hustler, a quaint aristocrat who took on all the passing hustlers in the genteel quiet of his own basement, while he smoked cork-tipped cigarettes and drank eight-year-old bourbon and invariably lost his ass. Fortunately, he apparently never kept books. And, fortunately for himself, he seldom let himself lose more than a few thousand. Also, he was a reasonably good player; it took a certain amount of skill to beat him—more skill than that of the average second-rate hustler. And he played no one but the best. Eddie found all of this interesting; Bert told it well and with the evident relish of a born arranger, a matchmaker.
After Bert was finished and Eddie had eaten the eggs, Eddie said, “How do we get to Lexington?”
“In my car.”
“Fair enough.” It would certainly be an improvement over the old Packard—although he would have preferred traveling with Charlie. “What’s your percentage?”
Bert blinked at him. “Seventy-five.”
Eddie set down the napkin he had been wiping his mouth with. “What did you say?”
“Seventy-five. I get seventy-five per cent. You get twenty-five.”
That was impossible. Fifty-fifty maybe, at the most… “What do you… Who do you think you are, General Motors? That’s a very large slice.”
Bert’s smile vanished abruptly. “What do you mean, a large slice? What kind of odds do you think are right for these days anyway? I’m touting you on this game; that’s worth ten per cent anywhere by itself. I’m putting up the paper. I’m supplying transportation. And I’m putting up my time, which isn’t exactly worthless. For this I get a seventy-five per cent return on my money. If you win.”
Eddie looked at him scornfully. “You think I can lose?”
Bert’s voice was calm. “I never saw you do anything else.”
“You saw me beat Minnesota Fats for eighteen thousand.”
There was irritation in Bert’s voice again. “Look,” he said, “you want to hustle pool, don’t you? This game isn’t like football. Nobody pays you for yardage. When you hustle you keep score real simple. After the game is over you count your money. That’s the way you find out who was best. The only way.”
“Okay,” Eddie said, “Then why back me at all? Back yourself. Find you a big, fat poker game and get rich. You know all the angles.”
Bert smiled again. “I’m already rich, I told you. And poker happens to be slow these days.”
“You probably picked up fifty this afternoon.”
“That’s business. I want action. And one thing I think you’re good for is action. Besides, like I say, you got talent.”
“Thanks.”
“So we go to Lexington?”
Eddie looked at him. It occurred to him that Bert had probably been working up to this since he had first offered to buy him a drink. “We don’t.”
Bert shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
“I will. Maybe if you cut that slice down to bite size we might talk some more.”
“Then we won’t talk. I don’t make bad bets.”
Eddie started to get up. “Thanks for the drinks,” he said.
“Wait a minute.” Bert looked at him, standing now. “What are you gonna do about that money?”
“I’ll scuffle around. Somebody told me about a room called Arthur’s where there’s action.”
Bert looked concerned. “Stay out of that place,” he said. “It’s not your kind of room. They’ll eat you alive.”
Eddie grinned down at him. Bert seemed very small from where he was standing, next to him and over him. “When did you adopt me?” he said.
Bert looked back at him, peering at him closely again, through the thick glasses. “I don’t know when it was,” he said, quietly.
11
He did not go to Sarah’s apartment, but to another bar, a place where there was a great deal of noise and some kind of unfathomable gambling game, a game where a girl sat in a high chair and shook out dice from a cup while a group of men stood around her making bets for drinks and noisily losing, all of it under the shrill
After Bert was finished and Eddie had eaten the eggs, Eddie said, “How do we get to Lexington?”
“In my car.”
“Fair enough.” It would certainly be an improvement over the old Packard—although he would have preferred traveling with Charlie. “What’s your percentage?”
Bert blinked at him. “Seventy-five.”
Eddie set down the napkin he had been wiping his mouth with. “What did you say?”
“Seventy-five. I get seventy-five per cent. You get twenty-five.”
That was impossible. Fifty-fifty maybe, at the most… “What do you… Who do you think you are, General Motors? That’s a very large slice.”
Bert’s smile vanished abruptly. “What do you mean, a large slice? What kind of odds do you think are right for these days anyway? I’m touting you on this game; that’s worth ten per cent anywhere by itself. I’m putting up the paper. I’m supplying transportation. And I’m putting up my time, which isn’t exactly worthless. For this I get a seventy-five per cent return on my money. If you win.”
Eddie looked at him scornfully. “You think I can lose?”
Bert’s voice was calm. “I never saw you do anything else.”
“You saw me beat Minnesota Fats for eighteen thousand.”
There was irritation in Bert’s voice again. “Look,” he said, “you want to hustle pool, don’t you? This game isn’t like football. Nobody pays you for yardage. When you hustle you keep score real simple. After the game is over you count your money. That’s the way you find out who was best. The only way.”
“Okay,” Eddie said, “Then why back me at all? Back yourself. Find you a big, fat poker game and get rich. You know all the angles.”
Bert smiled again. “I’m already rich, I told you. And poker happens to be slow these days.”
“You probably picked up fifty this afternoon.”
“That’s business. I want action. And one thing I think you’re good for is action. Besides, like I say, you got talent.”
“Thanks.”
“So we go to Lexington?”
Eddie looked at him. It occurred to him that Bert had probably been working up to this since he had first offered to buy him a drink. “We don’t.”
Bert shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
“I will. Maybe if you cut that slice down to bite size we might talk some more.”
“Then we won’t talk. I don’t make bad bets.”
Eddie started to get up. “Thanks for the drinks,” he said.
“Wait a minute.” Bert looked at him, standing now. “What are you gonna do about that money?”
“I’ll scuffle around. Somebody told me about a room called Arthur’s where there’s action.”
Bert looked concerned. “Stay out of that place,” he said. “It’s not your kind of room. They’ll eat you alive.”
Eddie grinned down at him. Bert seemed very small from where he was standing, next to him and over him. “When did you adopt me?” he said.
Bert looked back at him, peering at him closely again, through the thick glasses. “I don’t know when it was,” he said, quietly.
11
He did not go to Sarah’s apartment, but to another bar, a place where there was a great deal of noise and some kind of unfathomable gambling game, a game where a girl sat in a high chair and shook out dice from a cup while a group of men stood around her making bets for drinks and noisily losing, all of it under the shrill
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