Thomas automatically reached forward to move his knight to his king's bishop's third—and paused. What if he let him have the rook? Thomas could move his queen's knight up to the bishop's third when the pawn was lost, as if threatening Negri's queen; and then when he took the rook, Thomas could hop the knight back down in front of his own king, which would bar the opponent queen from decimating his ranks any further. And it would leave Negri with a tumbler and a shot glass worth of dark rum in him.
Thomas withdrew his hand and looked closely at Negri. How much can he put away? Negri had already consumed a good amount of alcohol this evening; his mouth was beginning to sag, and his eyes weren't focusing perfectly. By God, I'll try it.
Thomas advanced the knight's pawn.
"Hah!" barked Negri as he slid the queen over and tapped the shot glass that represented Thomas's first-moved pawn. He snatched it up and tossed it off, smacking his lips. "Not bad," he announced, setting the glass aside. "I believe I'll have some more."
Thomas obligingly brought his queen's knight forward, allowing Negri's queen to take his king's rook. A mutter of dismay and approval passed over the spectators as Negri drained the rook-glass. "Ahh!" he exclaimed. "How does your queen taste, Pennick? I mean to find out."
Thomas moved his queen's knight to his king's second square. Negri made as if to take Thomas's king's knight, then noticed that it was protected by its twin.
"You can't stop me, Pennick," he jeered and took the rook's pawn instead. He drank it in one gulp, but set the empty shot glass too close to the edge of the table, and it fell when he let go of it.
A few people in the crowd giggled, and he shot a venomous look in their direction. "Go to hell," he barked.
"Take it easy, Robert," Gladhand spoke up. "You know better than to yell at an audience."
Thomas now moved his king's knight to his bishop's third, threatening Negri's queen; she withdrew, and the tension was relaxed for the moment. Thomas had lost two pawns and a rook—but his men were opening out fairly well, and he had his unmolested queen's side to castle into if need and opportunity should arise. And Negri, to Thomas's well-concealed satisfaction, was beginning to look really drunk—frowning at the board in a passion of concentration and pushing the curly hair back from his forehead with rubbery fingers.
A stray gust of the warm wind flickered the lanterns and, for a moment, blew the heavy rum fumes away from Thomas's face. He looked up, caught Pat's eye and winked. She winked back, and suddenly he felt proud and brave, as if facing Negri somewhere at misty dawn, settling the question with sabers.
The game progressed slowly, with Thomas drinking a piece—slowly, and in several swallows—only to avert direct danger or to press a certain advantage. Every few moves he tried to sacrifice a pawn, or an occasional bishop or knight, to increase the watery, fuddled look in Negri's eyes.
"He's trying to get you drunk, Bob!" came a call at one point. Negri's derisive laughter at that sounded genuine, but he glanced furtively at the tally of empty glasses along the sides of the table; and then smirked confidently to see how many more of Thomas's glasses had been emptied than his own.
Despite Thomas's stay-sober strategy, he had to work hard to keep all the threats, protections and potential lines of attack clear in his mind. I've got to mount that checking attack with my bishop and queen, he thought a little dizzily. Could he get his rook into position to back them up, though? Sure, but it'll take… three moves. Could he count on Negri not to put him in check—or interfere with his queen and bishop—for three moves?
He regarded Negri suspiciously. What if he's pretending to be drunker than he really is? I've got to chance it, he thought, and moved his rook.
Negri moved a pawn out of its home row.
Thomas moved his rook the second time.
A bishop full of light rum advanced from Negri's ranks and, threatening Thomas's beer-schooner queen, came to rest on a square protected by a pawn and a knight.
Thomas's heart sank. There went his whole plan. With his queen moved he wouldn't be able to salvage any part of it. Did he do that simply to foul me up, or is there another purpose? He stared carefully at the board—and it was all he could do to stifle a gasp of horror.
Negri's bishop was now in a position to take the pawn protecting Thomas's modest wooden king—and a forgotten white knight stood by to back the move up. He would do that next, Thomas realized. It wouldn't be quite checkmate, but that probably wouldn't be long in following.
The silence was absolute, and Thomas fancied he could hear the sweat running down his neck into his collar.
There was only one slim hope. If it didn't work, all he'd have done was hand Negri the game. And Pat, too, he reminded himself.
He moved his rook the third time.
There were a few gasps and groans from the crowd, and Negri looked both surprised and pleased. "You're drunker than I thought, Pennick," he said slowly. Thomas watched him closely, almost able to read the sluggish thoughts that reeled through the narrow spotlight of Negri's consciousness. He's puzzled, Thomas thought, that I ignored his threat to my queen; and he's wondering whether to take her or pursue his planned attack. Negri looked up sharply, and Thomas crossed his eyes slightly and hiccupped. He had to make Negri think he was drunk—that he didn't even see the threat. Come on, Negri. Take a certain queen instead of an uncertain checkmate.
"I said I'd taste your queen, Pennick," Negri said finally, tapping her with his bishop. Thomas tried to look surprised and dismayed.
The queen was heavy, and Negri lifted her with both hands. He peered dazedly for a moment into the amber depths of the glass, then took a deep breath and brought it to his lips.
Everyone on the roof watched tensely as Negri's adam's apple bobbed up and down and the bottom of the glass slowly rose. The color had drained from his face, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, but still he kept methodically gulping the heady brown liquor. Finally he drained it—flung the empty glass away—shuddered—and slid, unconscious, from his chair to the tar papered floor.
Spencer hopped up and, with an upraised hand, silenced the quick rush of cheers and boos. "Rufus," he said, "you've lost your queen. Do you choose to resign?"
"No," Thomas replied.
"Then since your opponent is unconscious, you are clearly the winner."
There was more cheering and booing and a brief scramble for the remaining glasses on the board. Thomas rose and walked out of the ring of light to gulp some fresh air.
"Rufus."
He turned and saw that Pat had followed him. "Thank you," she said, and kissed him, a little awkwardly. As far as he could recall, it was the first time anyone had ever kissed him, but he was drunk enough not to become flustered.
"You're welcome," he said. "I didn't really do anything, though. Just fed him rum until he passed out."
"No, no," she protested. "I was watching closely. You calculated just how much alcohol you could let him have without losing the game yourself. It was fascinating. What does alcohol do to your brain, anyway?"
"Haven't you ever had any?"
"No. My family was—what's the word?"
"Teetotalers," he supplied and she nodded. "Well," he said, "alcohol, enough of it, wrecks your ability to concentrate. It's like trying to run down a familiar hallway that's suddenly dark and cluttered with a lot of boxes and old bicycles and fishing poles. Or like the first day of a cold, when you're dizzy and light-headed and can't remember the correct answer to 'Good morning.' "