Grandmaster by David Klass

you?”
    Dad whirled around. “Let’s get this out in the open. The only reason you invited Daniel to be on this team was so that I would help you guys win. But what’s even worse is that your two sons have made my boy feel like crud since the moment we showed up.” My father’s eyes swung to Dr. Chisolm. “And just so you know—one reason I quit chess was that I couldn’t control my temper, and that included nearly killing a rude asshole with my bare hands.”
    Dad said this softly, his face deadpan, but for a moment his eyes flashed with such a maniacal gleam that Dr. Chisolm cringed.
    “Let’s go, Daniel,” my dad said.
    We headed away from the table. “Morry, come back,” Randolph called after us, and there was a note of pleading in his voice. Suddenly he barked out what sounded like a military order. “ Get back here now, Morris. I’ve spent significant money putting this team together. Damn it, nobody walks out on me.”
    But we left the Patagonia Steakhouse without a backward glance and the cool outside air felt good. “I think you scared the pants off Dr. Chisolm,” I told my father.
    “He’s a piece of work,” Dad said. “I feel a little sorry for his son.”
    “You put him in his place. You did great. Except for wiggling your ears.”
    Dad took my arm as we crossed a street. “Okay, son. I’ll get some new material. Want to walk back? It’s a couple of miles.”
    “Lead on,” I said. “The night is still young.”

 
    14
     
    We headed uptown on an avenue that was mostly empty, except for the steady stream of cars. Their lights swept the sidewalks and lit up the apartment lobbies where doormen stood as still as statues. Every now and then we would pass a bar or a restaurant, and knots of people would emerge, hail taxis, and disappear.
    “I shouldn’t have said what I said,” Dad muttered. “It must have sounded like I was threatening Chisolm.”
    “He provoked you,” I told him. “He called you Mr. Potato Head. I think he was drunk.”
    “Still,” he said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked half a block in silence. He finally took a deep breath and said, “Daniel, I want you to hear this from me.”
    “You really don’t owe me any kind of explanation. You’re doing this for me. That’s enough.”
    “It’s not enough,” he said. “I lied to my son about who I really am. And the hell of it is that you’ve never seen me really good at anything before…”
    “You’re good at plenty of things,” I protested. “Anyway, what does it matter?”
    He waved me into silence. “It matters. Every son wants his father to shine at something. Chisolm’s right, you’ve got to be wondering why I gave up the thing I was best at … and in many ways loved the most.” We reached an intersection and waited for the light to change. When it flashed green, he took my arm and we headed across. “You’re going to hear it anyway, from George Liszt or some gossip in a bathroom who doesn’t know the real story. I’d prefer you hear my version first.”
    “Okay,” I said, trying to keep from sounding too curious. “What’s the real story of Grandmaster Pratzer?”
    We walked side by side, our feet rising and falling together. “Do you know who Bobby Fischer and Paul Morphy were?”
    “Fischer, sure. He was a great chess player. Some say the greatest who ever lived. He won the world championship back in the eighties.”
    “The seventies,” Dad corrected me. “He obliterated three top grandmasters to get to face Boris Spassky, the world champion. Then he destroyed Spassky to take away the title from the Russians. It was a great Cold War victory, and an incredible chess feat, given how much the Russians valued chess and worked together to try to stop him. Do you know what happened to Fischer after that?”
    “He cracked up,” I said. “And I read that he died a little while ago.”
    “Cracked up is a kind word for it. He became a recluse. Grew bitter. Paranoid.