Five men were playing nine ball on the front table. Besides the rack man, with the triangle hanging in the crook of his arm, there was only one spectator, a heavy, porcine man with a crushed felt hat, its brim turned up and fastened in front with a safety pin. Over the table two bare incandescent bulbs hung on frayed cords from the ceiling. They trembled with the vibration from the fan. Tied between the cords was a smudged cardboard sign that read OPEN GAME; and below this someone had written in pencil, PLAY AT YOUR OWN RISK.
The men were wearing overalls or khaki pants and either white T-shirts or the kind of slick-surfaced sport shirt that is translucent, outlining the underwear beneath it. There was one thin-faced young man—a man of about Eddie’s age—whose face was pale and who, in spite of the khaki pants and sport shirt, had a dapper, sharp-eyed look—the B-movie version of the hustler: the pool shark.
He leaned against the wall and watched several games. No one seemed to notice him—the men were very intent with playing—and he was glad he had made a point of not wearing a coat. The pale young man seemed to be doing most of the winning. His style looked good, and he had a nice way of making the money balls, which he did so well that the other players called him “lucky”—for a good hustler the finest of compliments. Once, when the kid made what seemed a too obvious combination bank on the nine, Eddie looked closely at the face of the big man with the safety-pin hat—the others had called him Turtle—but the broad face showed no surprise or awareness when one of the men said, “You lucky punk,” to the kid.
They were playing two dollars on the nine and a dollar on the five. A respectable game; you could win twelve dollars in maybe two or three minutes. The table was small—a four by eight—and had drop pockets, the kind that have been filed down to make the balls fall in easier. It would have been a lock table for any first rate nine-ball player, a table a good man would have to try hard to miss on. Eddie’s fingers began itching for a cue.
But he did not even have to invite himself in. After about twenty minutes a player quit and the kid looked at Eddie insolently and said, “You want in, friend?”
Eddie looked at him. He had always hated this kind: the sharp kind, the snotty, second-rate punk hustler. “Well,” Eddie said, grinning at him, “maybe I’ll try a couple for kicks.”
“Sure thing, friend.” One side of the kid’s mouth drooped into a practiced casualness, the kind of thing picked up from pictures of hillbilly singers, practically a sneer. “Just watch who you’re kicking.”
The big man, who was now the game’s only watcher, guffawed.
Eddie remained grinning. “I always watch who I’m kicking. Helps my aim.” The big man did not laugh at this.
Eddie picked a cue out of the rack and began playing, using the awkward style that Charlie had rehearsed him in years before, playing it especially carefully this time. He had to fool the kid, because the kid was the one with the money. And to fool another hustler is not always easy. So he played poorly, but managed to make the right shot at the right time every now and then, often enough to stay even with the game. He kept his eye on the kid, who seemed to suspect nothing.
And then, after about an hour, he began acting as if he were getting hot, sweating a little, acting high and strutting—another thing that Charlie had taught him—making enough wild shots to start winning in earnest, but missing enough to make it look convincing. And the kid did as Eddie hoped, making good shots, running balls without trying so much to appear lucky, drilling the money balls in with malice and skill. He always seemed to sneer at the nine ball before he made it, as if to convince himself of his power over it. In another hour they had driven the other men, grumbling, out of the game. Eddie was about sixty dollars ahead; the kid must have won more than that, for he had continued to collect quite often. Once, when he had lost and paid off to the kid, the other man leered at him and said, “That’s tough, friend,” and Eddie thought, You just wait, you son of a bitch, grinning at him.
Now, when the last other player had quit and they were all standing by the big man, watching the two of them, the kid gave him the same look and said, “It’s you and me, friend.”
“Say, that’s right.” He tried to make his voice friendly. “You think maybe we ought to raise the bet?”
The kid did not hesitate. He said, “Five on the nine ball. Two on the five.”
“Okay.” Eddie said.
He let the kid score the nine twice in a row, just to salt the bet well, losing the last game by acting as if he were now, finally, playing his serious game of pool. He did this by cautiously running the balls from the one to the seven, then acting nervous and missing on the eight, making certain that he left a simple shot. This was a routine way of building confidence in the other man—to struggle through the difficult preliminaries and then choke up, letting him pick up an easy victory. It pleased Eddie to see the kid throw off his amateur game completely and try for style when he pocketed the eight and the nine.
“Say, kid,” Eddie said, “you’re one of the best.”
The other player said nothing for a moment, just stood there with the sneer, one hand in his hip pocket, the other lightly holding his cue stick, his little finger sticking out delicately. Then he said, “You quitting, friend?”
Eddie stared at him. When he spoke he was astonished by the anger in his own voice. He did not grin. “No, kid,” he said, levelly, “I’m not quitting.” And then, “Suppose we play a game of hundred-dollar freeze-out. Ten games for ten a game, winner take all. Then we’ll see who quits.”
The kid looked at him coolly. That’s right, Eddie thought, you’ve got me now, boy. You smug little bastard.
“Okay, friend,” the kid said, “you’re on.”
They tossed, and Eddie won the break. And then, while the houseman was racking the balls, Eddie thought, When I win this he’ll quit anyway, and he set his cue stick against the wall and began rolling up his sleeves, carefully, looking around him at the cheap, filthy place he was in, and then at the little easy table. He picked up his cue, chalked it. “Okay, punk,” he said softly, “here we go.”
He stepped up to the table, slipped easily into the old, automatic, easy form, stroked smoothly and powerfully, and slugged the nine-ball in on the break, firing it into the corner pocket on a one-to-three shot. “That’s one,” he said, trying to grin, but his voice sounding strangely hard, grating, even to himself. And the sound of his voice shook him. You weren’t supposed to feel this way, not on the hustle. And it was not wise—it was never wise—to look too good, not in a place like this one. He glanced at the group that was watching. Their faces seemed to have no expressions. I’d better remember to lose a couple.
It would be wiser not to try to make the nine on the break any more; the shot was too unreliable and showy. Instead, he would play this time for a wide spread and a second shot. He got it, slamming two balls in on the break; and then he ran the other seven off the table without pausing between shots or taking his eyes from the table. “That’s two,” he said. There was a little murmur in the group of men who were standing against the wall.
While the balls were being racked, he glanced at the kid, who was leaning against the next table, now, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.