Perpetual Check (6 page)

Pham looks totally dejected, and Mr. Mansfield goes over to talk to him and his parents. Randy walks over to Zeke.

“I gotta get a drink,” Zeke says. So they go out to the lobby and put a handful of quarters into the machine. Randy gets a Sprite.

“I clobbered him,” Zeke says, taking a swig of Coke.

“You nailed him pretty good. My guy was weak. No idea how he got this far.”

“People get intimidated. Pressure, you know.”

“Speaking of. You get Jenna next.”

Zeke shrugs. “I'm up for it.”

“You ever watch her play?”

“You mean, study her game?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope.”

Randy looks around, then leans in a little. “You can beat her, believe me. Let her have her first three or four moves; you'll see what's coming.”

“How do you know?”

“She was right next to me this morning. Burke was so weak I had a chance to watch some of her game.”

“Oh.”

“Just play your game, but be very aware of what she does.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Just be aware.”

Zeke turns away, scratching his jaw. “Like I need your help.”

Pramod walks over with his too-confident smile. He stands next to Zeke and says, “Pulled one out of your ass, huh?”

“He got lucky in the first game,” Zeke says, taking a half step back. Pramod always stands too close. “I showed him who's boss in the second.”

“Pham sucks anyway. I beat him in about two minutes a couple of weeks ago.”

“Big deal.”

Pramod studies the fingernails of his right hand. “You get the princess next.”

“Who?” Zeke asks.
Don't let this jerk get to you again.

“You know who.”

“I ain't worried.” Zeke closes one eye, holds his Coke can up to his face, and looks into it with his open eye.

“See if you can at least make her sweat a little. Drain her concentration so she won't be too pumped when I play her in the final.”

Randy butts in. “You scared of her or something?”

Pramod lets out a dismissive sound, blowing his breath out through his teeth. “Not a chance.”

“She has to get past me first,” Zeke says.

“Right,” says Pramod. “I'm sure she's insanely worried.”

Randy locks his eyes on Pramod's and juts his head toward the conference room. “Why don't you go find yourself some more ‘ladies’?”

“In there?”

“Anywhere.”

“You think I can't?”

Randy laughs. “You're such a bullshitter. Two hundred bucks, huh?”

Pramod glares at Zeke. “Something like that,” he says.

“Anyway,” Randy says, “this is a private conversation.” He raises his hand and wiggles his fingers. “Bye-bye, Pramod.”

“Screw you.” But he walks away.

“What a putz,” Randy says.

Zeke is embarrassed. He should have been the one to tell Pramod to screw off, not his little brother. “He's totally full of himself,” he says.

“As if we aren't?”

“Not like that guy,” Zeke says.

“As I was saying, you can beat her.”

“Like
I
was saying, I don't need your help.” Zeke looks up at the clock and says, “I'm going upstairs for a minute.” He walks toward the elevator.

Randy plunks himself onto the leather couch and looks at a spiky plant in a pot. Zeke has always been like that, resistant to any outreach from his brother. On the scale in Randy's head, guys like Pramod are near the upper echelon of jerks, with Zeke a notch or two below but well up there nonetheless. A guy like Buddy Malone—smart and talented and successful—somehow manages to hardly be a jerk at all, at least to Randy.

The leather cushions hiss as Mr. Mansfield sits down. “Concentrating on your next match?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

The truth is, Randy hasn't even thought about it. Lucy Ahada is small and quiet, but she seemed very nice when she beat him a few weeks ago. As usual, he'll see how the match develops rather than going in with a definitive strategy.

“Remember,” his father says, “you start out with an advantage.”

“How so?”

Mr. Mansfield lowers his voice. “You're a
man.”

“Oh yeah.” Randy says it slowly, with mock surprise in his voice. “I'm very bemasculant. I forgot.”

“Don't
ever
forget that.”

“Right. I suppose that'll help Zeke a
lot
against Jenna.”

“Listen, Jenna hasn't won anything that matters, okay? Dual matches and some half-assed tournaments. This one is
big.
Your brother is game-tested. On the
field.
We'll see how the chess queen holds up against that kind of pressure.”

“This isn't soccer.”

Mr. Mansfield leans forward and pokes a thumb into Randy's
arm. “You don't get it, do you? I don't care if it's chess or soccer or business negotiations. When you've taken a few hits”—he jabs the thumb harder—”been under the boards with an elbow in your chest or it's fourth-and-goal and your mouth is bleeding,
that's
when you learn about toughness. That's when you find out if you've got what it takes to kick anybody's rear end. Whatever the situation. You hear me?”

Randy shuts his eyes, opens them in a hurry, and nods. “Loud and clear,” he says, rubbing his arm where his father jabbed it.

“Yeah, you have to be smart,” Mr. Mansfield says. “Yeah, you have to know chess. You have to be constantly aware.” He makes a circle with his thumb and first finger and pushes it hard into the air. “But everything else being equal, it's the one who makes the other one crack that'll win. The one who gets in his opponent's head and stays there.”

FIVE
Unslept-in

Zeke brushes his teeth for the third time this morning and stares at himself in the mirror. He's got
two
opponents in his head; how good can that be? Jenna has coolly disposed of her first three opponents and hasn't lost to anyone younger than forty for at least six months. And Pramod—hell, Zeke would have to win twice more just to face Pramod—he's got Zeke rattled as well.

They both think they're such hot shit.

And Zeke lets Pramod do that to him, insult him to his face and get away with it.

Frickin’ Randy stands up and tells Pramod to get lost; how bullshit is that? Because Randy's such a dweeb he doesn't even know what's going on. Thinks he can chat up Jenna McNulty. Like she
wasn't laughing at him in her head? Like Pramod wasn't thinking what an annoying little piece of shit Randy is?

He spits out the toothpaste and cups some water into his mouth.

Randy's trying to give me advice about how to beat Jenna? Might as well try to give me advice about sports or girlfriends. Like I'd listen. Like he could tell me anything I don't already know.

Zeke scowls into the mirror, then wipes his face with a towel. He hangs the towel over the shower-curtain rod, then leaves the bathroom. He pulls the bedspread down on his unslept-in bed, pulls off the sandals, and climbs under the sheets. He kicks his legs around, pushes both pillows to one side, and gets out, leaving the sheets and the blankets in a heap.

He puts the sandals back on—
Randy's stupid sandals
—and lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

There was a girl back in ninth grade. Luanne. A bunch of them played basketball one night that May, on the outside court off Church Street. Mostly guys. They were hanging around after, drinking Gatorade, and she said, “Let's go over to the park.” Zeke was supposed to be home already, but she talked him into it. They made out for about six minutes on a bench. She moved away that summer, but it counted.

He sits up quickly and looks at the clock.
Shit. Late.

He bolts out the door and runs down the stairs, leaving his room key on the dresser again. The other three matches are under way when he enters the conference room, and everyone looks up at him.

The Regional Director clears his throat and motions Zeke over. “Everything all right?” he whispers.

“Yeah. Had a stomachache.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Yeah. I'm fine.”

They've reconfigured the tables. All four games are well within sight of the spectators now. Jenna has her side of the board set up and is sitting with her legs crossed.