And then, after he had finished running a group of balls, he looked up and saw, leaning against the next table, an extremely fat man with black curly hair, watching him shoot—a man with small black eyes.
He picked up the chalk and began stroking his cue tip with it, slowly, looking at the man. It couldn’t have been anyone else, not with all of that weight, not with the look of authority, not with those sharp little eyes.
He was wearing a silk sport shirt, chartreuse, open at the neck and loose on his wide, soft-looking belly. His face was like dough, like the face of the full moon on a free calendar, puffed up like an Eskimo’s, little ears close to his head, the hair shiny, curly, and carefully trimmed, the complexion clear, pinkish. His hands were clasped over the great belly, above a small, jeweled belt buckle, and there were brightly jeweled rings on four of his fingers. The nails were manicured and polished.
About every ten seconds there was a sudden, convulsive motion of his head, forcing his chins down toward his left collar bone. This was a very sudden movement, and it brought an automatic grimace to that side of his mouth which seemed affected by the tic. Other than this there was no expression on his face.
The man stared back at him. Then he said, “You shoot pretty good straights.” His voice had no tone whatever. It was very deep.
Eddie, somehow, did not feel like grinning. “Thanks,” he said.
He turned back to the table and finished up the rack of balls. Then when the cashier, the man with the black-rimmed glasses, was racking them up, Eddie turned back to the fat man and said, smiling this time, “You play straight pool, mister?”
The man’s chin jerked, abruptly, “Every once in a while,” he said. “You know how it is.” His voice sounded as though he were talking from the bottom of a well.
Eddie continued chalking his cue. “You’re Minnesota Fats, aren’t you, mister?”
The man said nothing, but his eyes seemed to flicker, as if he were amused, or trying to be amusing.
Eddie kept smiling, but he felt his fingertips quivering and put one hand in his pocket, holding the cue stick with the other. “They say Minnesota Fats is the best in the country, out where I come from,” he said.
“Is that a fact?” The man’s face jerked again.
“That’s right,” Eddie said. “Out where I come from they say Minnesota Fats shoots the eyes right off them balls.”
The other man was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You come from California, don’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Name of Felson, Eddie Felson?” He pronounced the words carefully, distinctly, with neither warmth nor malice in them.
“That’s right too.”
There seemed nothing more to say. Eddie went back to his game with Charlie. Knowing Fats was watching him, adding him up, calculating the risks of playing him, he felt nervous; but his hands were steady with the cue and the nervousness was only enough to make him feel alert, springy, to sharpen his sense of the game he was playing, his feel for the balls and for the roll of the balls and the swing of the cue. He laid it on carefully, disregarding his normal practice of making himself look weak, shooting well-controlled, neat shots, until the fifteen colored balls were gone from the table.
Then he turned around and looked at Fats. Fats seemed not to see him. His chin jerked, and then he turned to a small man who had been standing next to him, watching, and said, “He shoots straight. You think maybe he’s a hustler?” Then he turned back to Eddie, his face blank but the little eyes sharp, watching. “You a gambler, Eddie?” he said. “You like to gamble money on pool games?”
Eddie looked him full in the face and, abruptly, grinned. “Fats,” he said, grinning, feeling good, all the way, “let’s you and me play a game of straight pool.”
Fats looked at him a moment. Then he said, “Fifty dollars?”
Eddie laughed, looked at Charlie and then back again, “Hell, Fats,” he said, “you shoot big-time pool. Everybody says you shoot big-time pool. Let’s don’t be chicken about this.” He looked at the men standing by Fats. Both of them were bugged, astonished. Probably, he thought, nobody’s ever talked to their big tin god like this before. He grinned. “Let’s make it a hundred, Fats.”
Fats stared at him, his expression unchanging. Then, suddenly, with a great moving of flesh, he smiled. “They call you Fast Eddie, don’t they?” he said.
“That’s right.” Eddie was still grinning.
“Well, Fast Eddie. You talk my kind of talk. You flip a coin so we see who breaks.”
Eddie took his leather case from where it was leaning against the wall.
Someone flipped a half dollar. Eddie lost the toss and had to break the balls. He took the standard shot—two balls out from the rack and back again, three rails on the cue ball to the end cushion—and he froze the cue ball on the rail with only a bare edge of a corner ball sticking from behind the rack, to shoot at. Then Fats walked very slowly, ponderously, up to the front of the poolroom, where there was a green metal locker. He opened this and took out a cue stick, one joined at the middle with a brass joint, like Eddie’s. He picked a cube of chalk up from the front table and chalked his cue as he walked back. He did not even appear to look at the position of the balls on the table, but merely said, “Five ball. Corner pocket,” and took his position behind the cue ball to shoot.
Eddie watched him closely. He stepped up to the table with short, quick little steps, stepping up to it sideways, bringing his cue up into position as he did so, so that he was holding his cue, standing sideways to the table, out across his great stomach, the left-hand bridge already formed, the right hand holding the butt delicately, much as a violinist holds his bow—gracefully but surely. And then, as if it were an integral, continuous part of his approach to the table, his bridge hand settled down on the green and almost immediately there was a smooth, level motion of the cue stick, effortless, and the cue ball sped down the table and clipped the corner of the five ball and the five ball sped across the table and into the corner pocket. The cue ball darted into the rack, spreading the balls wide.
And then Fats began moving around the table, making balls, all of his former ponderousness gone now, his motions like a ballet, the steps light, sure, and rehearsed; the bridge hand inevitably falling into the right place; the hand on the butt of the cue with its fat, jeweled fingers gently pushing the thin shaft into the cue ball. He never stopped to look at the layout of the balls, never appeared to think or to prepare himself for shooting. About every five shots he stopped long enough to stroke the tip of his cue gently with chalk; but he did not even look at the table as he did this; he merely watched what he was doing at the moment.
He made fourteen out of the fifteen balls on the table very quickly, leaving the remaining ball in excellent position for the break.
Eddie racked the balls. Fats made the break shot, shooting effortlessly but powering the cue ball into the rack so that it scattered balls all over the table. He began punching them in. He was good. He was fantastically good. He ran eighty balls before he got tied up and played Eddie safe. Eddie had seen and made bigger runs, much bigger; but he had never seen anyone shoot with the ease, the unruffled certainty, that this delicate, gross man had.
Eddie looked at Charlie, sitting now in one of the big, high chairs. Charlie’s face showed nothing, but he shrugged his shoulders. Then Eddie looked the shot over carefully. It was a good safe, but he was able to return it, freezing the cue ball to the end rail, leaving nothing to be shot at. They played it back and forth, safe, leaving no openings for the other man, until Eddie made a small slip and let Fats get loose. Fats edged up to the table and started shooting. Eddie sat down. He looked around; a crowd of ten or fifteen people had already formed around the table. A neat man with pink cheeks and glasses was moving around in the crowd, making bets. Eddie wondered what on. He looked at the clock on the wall over the door. It was eight-thirty. He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly.