Playing Chess with God BY VERNE R. ALBRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE: THE '48ERS

Talcahuano's principal attraction was dark-eyed, pigtailed whores. Portales's crew enjoyed them for two days and then continued their voyage. As they left, a gangly young Prussian named Henning Dietzel ran down the gangplank from another freighter and hurried toward the House of Smiles. He didn't want anyone to claim Encinas Peralta before he got there. 

Five months earlier, Henning had stopped outside the bordello's door long enough to finger comb his thick blond hair. Inside he paused again and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light in a room with a busy bar against a purple wall. A tall, shapely girl rose from a couch of scantily clad ladies and ground out a cigarette in an abalone shell. To his delight, she glided up to him, her tight pink dress emphasizing a wasp-like waist.

 "You have the nicest smile I've seen in the House of Smiles," she said, "and the bluest eyes."

 "Thank you." Embarrassed by the accent he was trying to lose, Henning felt his face flush. "As pretty as you are, I'm sure you've seen more than your share of smiles." 

She touched his arm with a manicured hand. "Are you here to enjoy women's bodies or practice your Spanish? You seem in need of both." 

"Will you help me with my pronunciation if I buy you a drink?"

 "We don't teach languages here. We pleasure lonely men." 

"I'm looking forward to that too." His eyes were drawn to her cleavage.

 "You don't have to tell me." She kissed his cheek. "I know men."

"My name is Henning."

 "Mine's Encinas." She took his arm and guided him toward a private table. When the waitress came Encinas ordered a ratafia, brandy with fruit juice and almonds.

 "What can I bring you, my love?" the waitress asked Henning. 

"I don't drink alcohol, Fräulein," he replied, finishing in his native German. 

"You have to if you sit with a girl," the waitress said. 

"Bring him a ratafia without brandy," Encinas broke in. "Even nuns can drink that."

 Henning's urge—insistent when he'd come in—gave way to fascination with Encinas's easy laughter and surprising intelligence. He'd never thought about what prostitutes might be like aside from their specialty. 

"You seem softer than the other girls," he said. 

"Are you saying I'm fat?" she asked. 

"In case you're not teasing, I meant being with you is nicer than being with other girls." 

"Who else have you been with?" Her eyes flashed flirtatiously.

 Reddening, he looked down. "No one. I don't know what to do." 

"I'm well qualified to teach you, but I want to know you better first." 

For hours they explored their mutual interest in books, nature, travel, and the art of making money. A man paused beside their table and tried to start a conversation. Encinas said she was taken. When other girls slinked past with movements designed to tempt Henning, she put her hand protectively over his and said, "He's with me." 

"To them you're nothing more than a source of money," Encinas said, leaning closer. "But this profession has given me special insight into humanity...well, men at least. And I see you as especially kind and thoughtful." 

"Thank you."

 "You're also extremely shy and I sense you're uncomfortable with my praise," she continued. "But I can't help it. I love your height and uniqueness. Look around. Everyone here has black hair. Yours is the color of wheat in the fields. Everyone else has brown eyes. Yours are bluer than a cloudless sky."