Bert did not answer for a minute, and when Eddie had finished with the cue and turned around he saw that Gordon was now standing by Bert’s chair, his arms together behind his back, looking at Eddie and smiling slightly, like a sporting goods salesman.
“Maybe,” Bert said. “But if you don’t pay me, Gordon is going to break your thumbs again. And your fingers. And, if I want him to, your right arm. In three or four places.”
For a moment, he was hardly aware of what he was doing. He had, instinctively, backed up against the pool table, and he was gripping the weighted, silk-wrapped butt of his cue stick in his right hand.
Bert was still peering at him. “Eddie,” he said quietly, “if you lay a hand on me you’re dead.” Gordon had his huge, meaty hands at his sides now, and was standing slightly forward of Bert’s chair. Eddie did not move; but he did not release his grip on the cue. He looked around, quickly. Charlie still sat impassively. Big John, heeding nothing, was practicing now on the front table, shooting a red ball up and down by the rail. Over the big door was the clock. It said one thirty-five. He looked down at the cue butt in his hand.
“You’ll never make it, Eddie,” Bert said. “And Gordon’s not the only one. We’ve got more; and if Gordon doesn’t, one of them will.”
Eddie stared at him, his head a buzzing confusion. “We?” he said. “We?” And then, suddenly, he began laughing. He let the cue butt fall on the table, and gripped the rails, trembling, with his hands, and laughed. Then he said, his voice sounding strange and dim to him, “What is this? Like in the movies? The Syndicate, Bert—the Organization?” The buzzing seemed finally to be leaving his ears and his vision was clearing, losing its fuzziness. “Is that what you are, Bert: the Syndicate Man, like in the movies?”
Bert took a minute to answer. Then he said, “I’m a businessman, Eddie.”
It did not seem real. It was some kind of melodramatic dream, or a television show, or an elaborate game, an indoor sport….
And then Bert said, his voice suddenly softening, as it sometimes could, after the clutch was over, “We’re going to make a lot of money together, Eddie, from here on out. A lot of money.”
Eddie said nothing, still leaning against the table, his body strangely relaxed now, his mind clear with dreamlike clarity.
And then Charlie said, “You better pay him, Eddie.”
Eddie did not look at him, keeping his eyes on Gordon, especially on his hands. His voice was soft, controlled. “You’re not in this, Charlie?”
Charlie did not answer for a minute. Then he said, “No, I’m out of it, all the way out. But they’re in, and you’re gonna have to pay.”
Eddie let his eyes move from Gordon’s hands to Bert’s face. “Maybe,” he said.
“No,” Bert said. “Not maybe.” He pursed his lips, and then adjusted his glasses with his hand. “But you don’t have to pay it now. You can think about it for a couple of days.”
Eddie was still leaning against the table. He lit a cigarette. “What if I leave town?” he said.
Bert adjusted his glasses again. “You might make it,” he said. “If you stay out of the big towns. And never walk in a poolroom again.”
“And if I do pay it?”
“Your next game will be about a week from now—with Jackie French. We’ve already talked to him about it, and he wants to try you. Then, next month or so, there’ll be people coming in from out of town. We’ll steer some of them to you.”
Eddie felt very steady now, and the buzzing was completely gone from his ears, the trembling gone from his hands. “That’s not worth thirty per cent, Bert,” he said.
Bert glanced up at him quickly. “Who said it was? Who said it had to be?”
Eddie’s voice was calm, deliberate. “Why don’t you and Gordon go out and roll drunks, if you’re in the muscle business?”
Bert laughed softly. “There’s no money in rolling drunks. And just how pretty is the business you’re in?” Then he stood up from his chair and bent, brushing the creases from his trousers. “Now let’s go have that drink.”
“You go ahead, Bert,” Eddie said. Then he picked the pieces of his cue up from the table, and began putting them in their leather case. He looked up at Gordon. “You run this place, don’t you, Gordon?” He snapped the lid of the case and tossed it to Gordon, who caught it silently. “Find me a locker to keep that in.” Then, looking at Bert, he said, “You better go on home—to your wife and kids—Bert.”
“Sure,” Bert said, peering at him intently, his voice flat. “But remember, Eddie. You can’t win them all.”
Eddie looked at him and then grinned, very broadly and easily. “No,” he said, “but neither can you, Bert.”
Bert continued looking at him for a minute. Then, saying nothing, he turned and left, walking purposively and slowly past the big oaken door.
About twenty minutes after Eddie and Charlie had left, Henry, the colored janitor, began to cover the tables with their gray oilcloth covers. After he had done this he closed the windows and pulled the heavy draperies together over them, so that it was extremely still, tomblike, in the huge room. Then, before locking up, he stopped to watch Big John shoot his eternal practice shot one final time for the evening.
Big John, ready to leave, ready to return to his obscure bed in some unknown hotel, shot with firmness and resignation, his pink arm stroking quietly and surely. The tip of his cue struck the cue ball, the cue ball hit the three, and the three-ball, red and silent, rolled up the green table, hit the cushion, rolled gently down, and into the corner pocket.
Cover art, special contents, and electronic edition © 2014 by RosettaBooks LLC
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