He had been disturbed a bit by the conversation at the sushi bar, but the hatred he now felt for Babes Cooley had wiped that out. Arnetti seemed like an amiable man, a solid professional; it would be hard to hate him. Eddie accepted the diffused hatred he felt for the young man on the table next to him and kept it; it gave an edge to his stroke and a clarity to his vision. He played beautifully; by the middle of the match he could sense the inner collapse of the man he was playing. Arnetti was straight-backed in his chair, but he held his glass of water limply, trying to look uninterested when Eddie glanced his way. For a brief moment after cinching the nine, Eddie felt sorry for him—held by the balls and nowhere to turn—but he shook it off. It was no time for mercy. He made the nine on the break in the next rack. The match ended quickly. Ten-four. The applause was loud. As he was leaving, carrying both cues, applause broke out again and he heard the announcer’s voice on the PA: “Mr. Cooley’s match by ten-six.” Eddie didn’t turn back to look.
The dressing area was right inside the door to his room. As he came in he saw a gray duffel on the carpet with the zipper open. Next to it sat a portable typewriter. Then he noticed the sound of running water and saw that the shower curtain in the middle of the room was closed. He walked over and pulled it open. Arabella was sitting naked on the edge of the tub, her feet in the water, waiting for it to fill.
“This is the biggest bathtub I ever saw in my life,” she said.
“How in hell did you get here?”
She looked up at him. “Flew to Reno. Took a bus. The maid let me in. Where were you?”
“Shooting pool.”
“This water feels wonderful on my poor feet. Did you win?”
“Yes.”
“Oh boy,” Arabella said.
“I play Cooley at nine tonight.”
“Jesus,” Arabella said. “Can you beat him?”
“He beat me in New London.”
She reached out and turned the water off and then slipped herself into the tub. “That was New London,” she said. “A lot’s happened since.”
“I hate his guts,” Eddie said. “I hate him like I hate that kid lover of yours.”
She said nothing, but began soaping herself. Eddie took off his shirt and lit a cigarette. He seated himself on the padded bench and looked out the window. After a while he heard the water begin to run from the tub and then heard her drying herself off. Then she said, “The mess at the shop is cleaned up. The police never picked anybody up.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“Nothing. It was all smears or something.”
“If I win this,” Eddie said, “we could go back in business.”
“Eddie,” she said, “it doesn’t matter to me right now whether we go back into business or not. Just win it.”
He turned and looked at her. She was dressed now, in a gray skirt and black sweater. “I’m afraid of Cooley,” he said. “Scared shitless of him.”
They arrived early because Arabella wanted a good seat. She managed to get in the third row of the bleachers next to the quiet blonde who travelled with Cooley. There was only one table now, in the center of the room. Eddie went to the practice area and began shooting. His stroke felt tight; his glasses had begun to irritate the bridge of his nose; his hands were cold. He kept shooting, softening his stroke a bit; he was getting into it when the PA voice came on: “The finals of the losers’ matches will begin in three minutes. The players will be Mr. Gordon Cooley and Mr. Ed Felson.” Eddie felt himself go tight. He picked up the poolroom cue from where it was leaning against the wall, gripped it in his right hand with the Balabushka and headed between the bleachers. The table sat empty under a trapezoid of light, and the people in the stands had become quiet. Cooley was approaching from the bleachers on the other side, just now walking into the lights. It was like a boxing arena before a title fight. Eddie put his free hand into his pocket so the trembling wouldn’t show.
Cooley had a following. As he set his cue case on the table and opened it, someone in the stands shouted, “You’ll do it, Babes!” and somebody else bellowed, “Kill!” Cooley smiled, looking down at the cue he was taking from its case. Then he glanced briefly up at Eddie but said nothing.
The announcer introduced them, listing a dozen titles for Cooley, including New London and this tournament itself from the year before. Eddie was “the legendary Fast Eddie Felson.”
The referee’s white shirt-front glistened in the lights; his tuxedo looked brand-new, perfectly pressed. “The gentlemen will lag for break.” He wore white gloves and carried two white balls. He set them at the head of the table, on the line, and the two players bent and shot together. Eddie hit his ball too hard; it came back to the top rail and bounced a foot away. Cooley’s lag was perfect.
Now Cooley was all calm efficiency. He set the cue ball on the line, drew back, smashed the balls open, dropping the five and eight. Not taking his eyes from the green he chalked and began running. He had the table empty in two minutes, to applause, and the referee racked. Eddie sat in his chair, watching, trying to calm himself.
When Cooley drew back his arm for the break, a voice shouted, “On the snap, Babes!” and he plowed into them. The nine did not go, but the table opened for him. He ran it. The applause this time was louder. Two-nothing. Eddie began tapping his foot on the floor.
And on the next break Cooley made the nine. The applause was thunderous. Babes stopped in the middle of chalking up and turned to face the largest bleachers. “It had to be,” he said. Then he turned, broke the balls, and made the nine with a combination. Four-nothing. Eddie’s stomach was like ice, and his palms were wet, his lips dry. Babes flicked a glance his way and then back to the table. Eddie could hear him whisper, plainly, “By the balls.” Eddie’s heart began pounding and he gripped his cue like a weapon.
Babes broke, made one, and began to roll. But on the four his position was off and he wasn’t able to knock apart a trio of balls that had clustered near the foot spot. He studied the lie a moment and played Eddie safe on the five, sending the cue ball to the bottom rail and the five to the top of the table. Eddie stood up as calmly as he could. A cut was barely possible on the five ball, but you didn’t go for shots like that against someone like Cooley. The thing to do was return the safety. When he got to the table he studied it a moment, more to calm himself than to decide. He could make that shot. Possibly. He had made tougher ones before. Cooley would play it safe. So would Fats. At four-nothing it would be dumb to go for it.
Then he looked over at Cooley. Babes hadn’t even seated himself. He was expecting to shoot again in a moment. Eddie took a square of chalk from the edge of the table and chalked his cue. And then a rough, gravelly voice rang out from the stands, “Go for it, Eddie!” It was Boomer. Something relaxed in Eddie’s stomach. He set the chalk down, took his Balabushka at the balance, bent to the table. There was the five ball, eight feet away, its edge sharp in his vision. There were the three balls that would have to be broken apart if making the five would mean anything. He took a deep breath, stroked, and felt the solid hit of his cue tip against the white ball. The white ball sped down the table, clipped the edge of the five, ricocheted out of the corner and came back down to the head spot, knocking the three clustered balls apart. The five ball rolled to the edge of the corner pocket with chilling slowness and teetered on the edge. It fell in. Into the middle of the pocket. The crowd exploded in applause.
Eddie did not look up. He did not have an easy shot on the six, and the seven was in a bad place. Best to take another chance and bank the six, so the cue ball would go naturally to the seven. He sucked in his breath again and banked it. It went into the center of the side pocket. The cue ball stopped perfectly for the seven down the rail. He made it. The eight was gone; the nine was next. Eddie made the nine. There was applause again.