled. Near the end of it, Eddie left him an easy lie on the six; he ran the six, seven, eight, and blew the nine. Somehow Eddie expected it and had not even seated himself. He just stepped up, shot the nine ball in and went on to win the match. It was ten-thirty. He left the ballroom and went directly to bed.
The game the next morning was also close; there was no one easy left in this tournament. More than half the players had gone home. Eddie was rested from a ten-hour sleep and a good breakfast; the kid he played looked as though he had been up all night and was trying to stay alive with Methedrine or cocaine. There were red lines under his eyes and the fingers of his bridge trembled when he shot. He kept combing his hair. Eddie beat him ten-six. There were two more to go—a game with somebody named Wingate at three, and then at nine, Cooley.
He went to the sushi bar at lunch and had to wait in line. When he had gotten his food and was looking around for an empty table, a man across the room waved at him. He went over. It was someone he had seen around the tournament, although he didn’t know his name. “Have a seat,” the man said. There was another man at the table and two empty chairs. Eddie sat down. He didn’t feel like talking, but there was nowhere else to sit. “My name’s Oldfield,” the man said. “This is Bergen.”
“Good to meet you both.”
Oldfield finished what he was chewing. “Heard about you for years. Never saw you play before last night.”
Eddie looked at him but said nothing.
Bergen was a small man with a mustache and an unworldly look. His voice was almost apologetic. “Mr. Oldfield lost a bit of money. He was betting on Borchard.”
“Borchard shoots a good stick,” Eddie said.
“I know, I know,” Oldfield said. “I’m backing him in this tournament. I backed him last year.”
“A lot of these kids don’t have a cent,” Bergen said.
“I suppose not,” Eddie said. “How much did you lose?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve hundred?”
“Twelve thousand.”
Eddie shook his head. “A lot of money.”
For a moment he felt annoyed, as though Oldfield were blaming him. Oldfield stood up, and then Bergen. “See you around, Fast Eddie,” he said. “Enjoy your lunch.” The two of them left. Eddie finished his food, thinking. Other people had been betting money on the match. The man in the brown overcoat was holding a fistful of it, and there was money moving around elsewhere in the crowd. An old, old system existed called “two brothers and a stranger,” where two men would work together, one of them backing his friend’s opponent and then betting against the friend—the “brother.” If that was what Borchard and Gunshot had been doing, if they had been working together, Eddie was the stranger and his win meant nothing.
He spent an hour after lunch in the gym and the whirlpool, then went to his room and changed into a fresh shirt and jeans. In the ballroom, pushing through the crowd standing between packed bleachers, he entered the playing area and found himself for a moment face to face with Babes Cooley. Babes was wearing skintight black pants over black pumps, and a white silk shirt. His face was flushed and his eyes bright. He was standing by Table Two; Eddie would be playing Number Three.
“Good shooting last night, old-timer,” Babes said, smiling coldly. He was polishing the end of his cue stick with a white towel.
“Thanks,” Eddie said.
“Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Eddie looked at him hard. “With twenty-five hundred,” he said, “I could hire somebody to break your right arm.”
Cooley’s smile didn’t waver. “I’d beat you with my left.”
Eddie walked to Table Two and took his cue out of its case.
His opponent was a man in his thirties who looked like an Italian barber. Ross Arnetti. When the announcer introduced them to the crowd, Arnetti’s titles were impressively numerous, although they were all for second and third place. He had been runner-up in the World Open at straight pool twice, was third in the U.S. Invitational—also straight pool—and second in two regional nine-ball tournaments. The announcer called Eddie “one of the all-time greats making a fine showing at this event.”
Eddie won the lag. As he stepped up to break, he heard the crash of balls on the table next to his and glanced over to see Babes Cooley starting up. Eddie had his twenty-three-ounce battering ram with him, and he gripped it hard now and drove the rack open. The nine died near the bottom corner, and the three stopped right behind it. The five fell in. Eddie ran the one and two, sighted carefully and drilled into the combination. The nine fell.