The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [148]
“That was just luck,” Joe said, his buck teeth showing in a good-natured, chinless smile.
Automatically chalking his cue, Studs studied the table, roving slowly around it to survey the balls from varying angles. He frowned in concentration. He heard Tommy Doyle remark that it was Studs’ can. He bent over the table, and took careful aim, calling the three ball in the left-hand side pocket on a sharp cut. He was aware of a silence amongst the spectators. He shot, the three ball rolling straight into the pocket. He smiled, with a sense of relief. He made a run pf ten, and as he sank his shots he saw himself as a careless, chance-taking pool shark. He missed a set-up before one of the lower end pockets. He set the balls back on the table in a line up from the spot, and pushed ten beads more on his side of the wire. He could not check a smile when he heard Doyle tell Joe that this time Studs looked like he might give him a run for his dough.
Three Star Hennessey sauntered in and oozed out a greeting to the gentlemen present. Doyle hopped on him about his spats and bell bottoms. Hennessey replied that they kept his feet warm, and everybody haw-hawed. Joe kidded with Hennessey as he made a difficult bank shot. He knocked six in and left Studs sewn up. Studs nettled his eyebrows and called a double bank.
“So, you’re smoking Melachrinos now, Hennessey?” Joe remarked.
“The best is none too good for Mrs. Hennessey’s son, John,” Three Star said.
“Robbing the broads again,” Studs remarked, trying to pull Joe’s stunt of kidding while he made difficult shots; he fizzled the shot, and left the table open for Joe.
Joe ran off twenty and was ahead of Studs. Studs nettled his brows. He felt his confidence ebbing away. On his next inning, he slammed the eight ball into the side pocket. He had position on an easy shot, and hoped the guys would think he played for it, instead of getting it by accident.
Hennessey and Rolfe started ragging each other in their loud-mouthed punk manner. Studs, unconscious of everything but the balls before him, ran the table, feeling a sense of skill and power as he made ball after ball, planning shots ahead, putting english on the ball to get position, feeling a complete mastery. Joe set the balls back in a line up from spot.
“I only need to make two more to break my high-run record,” Studs said to Tommy Doyle, as he chalked his cue.
“You’re hot tonight, there, Hoppe,” Stan Simonsky said.
“Looks like he’s got my number,” Joe said, undismayed.
Studs bent over, and pushed the cue through the crooked index finger of his left hand, aiming at the end ball that was frozen against the back rail. The ball seemed suddenly unclear to him. He was nervous. He felt like a mechanical man without control over the cue. He wanted to break that record.
“Well, anyway, louse, I don’t snatch pocketbooks,” Rolfe shrieked.
The punk’s voice drummed in Studs’ ear. He stood up, and rechalked his cue. He took a puff from the cigarette which he had placed on the wooden edge of the table, trying to steady himself. He bent over, and again took aim.
“Any goddamn time you catch me snipping purses...”
The damn... Studs miscued. His shoulders dropped in a droop of relaxation, relieved from the strain, even though he was disappointed. Those two snotty drug-store cowboys had taken his mind off his game.
“Hey!” Studs yelled at them, sore.
“G’wan, rat, frisk some more nickels off working girls,” Rolfe yelled.
“Say, Rolfe, you goddamn Jew, if you don’t close that trap of yours, I will,” Studs barked, throwing everyone into a waiting silence.
“Jesus, Studs! I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Phillip apologized, blushing; Hennessey quietly smirked at him.
“One more bat out of you while I’m shooting, and it’ll be curtains for you, punk!”
Studs couldn’t regain his form. Joe walked away with the game, and won a second game with ease. Studs handed him a buck, and paid for the time with some of his chips. Joe said it was tough, going so good, and then suddenly losing your form. Next time, he might have better luck. Studs smiled weakly, but a sudden hatred of Joe stirred in him. Joe was almost chinless, not good-looking, a nice guy, but he had nothing on his side except his ability with the cue. No reason for jealousy and hatred. But Studs hated him for winning, hated to lose or be second fiddle at anything. He was even glad when Joe remarked that his rheumatism was bothering him again.