The Hustler Page #3

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.

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