Kairos

4.

When I had first found out I'd be visiting 1922 New York, I'd envisioned an evening of secret speakeasies, tin pan jazz and moments stolen from F. Scott Fitzgerald novels. Instead, I watched as my date got punched by an old man over a game of chess.

At least, I assumed it was my date. He matched the picture Ms. Little had given me. Henry Levison. His black hair looked wet with pomade save for a single strand he'd seemingly forgotten, which curled like a corkscrew at his forehead. He was dark-eyed and pale. One might've called him unremarkably handsome except for a distinct, hooked nose—which cracked under the old man's fist.

Chess pieces bounced and scattered across the leaf-plastered concrete. Henry reeled, both hands going for his nose as he gave a surprised bark of laughter.

"You got some nerve," the old man spat around ill-fitting dentures. "Hustling an old man out of his last dollar."

"Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't have bet it on a game of chess." Henry's pained expression slowly unscrewed. "Consider it the price of a lesson. You play it too safe. It's a game of aggression, Pops, not dollies."

His words took some of the fire out of the old man, who straightened his houndstooth cap with a sense of finality. "I'll report you to the authorities."

"Sure." His Brooklyn accent was rougher than Cel's. He didn't bother looking up from collecting chess pieces. "Give my regards to Officer Murphy while you're there."

Angry footsteps grew quiet in the distance as the old man's stormy departure bled into the sounds of Washington Square Park on a Saturday afternoon. With the last pieces righted, Henry scanned the area for what I imagined was his next match. His scuffle with the old man had caused something of a stir at the game across from him—two NYU students, if their varsity sweaters were any indication—but since it was apparent that Henry would not be violencing an old man that day, their interest had waned and the game had resumed.

Henry had no other challengers.

He slumped, chin braced on a knuckle as he plucked up the silver dollar, considering it before biting down. He seemed pleased with the mouth-feel, producing a mostly-empty coin purse.

This was my chance.

The bench across from him squeaked as I sat down. "Hi. I promise I won't punch you in the face if you win."

From the look he gave me, I thought Henry would swallow the dollar whole. He stared for a full five seconds, surprise slowly draining from his expression as he smoothed back his hair. Pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket, he spit the coin into his waiting palm and started to clean it. "You, uh, you saw that?"

I smiled. "I did. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah." A ginger touch to his nose made him wince. "I'll admit it—the geezer's got a pretty mean haymaker for somebody whose biggest adversary is probably gout. So, what're we playing for?"

Well, he might not have been what I was looking for, but he was funny, at least. "If you win, I'll take you to dinner."

His eyes never left me as he dropped the coin into its purse, tucking it and the handkerchief away absently. "Boy, lady, you don't mess around."

"Calm down. I don't expect you to win." Calling it an empty boast would've been an understatement. The last time I had played chess, I'd been in high school. I'd learned the game exclusively so I could spend time with the class valedictorian. He was "a total doll baby," to borrow a phrase from Teddy.

"That so?" Henry seemed to be waiting on something. He finally nodded down to the pieces. "White goes first."

"Oh. That's right." Heat washed through my face as I scrambled for an opening move. I took my knight and sat it down along the outside of the board, trying to judge his reaction. "My name is Adaliah Blum. Everyone calls me Ada, though."