by Walter Tevis
“Come on,” Pat said, “nobody types one forty. The ribbon would disintegrate.”
Arabella frowned harder at the seven ball, then bit her lip. She pumped her right arm and hit the cue ball surprisingly hard. The seven rolled across the table and into the side pocket. Eddie could have hugged her. She looked up at Pat and said, “On a good day I do one fifty. Haven’t lost a ribbon yet.”
Roy came in with four cans of beer and handed them out. “Let’s play some eight-ball,” he said impatiently. “I want to show my trick shots.”
“I’ll rack,” Eddie said.
“Wait a minute!” It was Arabella. “I don’t know the rules.”
There had been some two-piece cues locked at one end of the wall rack. Roy went over and unlocked one of them. “We’ll explain it as we go along.” He came back with his cue. It was an old Wille Hoppe, with a brass joint. “Pat and I will be partners, and Arabella and Ed. The losing team buys the next round.”
“You’re on,” Arabella said, looking at Eddie.
“Two out of three games,” Pat said.
“Sure.” Arabella began chalking her cue the way Eddie had showed her. “That’ll give me time to get in stroke.”
The women went first. Pat broke weakly and missed an easy shot on the four ball. That gave the Skammers the solids. Eddie explained to Arabella that they had to shoot the striped balls in; he showed her how to make the thirteen in the corner. She was still awkward with her cue, but she concentrated and shot it in. But her position was terrible and she miscued on the next one. Roy went to the chalk dispenser and banged powder into his left hand. Too much of it, making a little cloud. “I want everyone to pay complete attention,” he said. He didn’t seem entirely to be kidding. “You are about to see eight-ball shot the way it was intended to be shot.” He walked to the table and pointed at the two ball with his stick. “I am going to bank this blue ball into the side pocket right here”—he pointed to the pocket—“and the cue ball will roll into position for the six afterward. Very few white people understand this kind of playing.”
“Quit grandstanding, Roy,” Pat said. “Make the shot.”
“Certainly,” Roy said. He bent down, stroked, then stood up again. It was not a difficult bank, but Eddie felt he would miss it; it needed inside English to avoid kissing the cue ball. Roy bent down again, and to Eddie’s surprise used the inside English and made the two. The cue ball rolled over to the six.
Pat applauded. Looking at Eddie, Roy said, “Would you like to double the bet?”
“Sure,” Eddie said.
“That’s two rounds,” Roy said. He bent and shot the six ball in, and then the one. But after he made the one, his cue ball rolled too far, giving a bad lie on the three. He tried another bank, missed it, but the cue ball rolled by luck to the top rail. The striped balls were clustered at the other end of the table and it didn’t look as though anything could be made. “Well,” Roy said, “anybody want to bet a few dollars on the side?”
Eddie looked at him and said softly, “You don’t want to do that.”
There was an embarrassed silence for a moment, and then Arabella spoke up crisply. “I’ll bet you twenty dollars we win.”
“So that’s it,” Roy said. “Those instructions Ed gave you were a front. In fact you’re the United Kingdom pocket billiards champion.”
“You’ll find out,” Arabella said. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
Roy laid his cue stick on the table and slipped his wallet out of his jeans pocket. He took out two tens. Arabella was carrying a leather purse. She took out a twenty. “I’ll hold the stakes,” Pat said and took the money.
Eddie stepped up to the table. The only shot on was the eleven and it was a killer: it sat a few inches from the bottom rail and a long way from either corner pocket. The cue ball was nearly frozen to the top rail. Eddie leaned his stick against the table and put on his glasses. He picked up the cue and said, “I’ll go for the eleven,” and bent down.
“If you make it, I’ll eat it,” Roy said, kidding and not kidding.
“Fine,” Eddie said and drew back. Through his glasses the red stripe on the eleven was as sharp as the edge of a crystal wineglass. He stroked the cue hard and loose, smacking powerfully into the cue ball. The cue ball hurtled down the table, sliced the eleven paper-thin and bounded off the bottom rail, its path barely altered by contact with the eleven. As the cue ball came flying back up toward Eddie, the eleven rolled slowly, its red stripe turning over and over like a hoop. The white ball sped around the table, crashed into a cluster of balls and stopped. The eleven ball, still moving in its unhurried way, arrived at the mouth of the corner pocket, hesitated a moment at the edge, and fell in.
“Jesus Christ,” Roy said.
Eddie ran the rest and banked the eight into the side. Nobody said anything while he did it. Then he handed the rack to Roy. The thing about eight-ball was that you only needed to make eight out of the fifteen. When the balls were ready, Eddie slammed the cue ball into them, pocketed two and proceeded to run out the solids. He played it like straight pool and nudged the eight into an easy lie while making one of the earlier balls, and then pocketed it on a simple shot. During all this his cue ball never touched a rail. His position on every ball was perfect.
“Jesus Christ,” Roy said when it was over. “Do you need a manager?”
Arabella spoke up. “He’s Fast Eddie, Roy.”
“Come on….” Roy said.
“He’s Fast Eddie. You’ve been hustled.”
***
Afterward, when he was taking her home, Eddie said, “There are thousands of guys like him. They all play eight-ball.”
“How many are there like you?”
He hesitated. “Not many.”
“I should think not.” She stopped at the door of her building. “You looked anything but bored.”
“I wanted to beat him.”
“Maybe that’s the secret.”
***
He spent the next day practicing. His shoulder ached from the day before and by noon his feet were tired, but he took an hour break before lunch to work out in the gym and that made his shoulder and feet feel better. He drove directly back to the poolroom afterward and banked balls up and down the long rails for several hours. It was only when he stopped for a break at three-thirty that he realized the glasses were no longer a problem. He could see clearly and he no longer had to tilt his head in an uncomfortable way to use them.
He had not spoken to Martha for weeks and had no idea how long the last tables would be there before being sold. The Coke machine and the cigarette machine were gone. The telephone had been taken out. On the faded brown carpet with its cigarette burns and dust were large dark rectangles where the other tables had sat for fifteen years. It would be at least a month before the pasta-and-croissant place moved into the room; he knew they were having trouble financing. Martha’s lawyer’s ad, offering pool tables for sale, still appeared daily in the classifieds. He always checked it in the morning paper and it always tightened his stomach to see it: FIRST QUALITY POOL TABLES, IN EXCELLENT CONDITION.
There wasn’t any point in thinking about it. It had wiped him out for a week after the settlement, and that was enough. There was a certain pleasure in getting it done with, and another kind of pleasure in being out here himself with the blinds drawn and a Closed sign in the window, shooting balls into pockets. He kept it up until the pain in his shoulder came back and got worse than ever. But he felt better leaving the room than he had the day before. His game was sharper. The day had gone by quicker, even if he allowed for the workout at the gym. He would be playing Fats on Saturday in Denver. Maybe things would go differently.
***
It was another supermarket opening, outdoors like the first had been, but this time they played in front of packed stands and with three TV cameras. During the middle of the game, Eddie broke loose after a string of safeties and ran sixty before being forced to play safe again. When Fats s
tepped up to shoot, he said to Eddie, “You’re hitting them better,” and Eddie said wryly, “Practice.”
But Fats had already scored over ninety balls—fifteen or twenty at a time—before this, and when he stepped up he ran the rest of them out. The score was 150–112. There was no time for talk afterward; Eddie’s flight to Lexington via Chicago was leaving in an hour. Fats would be going to Miami a few hours later.
***
He planned to practice the next day in Lexington but woke with a sore throat and a tenderness in his joints that meant fever. It turned out he had the flu and was sick for three days. He called Arabella on the second morning, after Jean was out of the apartment. “I get over things like this pretty quick,” he said.
“It’s a nuisance anyway,” she said. “Can I bring you something?”
“Arabella,” he said, “I should have told you. I’m living with somebody.”
“That’s another nuisance.”
“It’s not a permanent thing, with Jean. I should have told you.”
“Eddie,” Arabella said, “I don’t have time to talk.” Her voice was like ice.
“I’ll see you around,” Eddie said, and hung up.
***
On the fourth day he was still weak, but he took his Balabushka and drove out to the poolroom. Nothing was changed on the outside, but when he unlocked and went in, there were no more pool tables. Not one. He stood there with his stomach knotted for a minute before closing the door and locking it. It was all over. He walked along the mall, past the A&P and Freddie’s Card Shop, and into the little bar-and-grill. They had just opened up and he was the only customer. “Give me a Manhattan, Ben,” he said to the bartender, seating himself. He still had the Balabushka in the case with him; he set it in front of him on the bar.
***
He was hung over the next morning and did not want to be devious with Jean. He came into the kitchen and said, “I think it’s time I moved out.”
She was rinsing a plate and she went on rinsing for a minute. “Where, Eddie?”
“The Evarts Hotel. I can get a room for twenty-eight dollars a night.”
“And when?” They could have been talking about mowing the lawn.
“This afternoon.”
She put the plate in the dish drainer and looked at him coldly. “I’ll fix you a supply of vitamins.”
***
Before he unpacked, he found the history department number in the directory and called Roy Skammer. Professor Skammer was just back from class, the secretary said. Could she say who was calling?
“It’s Ed Felson.”
There was a wait and then Skammer came on the phone. “Fast Eddie,” he said.
“I have a favor to ask. I’d like to use the table at the Faculty Club for practice.”
“You aren’t good enough already?”
“The table I was using is gone.”
“Gone?”
“My ex-wife sold it.”
“Jesus!” Skammer said. “Put not your faith in things of this world.”
“How about it—the club?”
“The table isn’t played on much, but the committee takes a dim view of outsiders.”
“What about in the morning?”
“That might work. They open at seven for breakfast. Nobody shoots pool that early.”
“How do I get in?” He might sound pushy, but it was necessary to be pushy. If Skammer wanted so badly to be thought a nice guy, then let him worry about it.
“Well…” Skammer’s voice sounded doubtful. “Why don’t you come by early tomorrow and tell Mr. Gandolf you’re a guest of Professor Skammer. I’ll give him a call when we finish.”
“Where do I find him?”
“In the club library. All the way back on the first floor.”
***
His room faced a back alley; he was awakened at five by a garbage truck and couldn’t get back to sleep. He had lain awake for hours the night before, looking at the dumb wallpaper and the little sink in the corner of the room and thinking of Arabella. He should have told her from the beginning that he was a pool player. He should have told her about Jean. It was stupid.
He lay in bed now, waiting for daylight, and thought about her. It had never occurred to him that he could have that kind of woman, with her high-toned good looks—the clear jawline, the look of amused intelligence. He was crazy about her voice, her accent, the words she chose in the sentences she made. And she liked him. She even admired his pool game. He had almost blown it, but it wasn’t blown yet. He began to want her strongly, more than he had ever wanted Martha or Jean, more than anyone since that afternoon at Esalen when Milly—overtanned and sweaty in the sun—had bent down and taken him in her mouth. He felt like a teenager in the first throes of lust; he couldn’t get the thought of her out of his head. He got up, washed his face in the sink, and shaved. He rinsed the lather off in the shower, and by the time he had dried off and was getting his clothes on, there was gray light at the window and his desire was gone.
He left the room at six-thirty and was at the door of the Faculty Club, carrying his cue case, when the old man opened it up.
After such little sleep, his energy at the table was surprising. He had the room to himself, hearing only the occasional clink of dishes from the dining room below; and he shot the balls with concentration and force, hardly missing at all for hours. The pockets were a shade too easy—wider open than they should have been, and a bit filed down so that doubtful shots would fall in. But he didn’t mind that; it might help his confidence, and his confidence needed help. He kept making balls, setting up difficult shots for himself and pocketing them remorselessly. He felt sharp and clear, and the fact that he wore glasses seemed now to mean nothing.
***
For the rest of the week he came in every morning, after walking across the campus at dawn. He would drive out South Broadway, the wide avenue nearly devoid of traffic that early, and leave his car in the university lot marked for visitors. Then he would walk across the campus to the Faculty Club, following a long, curved concrete pathway under high dark trees, crunching underfoot the leaves from overnight. It was too early for students, but he would pass glum maintenance men in dark uniforms, puffing on cigarettes, or nurses on their way to the university hospital with white uniforms half covered by jackets. Few people talked at that time of day; something deep in Eddie responded to the silence. He liked the early-morning life of this big place, with it brick classroom buildings, the new high-rise dormitories off to the east, the solid old library that he walked by every morning. He wore his leather bomber jacket with the collar turned up against the chill, carried his cue case under his arm and walked briskly. It felt like a new life.
By Wednesday he had developed a routine. He would spread the fifteen colored balls out at the foot of the table, place the cue at the other end, pick the ball he would break the next rack from, and then try to run the other fourteen. He gave himself a difficult shot to begin with so the exhilaration from making it would carry him on through the rest of the rack. If he made it. When he missed, he set it up again and kept trying until he got it. It was painful at times to miss repeatedly, since the opening shots he set for himself were tough ones, but he needed that too. His game might look good to a person like Skammer, as the punches of a professional fighter would feel devastating to a street punk; but he wasn’t preparing himself for street punks. He would be playing Fats again in a week. It was time he started beating him. He could run a rack of balls easily enough, if he made the first one. But that wasn’t enough. This was an easy table and there was no pressure; he should be running in the seventies and eighties. As a young man he would never have missed on a table like this.
Every now and then people would come in to watch him shoot. Young professors, sometimes carrying their coffee cups from breakfast. They would stand around quietly for a half hour or so and then leave. No one asked to play and he was glad of that. He did not feel like an interloper at the Faculty Club a
fter the first week; he felt he belonged there. Increasing the length of his runs was uphill labor, and there was a suspicion it might be hopeless, that whatever fire he once possessed had been extinguished; but he kept shooting pool. The difference between now and the way it had been before the tour with Fats was that now he could see the alternative more clearly.
***
At their next match, in St. Louis, he did better but Fats still beat him. One fifty to one forty-two.
“I don’t know what the hell to do,” Eddie said afterward. “There’s no money in this tour. When it’s over I’ll have less than I started with.”
“People won’t pay to watch pool games. We’re not rock singers.”
“That’s the fucking truth.” Eddie lit a cigarette. “I don’t know how to make a living, Fats. I have to get another poolroom.”
“I’ve already told you all I have to tell.” Fats stood up from his bleacher seat and walked over to the table where the game had just finished. They were waiting for a car to take them to the airport and the car was late.
“I remember what you told me,” Eddie said. He got up and came over. There were still a dozen or so people in the bleachers, but they were not watching Fats and Eddie anymore. “You told me I need balls. There’s truth in that, Fats, but no money.”
“That’s debatable.” Fats picked up the three ball and sent it spinning around the table. It went three rails and fell in the corner pocket. In the parking lot a car began honking in short bursts, then stopped. “I also told you to play in tournaments.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Eddie said. “The World Open in in New York this winter and first prize is eight thousand. The entry fee is five hundred, and you have to stay in New York for two weeks. There’s only money in that if you come in first.”
“Then come in first,” Fats said.
“Against Seeley and Dorfmeyer? You couldn’t beat them, and I can’t beat you.”
“Don’t tell me who I can’t beat, Fast Eddie.” Fats took the seven ball and did the same three-rail toss, this time plunking it into the corner pocket on top of the three.
“Then you play the World Open.” Eddie looked up into the stands a moment, where a group of people was finally getting up to leave. It had been a dull crowd and their applause had been light, even for Fats’ final run of forty and out.