Chapter 25 – The Setup
I led the way out of the museum and across Meeting Street to Marion Square. I asked Tommy if he thought Bobby Fischer ever really saw the Martians he claimed to have seen, and Tommy replied he didn’t care about that as long as Fischer kept kicking the Russian grandmaster’s asses, that was what was important. Then I asked him if he’d seen much of Charleston, and he said no, but he’d tried our shrimp and grits a few times and hadn’t yet developed a taste for it. We walked over the corner of the park where the local chess guys play on concrete tables, some of them playing for hours every day and pretty good.
I walked up to a table with two guys playing, both dressed in old clothes, not very nice, and said, “How you guys doing today?”
They looked up at me, did a double take, changed their response from ‘buzz off’ to, “We doin’ fine this morning, ma’am, how you doin’?”
“We’re doin’ fine, too. Hey, listen, I got a friend here wants to play a little chess, him and me. You boys want to sell me your board?”
“How much?”
“$100.”
One of them looked over at Tommy, sizing him up, said, “He a Yankee? He look like it.”
I said, “’Fraid so.”
The other guy said, “You gonna kick his ass if we give you the board?”
“That’s what I’m planning. How you know I’m not Yankee.”
“Honey, you got the Charleston voice, better than an angel’s.”
Nice boys, so I took $200 out of my purse and handed it to them, collecting the board and the pieces in the box and handing it to Tommy. As we walked away Tommy said, “Everyone down here still think in terms of Yankees?”
“Only the best of ‘em,” I joked.
“We going to play here in the park?”
“Ah, I was thinking maybe we go back to the museum. Seems appropriate.”
He stopped walking and looked at me, said, “Appropriate in what way?”
“Get you used to losing.”
“You mean....?”
“You’re job there. First at chess, then....”
“You like being cryptic.”
“I like a lot of things. Winning’s one of them. Sportsmanship is another, as I said before. I like a fun challenge. Today, this.”
“You want to play in the museum? I’m supposed to be working there you know, not fooling around with a blond woman at lunchtime.”
“But you don’t work for them, right? And, you can consider this working, after a fashion. Me and you, spending time together, scene of the crime.” He stopped walking again, this time in the middle of Meeting Street, almost getting clobbered by a horse-drawn carriage. I grabbed him by the elbow.
We got to the curb and he said, “You like to fool around, don’t you?”
“I do. Under the right stimulus.”
“Is it happening now?”
“So far, so good, but the test is inside, with the board. Can’t you play hooky a little, from your job, such as it is?”
“I can. I also can say losing’s not something I enjoy, even when done under the umbrella of sportsmanship, which is something I can appreciate, the more so when it’s the other person losing.”
We entered the museum and stood next to the one of a kind bronze Revolutionary War cannon in the foyer. I turned to him and said, “You want me to lose?”
“The chess match, yes.”
“And the other?”
“The other, what?”
I didn’t answer, but led the way upstairs to the Curator’s office. We went in and I looked down at him, sitting at his desk, again playing with the dueling pistols, said “You ever want someone to test fire those, I’m your girl.”
The Curator said, “You know about guns, don’t you?”
“I do. And how do you know about that?”
“The books.”
“Oh,” I said. Fucking neighbor the writer’s books. It was a tossup as to who, which, was the bigger rat, him or the dog. The Curator smiled, and I went on, “We want to play chess. Little game. Can we?”
“Why ask me?”
“We want to play here?”
“Here, where?”
“In the gallery.”
He looked over at Tommy, silently asking what was up. Tommy remained mute. He looked back at me and said, “That’s not something we normally do; I can’t remember anyone ever playing chess in one of our galleries. Which gallery were you thinking of?”
“The Bedgewood gallery.”
Again he looked at Tommy, almost like Tommy was his boss or something, or someone who would field this unusual request and take him off the hook. “The Bedgewood gallery? That’s, ah, not the real name.”
“But you know what I mean,” I said, turning on the Deneuvian juice, streaming it at him, anxious to get going with Tommy, the action. The sit down action; our first date. Our first platonic date.
“You mean where the painting hung? Formerly? The one with the woman in it? You want to play chess there?”
I didn’t say anything or change my stance in front of him or nod; just pounded him with vibes, get out of the way, give me what I want, it’s the right thing to do, do it, c’mon, now. He didn’t move either, sat looking at me, then said, “You....you....you look like her.”
“Do I?" I said.
“Ms. June, your maiden name was Bedgewood, wasn’t it?”
“Was it?”
“Had to be.” Looking at Tommy he said, “Right?” Tommy nodded. “Your name is Gwen, and her name was Gwendolyn, right?” I still didn’t move or say anything, but opened the Deneuvian faucet all the way, spraying him with the special stuff, him being like a car going through a carwash, blasted, coming out different than when it went in. He tried to look at Tommy, get an answer to his question about our names, me and her, but he couldn’t turn his head. If he had been able to turn his head he would have seen Tommy smiling, watching the Deneuvian thing for the first time, different from the ride in the Mustang out to Sullivan’s going airborne, maybe for the first time getting a hint what it was going to be like sitting across the chess board from me. The Curator said, “Ok.”
“Do you have a little table we can set up in there? Card table?”
He was able to move now, standing up, but still not able to look at Tommy, just at me. Said, “Faberge table. 1834. Only known one. Don’t scratch it, ok?”
I nodded, and we left his office, Tommy and I going to the gallery and him going to get the table from inside the plexiglass exhibit space. It was a small table he was able to carry himself, setting it near the wall under the rectangle of faded paint. He brought over two Chippendale chairs from which he removed the Please Don’t Sit signs, set them opposite each other, and then stood back, like a waiter waiting for a decision on whether the wine was good to pour. We sat down and Tommy set the box with the board and pieces on the table. He said, “You want something to drink?”
I looked at the Curator and said, “Cappuccino, double strong, nutmeg on top, please.” Tommy nodded, held up two fingers.
The curator started to say, automatically, that no food or drinks were allowed in the galleries, but I looked at him, and he stopped. He stopped, turned away, headed for the cafe.
I sat down, Tommy sat down, and we looked at each other. I said, “We’re off.” He smiled.
Gwenny June's Tommy Crown Affair Page 25
