“Johnny Varges could have been drunk. Did you see the game?”
“No, but…”
“Who did?” Suddenly Big John seemed to come to life. He jerked the cigar from his mouth and bent down toward the Preacher, staring at him hard, “You ever see anybody who ever saw Fast Eddie Felson shoot pool?”
The Preacher’s eyes darted back and forth, as if looking for a hole where he could hide. Seeing none, he said, “Well…”
“Well, what?” Big John kept staring at him, hard, not blinking.
“Well, no.”
“No. Hell, no.” Straightened up, Big John threw his arms out, invoking the Almighty. “And who, in the name of holy God, has ever once seen this man? I ask you. Nobody. That’s my answer. Nobody.” He turned to the table and took his three ball from the corner pocket, setting it on the green. Then he began chalking his tip, deliberately, as if he were now through with the conversation, the matter settled.
It took the Preacher a minute to regain his composure, to gather his tortured wits. Finally, he said, “But you heard Abie Feinman, what he said they was saying about Fast Eddie out West, about him and Texaco Kid and Varges and Billy Curtiss and all them others he’s took. And this guy over Rudolph’s house last night he said they don’t talk nothing else in Hot Springs these days but Fast Eddie Felson.”
“So?” Big John left his three ball, turned scornfully, took his cigar from his mouth. “So did this big man from Hot Springs see Eddie shoot pool?”
“Well, you see… It seems this guy he runs some kind of large con game with the races—I think maybe he plays the inside on a traveling wire game—and he says he was kind of busy with his customers. But he says…”
“Okay. Okay, I heard it. You told me.” Big John turned back to his shot, stroked his cue. The ball rolled, bounced, plopped in the corner pocket. He set it up again. Plop. Again.
The Preacher watched him, silently, wondering when he would miss. Big John kept shooting the three ball, up and down the table, into the pocket. Each time the ball hit the pocket the Preacher snuffed his nose. Then, finally, the ball came down the table an almost imperceptible fraction of an inch closer to the rail than normally. It caught the corner of the pocket, oscillated a moment, then became still. Big John picked up the ball, held it in his heavy right hand and glared at it, not with scorn but with disapproval—he had missed the shot many times before, in twenty years. Then he dropped it firmly into the pocket, turned back to the Preacher and said, “And who is he, this Fast Eddie? Six months ago whoever heard of Fast Eddie?”
The Preacher was startled for a moment. “How’s that?” he said.
“So everybody talks Fast Eddie. So who is he?”
The Preacher pulled at his ear. “Well… this guy I was telling you about says he used to hustle out on the Coast. California. Says he just come on the road, maybe two, three months ago. Never played Chicago yet.”
Big John took his cigar from his mouth, looked at it with displeasure, threw it, gently, into a brass cuspidor that was on the floor, beneath the powder holder. It hissed when it hit, and both of them watched the cuspidor for a moment as if waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, Big John turned his stare back to the Preacher. Cigar and three ball now gone, his concentration was complete. The Preacher seemed visibly to wither before its intensity.
“Thirty years ago,” Big John said, “I was a big reputation. Like Fast Eddie. I had a talent. Thirty years ago I wore hip boots and lived in Columbus, Ohio, and rode to the poolroom in a taxi—a taxicab—and I played the boys who came in from the factories and I played the little big-time boys from the sticks and, by God, I smoked twenty-five cent cigars. And, by God, I came to Chicago.” He stopped for breath a moment, but did not lessen the intensity of his stare. “I came to this great big goddamned city and I was a big reputation. They whispered about me the first time I ever set foot in this poolroom and they put the finger on me for Big John from Columbus and they steered me to old Bennington himself, the man whose name was right on the sign outside the door of this godforsaken poolroom just like it is now except it was on wood and not on neon. And I was hot, good Lord, I was a red-hot pool player from Columbus, Ohio, a big man from out of town. And you know what happened to me when I played Bennington, the man himself, on table number three,” he pointed at it, a sturdy, enduring mahogany pool table, “that table right there, for twenty dollars a game? Do you know what happened?”
The Preacher shifted his weight uneasily. “Well. Maybe I do. I think so….”
Big John threw his hands in the air. He was like a colossus. “You think so. Good Lord, man, don’t you know nothing?”
Somehow, the Preacher allowed himself to show a bit of resentment in the center of all the fury that was being focused on him. “Okay,” he said, “you lost. I guess he beat you.”
Big John seemed to approve of this. He brought his tremendous hands back down, placed them firmly on his hips and leaned forward. “Preacher,” he said, softly, “I got my big fat ass beat. Just beat right off.”
He remained silent for a minute. The Preacher looked at the floor. Then Big John went back to the table, picked the three ball from the pocket, and held it in his hand, speculatively.
Finally, the Preacher looked up and said, “But you’re still a hustler. Hell, you’re one of the best in town, Big John. And, besides, that don’t mean Fast Eddie…”
“The hell it don’t. Since I walked in that door over there thirty years ago I never heard nothing but talk about big men coming in from out of town. I’ve had big boys come in from Hot Springs and Atlantic City and take me for my whole pocket. But I never was a top hustler and never will be. And they don’t—they don’t never—come in from Mississippi or Texas or California and play heads up with a top Chicago hustler and walk out with more on the hip than they walked in with. It don’t happen. It don’t never happen.”
The Preacher snuffed his nose. “Hell, Big John,” he said, “maybe every now and then somebody’s bound to…. Hell, you know how pool is.”
Big John jerked a virgin cigar from his shirt pocket. “I know how pool is?” he said. “I know how pool is?” He tore the wrapper from the cigar, balled the cellophane up in his hand. “My God, I tried to tell you. I tried to tell you I know this game of pool and I tried to tell you nobody,” he bent forward, “no-bo-dy ever comes in here and beats George the Fairy or Jackie French or Minnesota Fats. Not heads up, not when he picks up a stick and they pick up a stick and Woody or Gordon racks the balls and they play any game of pool you or me or Willie Hoppe can ever with the help of the Holy Lord name, guess or invent. If somebody gives out handicaps, or if George the Fairy or Jackie French starts spotting balls maybe it’s a two-way game of pool. But no hotshot from Columbus, Ohio, or from California is going to beat a top Chicago hustler.” He jammed the cigar in his mouth, not even pausing to moisten it beforehand. “So now what about Fast Eddie Felson,” he said, “from California?”
The Preacher snuffed his nose. “Okay,” he said, “okay. I’ll wait till he gets here.” And then, almost inaudibly, “But he flattened out Johnny Varges. Maybe it was Hot Springs, but he flattened him out.”
Big John seemed not to hear this. He had been holding his three-ball all of this time and he set it, now, back on its spot on the table. He set the cue ball behind it. He began chalking his cue. Then he said, quietly now, “We’ll see how he makes out with Minnesota Fats.” He shot the three-ball, gently, and it followed its little pattern of motion, its orbit, across the green, into the corner pocket. Then he reached in his own pocket, pulled out a loose and crumpled dollar bill, and laid it on the rail. “Go buy yourself some dope,” he said. “I’m tired of watching you rub your damn nose.”