The Hustler

The Hustler

Fat Gene ordered a beer and the bartender obliged with polished
experience, draining the tap as he filled the glass until the head was
thick and frothy and not a drop spilling over the sides. Looking over
at Nick, he asked, "What'll ya have sport?"
"The same please." Nick took a big swig, then laid two bits on the
counter. The bartender scooped it up and punched down on the register
like somebody might punch a TV when the reception is bad.
Fat Gene motioned over his shoulder toward a guy at the pool table
near the restroom. "See that guy?"
"Yeah, what about him."
"He's the one I was tellin' you about. His name is Billy. Billy
Bonier. Everyone just calls him Boner."
"That's cute," Nick said.
"You can take him Nick. He's tough, but you're better."
"Maybe."
"Yeah, he's a good shooter," Fat Gene said through a wet, walrus
mustache, "But the word is he got whipped bad by some colored kid in
Galveston."
"Everybody gets beat sometime," said Nick.
"They say the kid got him to scratch on the eight ball after Boner
laid down two hundred smackers. Tough loss for him. He lost his shirt
on that one."
The bar was quiet except for the bartender washing some glasses and
Boner knocking balls around the pool table. It was still early and Nick
wanted to scout out some fresh fish before he hustled up a game.
Nick walked over the jukebox and picked a song. Hank Williams was
always one of his barroom favorites, and apparently the same for Boner.
He looked up and nodded with approval from the end of his cue stick and
then banked the eight ball off three rails to put it into the corner
pocket. "Nice shot," said Nick.
"Thanks, just got lucky. I've been working on that shot
forever."
Nick returned to his barstool and asked for another beer. Fat Gene was
already working on his second. "You gonna play him Nick?" he
asked.
"Maybe. See him bank that eight?"
"Sure did. He has it down awright."
"I've made that shot only once myself. But I have a feelin' Boner
makes it whenever he feels like it," said Nick.
Boner was ready to rack a new set when a slick dressed Mexican in
snakeskin cowboy boots and bolo tie walked in carrying a leather stick
bag. He looked over at the two at the bar, nodded, and said, "Buenos
dios."
"Morning," they said in unison.
He unzipped his bag and pulled out both halves of his stick and
screwed both ends together. He then chalked the end gingerly, and
methodically.
"A hustler no doubt," said Fat Gene. "When a guy brings his own fancy
stick, you know he's a player."
"Maybe," said Nick. "But it don't mean nothin' if he can't shoot with
it." "Bet it don't scare you none, does it Nick?"
"Nope. And I bet it don't scare Boner neither."
"How come you never bring that fancy cue of yours, Nick?"
"Cause it scares the fish away if they see you breaking out your own
cue. You can't stir up any money that way. I only use it for some
serious action."
"What's your game?" Boner asked the Mexican.
"How about Eight ball? Call your shots, except on the break, and bank
the eight to win."
Boner went to the rack on the wall behind him and looked for a stick a
little less warped than the one he was using. Laying one on the table,
he rolled it across the felt and watched it bob up and down
slightly.
"This will do," he said.
The Mexican quietly rejoiced at his luck.
Lagging for the break, both players lightly stroked the cue ball off
the far cushion, bringing it back within an inch off the opposite rail
where they stood, but the Mexican's cue ball was a hair closer.
"Your break," said Boner, as he began to rack the balls tight against
the frame.
Crack! The Mexican sent the cue ball crashing slightly right of the
head ball and sunk two low balls, one in the lower corner and one in
the right side pocket. The eight ball never moved.
"Nice break," said Boner, taking a seat in the corner and lighting a
cigarette. He then glanced over at Nick to see if he was watching the
game. Nick caught his glance.
"Gracias," said the Mexican, circling the table for his next shot.
Leaning under an overhead, dully lit lamp, he aimed low and put the
one-ball into the side pocket, and with enough reverse spin, brought
the cue ball back to set up his next shot. Moving to the opposite side
of the table, he reverse banked another ball into the same side
pocket.
Under the lamp, Nick noticed how large and stubby the Mexican's
fingers were.
"Wow. The greaser sure knows his game," said Fat Gene.
"The game ain't over yet," Nick said, while anticipating the Mexican's
next shot. "Watch him go across the green for the three-ball."
"Think so? The three-ball's frozen to the rail, dead center."
"Just watch," said Nick.
The Mexican cut the three-ball so sharply, it skimmed parallel to the
rail and fell into the corner pocket.
"You were right," said Fat Gene.
"Told ya."
The Mexican ran the table before Hank Williams finished singing "Your
Cheating Heart."
"Nice shootin'," said Boner. "Double or nothin?"
"Si. But maybe you should find a good stick. These are bowed terribly.
No good for shooting pool."
Boner just shrugged and said, "I guess this will have to do for
now."
It was Boner's turn to break and he nailed the one-ball right on the
head and failed to sink any balls.
"Tough break," said the Mexican shaking his head with contrived
empathy. "Maybe if you had a better stick." He then methodically
pocketed the rest of his balls for another win.
He began to disassemble his cue stick when Boner blurted, "Double or
nothin?"
The Mexican made an effort to sigh wearily, and said, "My friend, you
have mucho bad luck today. Maybe another time we&;#8230;"
"Double or nothin," Boner's tone demanded.
The Mexican would never refuse such a challenge, but felt it was
necessary to portray himself as a chivalrous opponent. "But I cannot
take advantage of&;#8230;"
"I can beat you," Boner interrupted. "Forty dollars say's I can." He
laid his money on the table.
The Mexican acquiesced with a shrug, then Boner racked the balls.
Though the Mexican sunk the nine-ball into a corner pocket, the break
was weak and he was left without a decent follow-up shot. Frustrated,
but maintaining poise, he tapped lightly into the cluster of balls that
remained, inadvertently giving his opponent some room.
Boner put out his cigarette and moved hastily around the table a couple
of times. The Mexican was amazed that he chose to shoot at the ducks
and not at the balls that provided a possible set-up for later. Boner
made three relatively easy shots and then missed on a bank shot.
"You shoot to hard," volunteered the Mexican. "You need a soft touch
for that one." He then proceeded to run the rest of the balls, and won
for the third time. Scraping his earnings off the pool table, he bought
everybody a beer and left.
Fat Gene and Nick drank down their beers and left the bar. Outside, the
afternoon sun burned their eyes.
"That greaser can sure play," said Fat Gene.
"He ain't bad, I guess. But he ain't no hustler."
"What do ya mean?"
"Boner set it all up, don't ya see? That Mexican was the one who was
hustled.
"I don't get it," said Fat Gene.
"Boner took the loss on purpose, betting on the chance that he could
hustle me later and make his money back-and then some. But I ain't
takin' the bait. I know a hustler when I see one. Boner could have
out-shot that Mexican with a fire hose."
"But Boner's out forty bills," said Fat Gene. "If you didn't take the
bait, then all his plannin' was for nothin."
"Wrong pal. In a hustler's way of thinkin', it's never for nothin',
cause in the end, it's always pays somethin'."