The Hustler Page #2

EDDIE:

I'll be alive when I get out, Charlie.

They saunter over to the cashier's cage. A sign on the brass bar reads

NO GAMBLING ALLOWED ...

EDDIE:

Any table?

CASHIER:

Any table.

Eddie's arrival is noted by Big John and Preacher, a gambler and an

addict, who hang out at Ames at all hours, waiting for action.

EDDIE:

(to the cashier)

No bar?

CASHIER:

(with some annoyance)

No bar, no pinball machines, no bowling alleys.

Just pool. Nothing else. This is Ames, mister.

Eddie takes his cue ball from the cashier's cage and heads for a table.

As he passes Charlie, he mimics the cashier wickedly:

EDDIE:

This is Ames, mister.

The two go to a table. Eddie selects a house cue, then rolls it over

the table top to test the roll. He seems pleased. He runs his hand over

the green felt as if he were caressing it. His last test is to sweep

the cue ball into the corner pocket.

EDDIE:

Nice clean pocket drop.

Eddie takes some balls out of the return box and throws them on the

table.

EDDIE:

(chalks his cue)

How much am I gonna win tonight? Hm?

Charlie doesn't reply. But Big John and Preacher lean forward in their

chairs to listen in.

EDDIE:

Ten grand. I'm gonna win ten grand in one night.

(Charlie stares at him)

... Well, who's gonna beat me? C'mon, Charlie,

who's gonna beat me?

CHARLIE:

Okay ... Okay. Nobody can beat you.

EDDIE:

Ten grand! I mean, what other poolroom is there

in the country where a guy can walk out with

ten grand in one night? Jeez, you know, I can

remember hustling an old man for a dime a game.

Big John, stubbly cigar between his fingers, drifts over to their table.

CHARLIE:

(to Eddie, off Big John)

You got company.

BIG JOHN:

(approaching Eddie)

You looking for action?

EDDIE:

Maybe. You want to play?

BIG JOHN:

No. Hell, no! You Eddie Felson?

EDDIE:

Who's he?

BIG JOHN:

What's your game? What do you shoot?

EDDIE:

You name it, we shoot it.

BIG JOHN:

Look, friend, I'm not trying to hustle. I don't

never hustle people that walk into poolrooms

with leather satchels. Don't try to hustle me.

EDDIE:

Okay, I'm Eddie Felson. I shoot straight pool.

You got any straight pool shooters in this here

poolroom?

BIG JOHN:

What kind of straight pool game you like?

EDDIE:

The expensive kind.

BIG JOHN:

Come up here to play straight pool with

Minnesota Fats?

EDDIE:

Yeah, that's right.

BIG JOHN:

Want some free advice?

CHARLIE:

(interrupts, sourly)

How much'll it cost?

BIG JOHN:

(turns to Charlie)

Who are you -- his manager, his friend, his

stooge?

EDDIE:

He's my partner.

BIG JOHN:

(to Charlie)

You well-heeled, partner?

CHARLIE:

We got enough.

BIG JOHN:

Go home. Take your boy and go home. Fats don't

need your money, there's no way you can beat

him. Nobody's beat him in fifteen years. He's

the best in the country.

EDDIE:

You got that wrong, mister. I am.

BIG JOHN:

Okay, I told you what I wanted about Minnesota

Fats. You just go ahead and play him, friend.

EDDIE:

Just tell me where I can find him, friend.

BIG JOHN:

Comes right in this poolroom every night, eight

o'clock on the nose. Just stay where you are.

He'll find you.

As Big John walks off, Eddie smiles at Charlie.

DISSOLVE TO:

8 INT. AMES POOL HALL - NIGHT

Eight sharp. A departing customer holds the door for an incoming one:

Minnesota Fats. Heads turn when he makes his punctual appearance.

Fats' clothes reflect his high station at Ames Pool Hall: a gray felt

bowler hat, and an expensive, tailored overcoat, with a carnation in

its lapel and two silk handkerchiefs peeking up from its breast pocket.

He moves like a sultan through the room, past Big John, whose eyes dip

significantly, and over to the coat rack, where Henry respectfully

takes his coat and hat. The buzzard-like eyes of the cashier direct his

gaze toward Eddie's table. Fats withdraws a cigarette from his gold

case, then casually strolls toward Eddie's table standing apart and

quietly observing the sharp, precise movements of his prospective

opponent. Even though Ames is filled with players, there is little

noise other than the clicking of pool balls.

MINNESOTA FATS:

You shoot a good stick.

EDDIE:

Thank you. Gee, you shoot straight pool,

mister?

FATS:

Now and then. You know how it is.

EDDIE:

(grinning)

You're, uh, you're Minnesota Fats, aren't you?

You know, uh, they say Minnesota Fats is the best

in the country out where I come from.

FATS:

Is that a fact?

EDDIE:

Yes sir, boy, they, heh, they say that old

Fats just shoots the eyes right off them balls.

FATS:

Where do you come from?

EDDIE:

California. Oakland.

FATS:

California? Is your name Felson? Eddie Felson?

EDDIE:

That's right.

FATS:

I hear you've been looking for me.

EDDIE:

Yeah. That's right, too.

FATS:

Big John! You think this boy is a hustler?

Fats and Eddie regard each other with amusement, sharing the private

joke of pool hustlers.

FATS:

Do you like to gamble, Eddie? Gamble money on

pool games?

EDDIE:

Fats, let's you and I shoot a game of straight

pool.

FATS:

Hundred dollars?

EDDIE:

Well, you shoot big-time pool, Fats. I mean,

that's what everybody says, you shoot big-time

pool. Let's make it two hundred dollars a game.

FATS:

Now I know why they call you Fast Eddie. Eddie,

you talk my kind of talk ...

(moving to the main table)

Sausage! Rack 'em up!

At his command, Ames comes to life. Players drag their chairs across

the floor and position them around the main table. Eddie, hand to his

mouth, realizes that the big moment has arrived and beckons to Charlie

for his leather cue case. The uniformed maids withdraw the cover off

the green felt top, and Sausage, the racker, begins to bang the balls

into the wooden racking triangle.

Fats is in the washroom, scrubbing his hands and nails. Eddie stands

and screws together his inlaid, ivory-pointed cue as Fats dries his

hands. He and Fats eye one another.

CHARLIE:

How do you feel?

EDDIE:

Fast and loose, man.

CHARLIE:

In the gut, I mean.

EDDIE:

I feel tight -- but good.

Henry helps Fats on with his coat. Sausage finishes racking. Fats

carefully extends his palms so that Henry may sprinkle on some talcum

powder. They are ready to start. Fats, immaculate in jacket and tie,

tosses a wad of bills -- his stake money -- onto the table. Charlie

does the same, counting the bills out one by one.

FATS:

(off the cash)

Willie, hang onto that.

Willie takes the money. Two balls are rolled to the end of the table,

and Fats and Eddie, like two duelers, prepare to shoot for the break.

In the silence of the room, they bend over their cues and softly stroke

out their shots. The balls roll down the table, bank off the far

shoulder, and slowly return toward the two players. Fats' ball hits

the closer shoulder.

FATS:

You break.

The balls are returned and Eddie makes his break shot, a glancing blow

that leaves the pack of balls nearly intact and the white cue ball

lying far away at the end of the table. Eddie looks up, with a smile.

EDDIE:

Didn't leave you much.

Fats walks around the table and peers at the balls.

FATS:

(after a pause)

You left enough ... six in the corner.

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