Free The Hustler by Walter Tevis Page B

beside him. “This is done all the time.” He grinned, “By the pros.” He began cutting at the top with his thumbnail.
    With the bottle open beside him and hidden by his coat, he told the waitress to bring them Cokes. Sarah made a wry face and, when the waitress was gone, said, “Scotch and Coca-Cola?”
    “Just wait,” he said. “We can beat that rap too.”
    When the Cokes came, in glasses, he told her to drink hers. “I detest Coca-Cola,” she said.
    “Drink it,” he said. They drank them. Then he took her glass, empty except for the crushed ice, and asked her if she could drink it straight.
    “If I have to,” she said.
    He filled her glass almost full with Scotch, then poured a little water in it from her water glass. “Here,” he said, sliding it across the table to her. Then he began filling his own.
    He had done this kind of thing before, with a gang from the poolroom; but it had always seemed a cheap thing to do—like the guffawing types who turn up half pints in the back seats of cars and then go out and pinch girls on the ass. But here, with Sarah, it did not seem that way.
    At the first sip she grinned at him. “You’re a great man, Eddie,” she said. “You know how to beat the system.”
    They were working on their third one and the bottle was two-thirds empty when, abruptly, the waitress descended on them.
    Her voice was high and cracked; she looked and sounded as if they had delivered her a gross personal insult. “You can’t do that in
here
, mister.” As if she were the whole Greyhound Lines herself. “This isn’t that kind of place.”
    He looked up at her, trying to make his face serious and innocent. “How’s that?”
    “I said you can’t sit in here and drink whiskey like you’re doing.” She peered at him nervously now. “I never saw the like.”
    “Okay,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
    The woman’s voice assumed a kind of wounded ferocity. “You’re gonna have to leave, mister. The both of you.” It struck him that she had a hillbilly twang. This was amusing. “Or I’m gonna have to call a policeman in.”
    He got up, finishing his drink. “Sure,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    They went outside and stood on the sidewalk in the weak light and the cold air. The bottle was back in his pocket and he felt mildly drunk and sleepy. “Well,” he said, “what next?”
    She was huddled up in her sweater, standing close to him. The wind that was blowing was not summery, but cold. “What time is it?” Her voice was soft.
    It was five-thirty, but he lied. “Five o’clock.” His mind worked fast. There were several ways he could play this; he was not certain which would be the best. Maybe a long shot…
    Gently, he slipped the bottle into her pocket. His hand brushed against hers, and he felt the brush of it all of the way to his stomach. “Look,” he said, “you better take this and go home to bed. You’ll catch cold out here.”
    She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide. Then she looked away. “Thanks,” she said, her voice very soft. She turned and began walking down the street, away from him. He watched her, watching the slight limp and the way her head was almost hidden by the big collar of her sweater. Her hands were still in her pockets, one now protectively over the bottle. Then, suddenly, she turned and began limping back, slowly. For a moment he felt as if he could not breathe.
    When she came up she stood in front of him, solid and small, and looked up at him steadily. Her feet were planted slightly apart. Her eyes were very earnest and they looked his face over carefully. Then she said, “You just won, Eddie. Come on.”

9
    Her apartment was on the fourth floor; they had to walk up the stairs. They climbed them silently, and he said nothing when they went in, but seated himself on the sofa. She began taking off her sweater, and said, “I’ll get a couple of glasses.” She went into the kitchen. The blouse she was wearing was white, silky, and it