He looked at Bert and said, “Well?” And it occurred to him then, looking at Bert, that there was nothing more for Bert to teach him; that he had learned, in this game that his hands and arms in their soreness were still remembering, a lesson and a meaning of his own, and that there was nothing more to do with Bert except to cut loose from him, to become free of him.
And when Bert did not reply, Eddie said, pushing him, “You think I’m ready now for Fats?”
“What about the thumbs?”
“The thumbs are all right.”
They were on the road that led to town, and Bert drove them in silence for several minutes before he answered. “If you’re not ready now you never will be.”
Eddie lit a cigarette, cupping his hands against the wind. His body seemed to feel tense and relaxed at the same time, but the sun on him was warm, pleasant. “I’m ready,” he said.
20
For the first three hours of the trip north Eddie did not say anything. They were in Ohio by mid-morning. Traffic was very light. It was very strange to be riding in this big car in the autumnal morning, his body dimly aching from the long night’s work, his eyes grainy and yet alert, and to be driving toward Chicago. Two months before he had driven to Chicago, with Charlie Fenniger. That seemed now to have been a long time ago. What would Charlie be doing now? Opening the poolroom in Oakland, brushing the tables? Charlie had been his friend for a long time. Once, years before, he had admired Charlie, had thought Charlie was a first-rate pool player.
And Bert, what about Bert? Bert, like Charlie, was a teacher and a guide—a guide not to pool playing, but to gambling. Bert knew the wheels that turned in gambling and the wheels within the wheels. You could never really pin down a man like Bert, get hold of him, find out exactly what his meaning was. But Bert was necessary, if only because of his intelligence and strength—as, in a different way, Sarah had once been necessary, during the time that his own world had been tilted and confused. Even Sarah—weak, losing Sarah with more of her twisted than just her leg—was a tremendously necessary person. Or was Sarah a loser, or only a person who was not in the game because she did not understand the rules? But who knew the rules? Bert, if anyone.
But there was the rule—possibly the only real rule—that he had had to learn himself, the rule that Bert had not actually told him, the one that had come to him with such clarity when he had been playing Findlay, the rule that was a command: Win. And yet maybe that was what Bert meant by character—the need for winning. To love the game itself is a fine thing; it is loving the art you live by. There are many things to love in the art—the excitement of it, the difficulty, the use of skill—but to work at it only for those would be to be like Findlay. To play pool you had to want to win and to want this without excuses and without self-deception. Only then did you have a right to love the game itself. And this reached further. It seemed to Eddie now, sitting in Bert’s car, his body sore and his mind tremendously aware, that the need to win was everywhere in life, in every act, in every conversation, in every encounter between people. And the idea had become for him a kind of touchstone—or a key to the meaning of experience in the world.
But as he became gradually more tired, more hypnotized by the steady movement of the sunlit road before them, the awareness and the insight began to fade, leaving, as these things always do, a few new ideas, or prejudices. And, possibly, a little more knowledge of what his own life was about….
After a while he dozed for a few minutes, and then wanted to talk. There was something he had wanted to ask Bert….
“Say,” he said, his voice drowsy now, “where does Fats get his bankroll?”
For a while he thought that Bert was not going to answer him at all, and he was about to ask the question again when Bert spoke. “I saw him beat a whorehouse operator named Tivey out of thirty-six thousand dollars. Tivey had heard about Fats and wanted to try him at one-pocket. That was about eight months ago.” Bert looked thoughtful. “He makes a mark like that once a year or so. There’s always somebody who likes to gamble with the best. And then,” Eddie could see him grin slightly, “there’s always people like you. What did he take from you?”
“About six thousand.”
“I didn’t think it was that much.”
“Maybe it wasn’t. My partner was holding it.” And then, “What do you think Fats makes a year?”
“Hard to tell,” Bert said. “One thing you probably don’t know about him, he hustles at bridge too. And he owns property. I went in with him myself once on a piece of property, a Chinese restaurant, and we did all right.” Bert was silent for a minute, driving, his eyes straight ahead. “Fats is smart. He gets along.”
“Like you?”
“Maybe.” And then, pursing his lips and looking straight ahead, “He does better than I do. I think maybe he’s got something I don’t have.”
“What’s that?”
Bert seemed to be concentrating with tremendous attention on his driving, although there was no one else on the road. Then he said, “Fats is a very talented man. He always was.”
For quite a long time, Eddie did not say anything. They stopped and bought sandwiches and beer and then, back in the car, Bert said, “Why all the questions about Fats? You thinking of replacing him?”
Eddie grinned faintly, “Not replacing, exactly. More like joining his club.”
“It’s a hard club to join. There aren’t fifty top pool hustlers in the country who make a living at it.”
Fifty sounded like a small number, but it sounded right. “Maybe,” Eddie said. And then, “We’ll see.”
When they were coming into Chicago Bert said, “Where do I let you out?” It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
After trying to think for a minute, Eddie said, “Where do you stay?”
“At home. On Sullivan Avenue.”
Struck by the word “home,” Eddie stared at him. “Are you married?”
“Twelve years.” Bert adjusted his glasses with one hand, the other on the wheel. “Two girls in school.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Eddie said. And then, “Let me off at a hotel. Any hotel, maybe near the Loop somewhere.”
The hotel was in a part of town he was unfamiliar with. When he got out of the car he stopped and said, “You coming up to Bennington’s tomorrow?”
“What time?”
“I don’t know. After lunch, I think.”
“Okay,” Bert said. “I’ll meet you here for lunch at two. Then we’ll go see George together.”
“George?”
“That’s right. George Hegerman. Minnesota Fats.”
“Well, what do you know?” Eddie said. “George Hegerman.” And then, “All right. I’ll see you at two.” He took his suitcase and his little round satchel and went into the hotel.
Normally this kind of thing could provide him with a good feeling, walking into a hotel lobby with three thousand dollars in his pocket. But he felt slightly uneasy, and he could not help wondering whether Sarah would be waiting for him.
After he had checked in and had unpacked he did not know what to do. He took a shower, and immediately was surprised to find how good that could make him feel—hot water, soap, and then cold water. It was so pleasant that he decided to shave. He did so, stung his face with shaving lotion, brushed his teeth, cleaned his fingernails, polished his shoes, put on clean underwear, and then began scuffling in his bag for a clean shirt and slacks. There weren’t any, and he was forced to put on the ones he had been wearing. Then it occurred to him that he could buy some new clothes, that, in fact, he ought to. This was a very pleasant idea, and he left the hotel and found a clothing store.