The Hustler by Walter Tevis Page A

was already prepared to rationalize the truth out of what he did understand. But Bert had suddenly quit pushing, and seemed now to be merely relaxing with his drink. “That’s your problem,” he said.
    “Then I’ll stay here.” For the first time in several hours Eddie grinned. The conversation seemed to have become normal now, the usual kind of understandable conversation, where the challenges are so deeply hidden or buried that you only accept them when you feel like taking a challenge, and then only to the degree that you choose. Eddie liked things to be that way. “I’ll stay until I hustle up enough to play Minnesota Fats again. Maybe by then I’ll develop myself some character.”
    Bert’s voice was amused, but not pushing, “Maybe by then you’ll die of old age.” He paused. “How much do you think you’re gonna need?”
    “A thousand. Maybe more.”
    Bert set his drink down. “No. Three thousand at least. He’ll start you out at five hundred a game.” His tone was analytical now, detached and speculative. “And he’s gonna beat your ass at first, because that’s the way he plays when he comes up against a man who already knows the way the game is. He’ll beat you flat, four or five games. Maybe more, depending on how steady your nerve is.” He hesitated, “And he might—he just might—be a little scared of you. And that could change things. But I wouldn’t count on it.” He began chewing another potato chip. “And, either way, he’ll beat your ass at first.”
    “How do you know? Nobody knows that much.” There was something preposterous about this little prissy god sitting beside him, passing judgment on him, now affably and dispassionately. “I might beat him the first five games.”
    “Sure you might. But you won’t. And how do I know?” Bert raised a finger significantly and pointed towards the door. Eddie turned, looking out. “See that Imperial out there? That’s mine.” Parked across the street was a long, new-looking black car, with large white-wall tires. “I like that car and I get a new one every year because I make it my business to know what people like Minnesota Fats—or like you—are gonna do.” Then he smiled, with an afterthought. “And if I hadn’t already paid for it I could of with the money I won in side bets. When you two were playing last week.”
    For a moment Eddie felt himself angry, remembering now for the first time the neat little man who was taking bets while the games were starting. Then he grinned, sipping his drink. “I guess you owe me these drinks after all.”
    “I told you I did.” Bert gave his rare grin again. And, with the whiskey, Eddie began to feel a pleasant sense about Bert. Bert was smart; he knew the answers. Now he was saying, “And maybe I can help you out,” almost as if he had at the same time begun to feel friendly. “With that three thousand.”
    But Eddie hesitated. Maybe there was an angle. “Why?” he said.
    “Ten reasons. Maybe fifteen.” He smiled, “Also, there’s something in it for me.”
    Eddie grinned back at him. “That’s what I figured. Go ahead.”
    “Well,” Bert said, “I’ve been thinking about a game for you. A little game of pool, with a man named Findlay…”
    ***
    Eddie had the bartender give him two hard-boiled eggs on a dish with some soda crackers. He peeled the eggs, made a little white mount of salt on the plate and began eating, while Bert told him about James Findlay, in carefully phrased detail. Findlay lived in Kentucky, in Lexington, and had a fame that was becoming wide-spread in gambling circles. Once a poker player notorious for his ability to lose, he had recently turned to pool, at which he was even more of a born loser. James, it seemed, was very rich; he owned twenty per cent of a tobacco company, through the graces of God and a dead aunt. He also owned a large house, and in the basement of this house he had a pool table. He seemed to enjoy thinking of himself as a