It seemed impossible that the man could be sixty-eight. He should be tired, if he were, or vague. But the deep lines in his face, like ruts, and the thousands of tiny, fine lines between the heavy ones were the kind that took years to grow. The man was impossible, some kind of natural phenomenon.
Abruptly he got up, slapped Eddie on the back, said, “You sure a goddamn pool player, Eddie Felson.” Then he walked out the door, taking big strides, his back stiff, erect, his arms swinging, stiffly, at his sides….
By the time Eddie got home he felt great. He had stopped in a drugstore to pick up a box of candy for Sarah, and when he got there he woke her up and handed the box to her.
“What in hell is that?” she said, her voice thick with sleep and liquor.
“Candy,” he said. “Whole damn box full of it. For you.”
She was sitting up, slumped, in bed, her hair falling over her forehead and her eyes gluey. She blinked, “What in hell’s the idea?”
“A present. A gift.”
She tossed it loosely down to the foot of the bed, and then fell over on her side, away from him. “Just what I need,” she said. And then, “Where have you been? Shooting pool?” He could not tell if it were sleepiness or bitterness in her voice, but the tone of it was dead.
“That’s right.”
Abruptly, she rolled over and looked at him, balefully. “Eddie…” and then she rolled back. “Never mind. You wouldn’t know what I was talking about.”
His voice had become very cold. “I probably wouldn’t,” he said.
14
For several days he practiced, working at it doggedly each time until the pain in his hands became too great for him to continue. It did not make him feel good to do it, but there was a kind of cathartic effect. And it was like the old days in Oakland—those years when he had practiced daily with concentration and intensity, back when to become a great pool hustler was, for him, the finest and the best thing for him to want of his life. He did not have as much of the certainty or the conviction, now—although to think of himself as an insurance salesman or a shoe clerk would have only been absurd—but the game, and the hard, absorbing, almost religious practicing were a reminder to him of what he was, of what he had been and was going to be. And it kept him from thinking, kept him from being irritated with all of the vague issues that had been pestering him since the day he had walked into Bennington’s, and even before.
One afternoon he was shooting on the back table at Wilson’s, lining the balls down the middle of the table and knifing them into the side pockets, when Bert came in.
Bert was wearing a conservative—or cautious—brown business suit. When he saw Eddie his thin lips pressed into a slight, thin smile. “Hello,” he said.
Eddie slammed a ball he had been aiming at into the side pocket. Then he leaned gently on his cue and said, “Hi. Where’ve you been?”
Bert took a seat, adjusting his trouser legs as he sat down. “Here and there,” he said, with no particular tone of voice.
“How’s business?”
He pursed his lips. “Business is slow.”
There was nothing else to say just then. Eddie began shooting the balls again, conscious that Bert was watching him and, in all probability, judging him.
When he had finished out the rack, Bert spoke, “Why the open-hand bridge? Is there something wrong with the hands?”
Eddie grinned at him. “An accident. At Arthur’s.”
He expected Bert to say something to the effect of “I told you so,” but Bert did not. He said, “Oh?” and raised his pale eyebrows. “You seem to do all right that way.”
“Fair.” Eddie began racking the balls. “I’d say my game was maybe twenty per cent off. Maybe more.”
“If that’s right you aren’t in too bad a shape. What happened? They step on your hands?”
“Thumbs,” Eddie said, shooting. “A big bastard broke them.”
Bert seemed interested. “Man named Turtle Baker?”
Eddie couldn’t help looking surprised. “You know everybody, don’t you?”
Bert seemed very pleased with this. “Everybody who can hurt me,” he said, pursing his lips again, “and everybody who can help me. It pays.”
Eddie began working on corner pocket shots, the thin cuts where the cue ball must be given a natural roll. Finally he said, “You should give me lessons.”
Bert looked at him thoughtfully. “Sign up.”
Eddie did not answer but went back to the shooting, flicking the colored balls on the side with the white ball, making them edge gently into the pocket, while the cue ball went hurtling around the table. The shot was a pleasant one to shoot; possibly it was the combination of sped and slowness, and the inevitability of the motions when it was shot right. Then, finally, when he had finished with the fifteen balls, he looked up at Bert again. “Where do I sign?”
Bert adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses on his nose. “For Lexington?”
“For anywhere you say.” Eddie grinned. “Boss.”
Bert’s eyes were wide, seeming even wider under the thick glasses. “What happened to you?”
“Like I said. My thumbs.”
“I don’t mean the thumbs. You already told me about the thumbs.”
Eddie thought about this a minute. Then he said, “Maybe I’ve been thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“About how maybe I’m not such a high-class piece of property right now. And about how maybe playing for a twenty-five per cent slice of something big is better than playing for nickels and dimes.”
“Well,” Bert said, leaning back in his chair, his small hands folded delicately on his lap. “Of course, with your hands in the condition they’re in…”
Eddie grinned. “You can come off that right now. You know damn well I can beat your Findlay, thumbs or no thumbs. And they didn’t break my ‘character’ at Arthur’s. That’s what you said was wrong with me, remember?”
“I remember,” Bert said. He paused a few minutes, apparently in deep concentration, his little pink hands with the impeccable fingernails twitching mildly in his soft lap. Finally he said, “All right. Day after tomorrow. Seven o’clock in the morning.”
Eddie blinked at him. “Seven in the morning? What in hell for? I haven’t been up at that time of night since I was going to Sunday school.”
Bert smiled. “You should never of quit going to Sunday school. You’re the type. You look like you’ve got morals.”
“Thanks. You look like Santa Claus.”
“Oh, I’ve got morals too. I was brought up right. Only you look like you’ve got the good kind of morals. Anyway, you get up and meet me just like going to Sunday school, day after tomorrow, right here at seven o’clock. That way we can drive to Lexington in a day.” And then, his voice more easy, “I don’t like to get up at seven either.”
“Okay,” Eddie said, “I’ll bring my cue.”
“And one more thing,” Bert said. “I’m paying all the expenses and I’m taking all the risks. So while you’re with me you’ll play it my way.”
“I figured to,” Eddie said, not looking up at him. He bent down, concentrating on a long shot on the four ball, which sat, a quiet sphere of dull purple, in the middle of the table. He took careful aim, swung powerfully, and hammered it into the far corner pocket. The cue ball came to a dead stop. He looked over at Bert.