“George?”
“That’s right. George Hegerman. Minnesota Fats.”
“Well, what do you know?” Eddie said. “George Hegerman.” And then, “All right. I’ll see you at two.” He took his suitcase and his little round satchel and went into the hotel.
Normally this kind of thing could provide him with a good feeling, walking into a hotel lobby with three thousand dollars in his pocket. But he felt slightly uneasy, and he could not help wondering whether Sarah would be waiting for him.
After he had checked in and had unpacked he did not know what to do. He took a shower, and immediately was surprised to find how good that could make him feel—hot water, soap, and then cold water. It was so pleasant that he decided to shave. He did so, stung his face with shaving lotion, brushed his teeth, cleaned his fingernails, polished his shoes, put on clean underwear, and then began scuffling in his bag for a clean shirt and slacks. There weren’t any, and he was forced to put on the ones he had been wearing. Then it occurred to him that he could buy some new clothes, that, in fact, he ought to. This was a very pleasant idea, and he left the hotel and found a clothing store.
He bought carefully, enjoying it. He liked the power over all of the rows of suits, racks of ties, the fine wool, silk and cotton, that having a great deal of money gave him. He bought a dark gray suit, single-breasted and narrow at the shoulders, a pair of gray slacks, and a pair of tan ones. Then he bought a half-dozen shirts, another half-dozen socks, underwear and, finally, two pairs of shoes. Everything was of the best quality. When he was finished, the clerk was beaming and Eddie was beginning to feel a thing that he deserved to feel, after the strange and very satisfactory week in Kentucky. It was a kind of nirvana—like the sensation produced by a long drink of whiskey in the morning, before lunch. But, unlike whiskey, the feeling did not bode a dissolution into seediness and malaise; but, rather, a general tapering off into quiet pleasantness which, tomorrow, would be followed by something better, but of a different kind. There were pleasure and life in all of this; and they had come upon him unexpectedly, after taking a shower and while buying expensive clothes at suppertime.
It came to almost three hundred dollars; and he gave the man an extra five, telling him to have the pants cut to length for him right away. The man said it would take a half hour.
Eddie left the other things at the store and began walking around in the neighborhood, looking into store windows idly, amazed at how fine he was feeling and how pleased.
Then he came to a jewelry store and there were wedding rings and engagement rings in the window. He looked at these for several minutes, almost hypnotized by the way the gems flashed in the bluish light from the display lamps. You could buy a very fine-looking ring for two hundred dollars. Somehow, he had thought they cost more than that. Two hundred dollars, now, did not seem like very much money at all.
A strange thing about this line of thinking was that he did not really think of Sarah at all, nor did he think about the absurdity of offering her a ring, or of what, conceivably, he could say, holding out one of those little velvet boxes that rings come in and saying, “Let’s get married,” or whatever it is you say at such times. He just stood, looking at the rings. Then he walked into the store.
But, in spite of his peculiar condition of mind, Eddie was not a stupid man. He bought a two-hundred-dollar lady’s wrist watch and had it wrapped in a small white box.
The clothes were ready and he took them back to the hotel. He almost took another shower before he got dressed but settled with washing his face again, and then looking in the mirror. He looked good; his eyes and skin were clear, his hair glossy. When he put on the fine, clean, new-smelling clothes he felt as if he could sing. What was happening to him? He felt lovely, fine, as if the act of dressing in a new suit were a baptism and an orgasm, as if he were putting on wings. He had played pool all night the night before, with Findlay, and had slept lightly on the long car ride. His body was tired—he could feel the tiredness underneath the vigor that was infusing itself in him—but he felt more alive and aware, more perceptive and happy than he could remember ever feeling in his life. When he was dressed he threw the old clothes away, stuffing the wrinkled shirt and pants into the wastebasket.
Then he went out, carrying the little white box with the watch in his pocket. He hailed a cab and gave the driver Sarah’s address.
And suddenly, walking up the steps to Sarah’s apartment, he became nervous. The door to the place was closed. He hesitated a moment, and then knocked.
And then the door was open and she was looking up at him. She was holding a book in one hand, the other on the doorknob. Her hair was neat around the sides of her face; she was wearing her glasses. She had on a new blouse, a dark one, tucked in neatly at the waist.
“Hello, Eddie,” she said, quietly. Then she stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
The apartment was clean, cleaner than he had ever seen it. Even the clown’s frame had been dusted off! and there were no scattered books or glasses. He took a seat on the couch and looked around him. He looked at her; but she was not looking at him.
Then, still not looking at his face, she said, “Can I fix you a drink?”
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”
When she was in the kitchen, opening the ice tray, she said, “How was Lexington?”
“Fine,” he said. “Better than I expected.”
She walked in and handed him the drink, then turned away. “That’s nice,” she said. She sat down in the easy chair, across the room from him.
He still felt very good. The room was cool, his body and clothes were very clean, and he let the whiskey send its warm hands rubbing comfortably against the lining of his empty stomach.
He had anticipated her coolness, and was amused by it. But there seemed to be nothing to say. When he had finished his drink he stood up. “You eaten dinner yet?”
She glanced at him momentarily. “No,” she said. “I haven’t.”
“You want to go out? To the place we went last time?”
She drew in her breath. “I don’t know.”
“Please.”
“That’s an odd word for you to say.”
“That’s right. Do you want me to say it again?”
She stood up. “You won’t have to.” She set her drink, unfinished, on the coffee table. Then she walked into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
She was through in fifteen minutes. The outfit did not look as good as it had the first time, because she had not dressed as carefully. But she looked very nice, high-class. He thought of the whore in Lexington. When they left he started to take her arm gently in his hand, but thought better of it.
She nursed only one martini before dinner, and did not finish that one. Nor did she talk very much.
He had two highballs, with bourbon, and after the second one began to regain his sense of pleasure, which had been showing symptoms of waning, but the pleasure was different now—strained, and not so intense. “How’s school?” he said.
“School is over. Until September.”
They both ate the roast beef, which was rare and very good. They went through the rest of the meal silently, and when it was over he gave her a cigarette and lit it for her before he spoke. “I bought you something.”
She smiled faintly, but said nothing.
He took the little package from his coat pocket and handed it to her.
She took it, glanced at it, and then looked up at him, quizzically. “Is this an apology, maybe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
She opened the box and took the watch out into her hand. It was a plain silver watch, with a thin black strap. He had picked it because it had the feel of class to it. She looked at it carefully for a moment, then put it on her wrist. “It’s lovely,” she said.
He took a drink from his coffee cup. “I almost bought you a ring.”
Abruptly she took her eyes from the watch and
stared at him, closely. Her eyes were wide. Finally she said, slowly, “What kind of a ring?”
“What kind do you think?”
She was still watching his face, her eyes penetrating and puzzled. “Are you telling me the truth?” she said, “Or are you… hustling?”
“With me that’s sometimes the same thing.” He lighted a cigarette. “But I’m not lying to you. I almost bought a ring.”
“All right. Then why didn’t you buy it?”
He was not certain why, so he did not attempt to answer her. Instead he said, “Suppose I had?”
She looked down at the watch. “I don’t know. Maybe you did the right thing.” Then she smiled, and the puzzled look disappeared from her eyes. “Anyway it’s a fine watch. I’m glad you gave it to me.”
He looked at her for a minute, her face, neck, and shoulders. She seemed very young. Then he stood up. “I’ll take you home.”
***
They walked silently, and he listened to the odd rhythm of her heels, the uneven cadence that the limp made. They passed the bus station, and he started to say something but did not. He held her arm, crossing the streets, and he felt excitement at it, the soft bare arm, warm and smooth in his hand. But she did not look up at him, nor did she respond to his pressure. He felt now as if something were wrong; and he did not know what to do. The drinks were wearing away, and the work of the last several days was beginning to catch up with him. It seemed to be a very long walk.
Climbing the stairs to her apartment was very difficult. His feet were burning and there was lead in his shoulders and, when he got to the top, there was vertigo. He realized, abruptly, that it had been a long time since he had rested. Somewhere, his sense of pleasure had dribbled away. Suddenly, he wanted very much to go back to the hotel and sleep for a very long time, to stretch out and become unconscious. A bed in a quiet room would be very fine. His head was aching.
She opened the door, but instead of going into the room stood in the open doorway, looking at him. Then she said, slowly, “If you want a drink you’ll have to get a bottle, Eddie.” Her voice was tired, but not unpleasant. “I only have a little left on hand.”
“Tuesday was the first of the month,” he said. It occurred to him that neither of them had acknowledged the fact that he had not brought his suitcase with him.
“I got my check,” she smiled faintly, wryly. “I had to use the liquor money for tuition. The fall semester.” She looked away from him, inspecting the doorknob it seemed. “You can get a bottle of Scotch if you’d like, and we can drink it.”
“In Coca-Cola glasses?”
She did not look up. “If you want to.”
He was looking at her face, fascinated by her skin, which seemed to glow in the soft light from the living room lamp. But he felt nothing, only a simple, admiring fascination, as if he were looking at the orange clown on Sarah’s wall, the one in the white frame. The clown that had once seemed ready to tell him something. “You didn’t finish your martini tonight,” he said.
“I know.”
“Maybe it’s a good sign,” he said gently, feeling almost as if it were someone else talking to her, as if he himself were already at the hotel, in bed, alone. “You don’t make a very convincing lush.”
“No,” she said, looking up at him now. “I don’t suppose I do.” And then, “Are you going to get the Scotch?”
“No,” he said. “I’m tired. And I have a big day tomorrow.”
“Are you coming in? There’s a little left in my bottle.”
He looked at her face, the wise and hard and puzzled eyes. “I’d better be getting back to the hotel,” he said.
She looked at his eyes, for the first time that night. She did not seem to be trying to find anything in them, just looking. Then she said, “Thanks again for the watch.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He turned and began walking down the stairs.
“Good luck, Eddie,” she said, calling softly to him, “for tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” he said. He continued down the steps slowly to the landing, listening for the final sound of her door closing. He heard nothing. Then, at the landing, he turned and looked back up. Sarah was still standing there, looking at him. The light was from the open doorway behind her and he could not see her face. “Sarah,” he said, his voice soft, strange, “I came very close to buying that ring….”
She did not reply, and he stood there, looking at her, for what seemed a very long while; but he could not make out her features. Then he turned and continued down the stairs.
He took a cab to his hotel, since he did not feel like walking. When he went to bed he did not fall immediately asleep.
21
Bennington’s had not changed. It was not the kind of place that would change. It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Eddie and Bert stepped from the elevator, walked across the hall and through the huge door. Inside, the room was very quiet. No one was playing pool and there was virtually no one in the place, except for a small crowd of eight or ten men sitting and standing against one wall.
Most of the men seemed familiar to Eddie. One of them, a very big, meaty-looking man with glasses, Eddie recognized as the poolroom manager, Gordon. He did not know any of the others by name, except for one of them. In the middle of the group, sitting, speaking to no one, was Minnesota Fats. He was cleaning his fingernails, with a nail file.
Gordon had looked up when Eddie and Bert walked in, and in a moment they had all stopped talking. Eddie could hear a radio playing, faintly, but nothing else. He looked at Fats. Fats did not look up. There was a very strange sensation in Eddie’s stomach; he would not have known what to call it. A polished voice on the radio announced something and then music began to play—a love song.
Bert kept walking and found himself a seat at the edge of the group. Several of the men nodded to him and he nodded back, but no one said anything.
Eddie had stopped beside a table in the middle of the room; he stayed there and began opening his leather case, carefully. While he was doing this he watched Minnesota Fats, not taking his eyes from the moonlike face, the shiny, curly hair, and the massive belly, now covered with tight blue silk—a pale blue shirt that fit so tight across Fats’ belly that it clung to it, folding only where the flesh folded, under the narrow belt. On his small feet, Fats was wearing immaculate little brown-and-white shoes, which rested delicately against the foot rail of the chair that held his magnificent, enormous butt.
While Eddie watched him, taking his cue stick from the case and then twisting the two ends together, Fats’ face made its regular, jerking grimace, but his eyes did not look up at Eddie.
Then Fats finished what he was doing, slipped the nail file into his breast pocket, and blinked at him. “Hello, Fast Eddie,” he said, in the no-tone voice.
The stick was together now, and tight. Eddie walked to Bert, handed him the case, and then, cue in hand, he walked over to Fats, stopping in front of him.
“Well, Fats,” he said, “I came to play.”
Fats’ face made the heavy, ambiguous movement that resembled a smile. “That’s good,” he said.
Not saying anything, Eddie turned around and began racking the balls on the empty table in front of the sitting men. When he had finished he began chalking his cue quietly and said, “Straight pool, Fats? Two hundred a game?”
From somewhere in the heavy mound of silk- and leather-wrapped flesh in the chair came a kind of short, softly explosive sound, a brief travesty of a laugh. And then, blinking, Fats said, “One thousand, Fast Eddie. One thousand dollars a game.”
It figured. It figured immediately; but it was a shock. Fats knew him now. Fats knew his game, and Fats was not going to fool with him, was going to try to put him down fast, on nerve and on capital. It was a good move.
Not answering, Eddie bent down and began tapping the cue ball with his cue stick, gently shooting it across the table and back. He kept his hands busy with the cue stick, to keep the fingers from trembling
. He kept shooting the cue ball, back and forth across the table, and he thought of the two-and-a-half thousand dollars in his pocket, the dim pain in the fingers of his hands, the stiffness in the joints of his thumbs and in his wrists. And he thought about the money and nerve and experience and skill backing the grotesque and massive man who was sitting behind him now, jerking his chin, watching.
If he played him, he would be bucking the odds. Immediately he thought of Bert again. Bert would never buck the odds. Suddenly he looked up and over at Bert. Bert sat, squat and secure, looking down at him from the high chair, his face clouded, his eyes registering disapproval. No, Bert would never buck the odds.
Eddie stood up from the table and, not looking at anyone, said, “Flip the coin, Fats. Let’s see who breaks….”
Fats broke, and he was beautiful. His stroke was lovely; his command of the game miraculous; and the graceful movements of his giant, disgusting body were a compound of impossibility and of genius. He beat Eddie. Fats beat him not just once, but three times in a row.
The scores were close, but it happened so fast that Eddie felt he did not have any control of what happened. Balls had bounced and slipped and rolled and fallen into pockets, and, as before, Fats had seemed to be everywhere, shooting fast, never looking, playing his obscure concerto with his fiddlebow of a cue and his musician’s hands with emeralds on the fingers.
For the last twenty minutes of the final game Eddie did nothing but watch while Fats edged and sliced and nursed and coaxed balls to perform for him, making a run of ninety-three and out. When he gave him the thousand, the last thousand, Eddie’s hands were sweating and he was still staring fixedly at the table. There was a ringing sound somewhere in his head. Then, still hardly aware of what had happened to him, he looked up.
He was in the middle of a crowd. People were sitting all around the table, all of them watching him. Nobody else was playing pool. It was late afternoon now. There was slanting autumn sunlight in the big room, and everything was very quiet, except for the radio, which seemed to be tinkling and buzzing.