“Okay,” Eddie said. “Fine. But one thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to play him on my own money. I need the profit.”
Bert started to answer and then did not. He thought a moment, chewing softly at his underlip, and then said, “All right. But don’t pull that on me when I put you up against Findlay.”
“I won’t.”
“Go ahead then. He probably won’t go over twenty a game, in any case. You can start him at five.”
“Thanks,” Eddie said, walking over toward the end table, carrying his leather case….
The jockey was considerably better than he looked, and as Bert had said he would not go past twenty a game. He knew more about nine ball than Eddie did, knew some very nice, safe shots that Eddie had never seen before, and he was very good at cutting balls thin; but Eddie beat him by shooting straight, concentrating on what he was doing, and playing carefully. He was able to win more than a hundred dollars before the little man quit, slammed his cue into the rack, and departed. Eddie had started off in Lexington with a victory, a small one, and he liked the feel of it. Also, he liked the feel of money in his pocket, although that was not the important thing, not yet.
It was eleven o’clock when they finished and although there was still action in the poolroom it was too late to try for a new game. Bert was not around; there would be no telling when the poker game would be over.
Restless, he left the poolroom and began walking. It had been raining and the streets were wet and the air cool, clean, and moist. There were not many people out—a few drunks, some newsboys, a cop. The city seemed pleasanter at night than it had when they had first driven in, shortly after supper. He continued walking, looking abstractedly into store windows, his hands in his pockets. Through his mind were circulating, slightly out of focus, images of Sarah, of Findlay—he had already formulated a hypothetical picture of Findlay, although Bert had never described him—and of Minnesota Fats. Somehow none of these people were very important at this moment, and he found himself mulling them over with detachment. It all seemed to have become very simple, walking here, alone, through a clean-washed and new town at midnight; what had been problems did not seem to be problems anymore. Findlay would be easy; he would win a good deal of money from him and that would be that. And Sarah was not really a problem. He did not owe Sarah anything. He would not even go back to Sarah’s when he got back to Chicago; she had nothing more to offer him, nor he her.
It began to drizzle slightly, and the sprinkling of rain that fell was surprisingly cold. Eddie ducked his head down and walked fast until he found an open café.
Inside he got coffee and scrambled eggs and listened idly to the juke box while he ate. The eggs were better than Sarah would have cooked them, and he caught himself grinning wryly at the thought of Sarah’s poorly cooked eggs. He looked at his watch. A quarter of twelve. He would probably be having coffee with her now, if he were home. Home? What in hell did that mean—he didn’t have any home. Certainly not with Sarah. But the idea stayed with him for several minutes, the idea of a house somewhere and Sarah, doing whatever women are supposed to do in houses. Him, reading the paper, buying a new car every year. Children—a back yard. At first it was amusing, but after a few minutes thinking it became unpleasant. He had lived in a home for too many years, with his parents, and he did not want any part of it. It had occurred to him once before that the whole institution—marriage, the home, the paycheck—was something invented by women, something they grew fat on at men’s expense. What had Bert said—about wanting glory? Maybe that was right, maybe that was what was wrong with the house and the paycheck and the cute wife. Maybe that was why the married men all talked about the war they had once been lucky enough to be near to, while the women could make a whole, stupid life out of the new kitchen and what the baby was doing. He thought of his father, the tired and confused old man who had never quite made it. There were two things his father could talk about with love: what he had done during the first war, and what he was going to do when he got money. The poor bastard was probably right about the war, but he had never done anything about the money. Eddie had not seen him in four years, but he was probably running the same beat-up electrical shop, the We-Fix-It, in Oakland, and still wishing for a new car or a house or whatever tired old men wish for—maybe just a good lay.
He grinned to himself again—he could use a good lay himself. Then, struck by an unpleasant thought, he asked the man behind the counter, “What time do the liquor stores close?”
“In ten minutes, mister. Twelve o’clock even.”
He paid his check quickly and left. For some reason which he did not fully understand he felt that it was very necessary to buy a bottle. He found a store in time and got a fifth of bourbon, which cost him forty cents more than the same brand in Chicago. It was Kentucky bourbon, and the label said, “Made in Bardstown, Kentucky.” It didn’t figure; but the types of hustle used in business seldom did, since the ways of the dollar were always devious. Or maybe it was taxes.
Bert had given him a key to the hotel room, which he had not been in yet. Still restless, he walked the four floors to the room and, bottle under his arm, unlocked the door.
The room was the living room of a suite; that was immediately obvious from the long and elegant gold couch, the big, soft armchairs, the little bar in the corner, and the door leading into the bedroom.
On the couch were two girls, both overdressed, both drinking.
He stopped in the doorway, holding the cue case, bottle and dangling key, thinking that maybe he had opened the wrong door, entered the wrong room. But one of the girls, the taller one, a blonde, said, giggling slightly. “You must be Eddie.”
He paused. “That’s right,” he said. Then he walked in, set his things down in an empty chair, and began looking around the room. Inside now, he could see that there were two bedrooms. The living room was very big and expensive-looking. The carpet underfoot was thick.
“My name’s Georgine,” the blonde said. “Have a seat.”
“Have a drink,” said the other. She had brown hair and was prettier than the blonde.
“She’s Carol,” the blonde said. “Carol, meet Eddie.”
“Hi,” Carol said, smiling. Her teeth were somewhat uneven and she wore too much lipstick, but she was pretty.
“Hello,” Eddie said, sitting in one of the armchairs. He wondered if Carol’s bosom were real. Probably not, but nice if it were. Also the blonde’s—Georgine’s. Georgine walked to the bar and began pouring him a drink. She was wearing a black silky dress and it seemed that her butt might split it at any moment, but it did not. Her shoulders, he noticed, were round and very smooth, with a nice color to them. He wondered if they painted or powdered their shoulders, or if that was the way they looked naturally.
The blonde gave him the drink and then went back to the couch to sit down. She put a cigarette in her mouth, and when Eddie made no move to light it for her, shrugged her shoulders and lit it herself, with a match.
Eddie tasted his drink, which was strong. Then he leaned back and said, “You girls welcome all strangers in town this way?” He was watching the blonde’s bosom as he said this, speculatively.
The brunette seemed to think this remark was very funny. When she had stopped laughing she said, “We’re friends of Bert’s. Didn’t he tell you we were coming up? I mean, he told us you were coming.” She seemed to think this was funny, too.
“Somehow, honey,” he said, “I didn’t get the word. But now I’ve got it I’m glad to hear it.” He was not certain how he felt about all this, and with Bert it didn’t figure. Anyway it was interesting enough.