might explain the lack of weight gain.
"He got you, Desmond," one of the players said to the old black guy.
"Shut up, man. He's trying to think," said another.
Desmond took a long look at the board as we all watched the clock next to them. I'm not a chess player, so I couldn't have told you who was winning or losing. I knew black was one side and white the other and they had to make their move before the alarm went off on the clock. A few spectators whispered, heads together, pointing out what they would've done or where one of the players had gone wrong. Finally, Desmond let out a long breath that steamed the air.
"Not this time, man," he said and moved a piece shaped like a salt shaker across the board. The crowd erupted with groans and hoots and a couple of laughs. I stared at the board, lost.
"Stalemate, Des?" his opponent said, the shade of a grin coming across his face. "I'm shocked."
"Gotta do what you gotta do," the other said. He didn't look happy about it.
They shook hands across the board and the one named Des started putting the pieces in a box as the crowd melted away, heading for home, or dinner, or a drink. His opponent got up from the table and walked alone towards the north end of the Circle, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulder hunched against the cold.
"Kransky," I called after him. "Jim."
He stopped in his tracks and turned around. He peered at me like he was looking through a fog, though I was standing fifteen feet away. The small grin he'd given his chess partner was gone and the severe frown was back in its place. He gazed at me for a long moment with the blank, noncommittal gaze of a lizard looking at a fly.
"Singer," he said, finally. "What the hell do you want?"
. . .
"Hi, Jim," I said, lamely. I hadn't given much thought to how I was going to approach this.
Kransky stared at me.
I took a step closer, stopped. "I figured I'd find you here. This is where you always went at five to chase the day away."
He got an impatient look on his face. "I know why I'm here. What do you want?"
"I need to talk. Have a sec?"
"No," he said and turned to walk away.
"Amanda Lane," I said.
He stopped and turned back again. "What?"
"Amanda Lane," I said. "Brenda Lane's daughter."
"I know who she is. What about her?"
"She's grown up, back in town, and in trouble," I said.
His face had all the warmth of one of the statues in the fountain. "Singer, it's cold, I'm on duty tonight, and--most important--I don't want to talk to you. You got something to say, I need to hear it. Now."
"It's complicated," I said. "I need a minute. That's all."
He stared at me, considering. We hadn't bumped into each other much over the years, despite both having careers in the MPDC. Having a couple thousand bodies on the force helped with that. It was probably a good thing, since we hadn't parted under the best terms. I could see him thinking those same things. He didn't owe me anything and had probably only stopped--and would only help me--out of curiosity. Whether that curiosity would win out over his feelings for me was a big gamble. I waited him out.
He jerked his head to one side. "Let's walk."
I fell into step beside him as we chased the loop out of the Circle and headed towards 18th Street. I was several inches taller than him, but we matched our pace, walking slowly, uncomfortable with each other and thinking carefully about what we wanted to say. The narrow sidewalk, crowded with outdoor seating, fences, and trees made it hard to maintain a safe distance.
Kransky broke the ice after half a block. "Alright. You came looking for me. What do you want?"
I ran a hand through my hair, composing my thoughts, then described my meeting with Amanda. I told him about her fears and what she'd told me about Wheeler's clandestine friendship: the flowers, the visits. I gave him my first impressions, which weren't good. Kransky was quiet during my monologue, only breaking the silence to swear once or twice and glower
"He got you, Desmond," one of the players said to the old black guy.
"Shut up, man. He's trying to think," said another.
Desmond took a long look at the board as we all watched the clock next to them. I'm not a chess player, so I couldn't have told you who was winning or losing. I knew black was one side and white the other and they had to make their move before the alarm went off on the clock. A few spectators whispered, heads together, pointing out what they would've done or where one of the players had gone wrong. Finally, Desmond let out a long breath that steamed the air.
"Not this time, man," he said and moved a piece shaped like a salt shaker across the board. The crowd erupted with groans and hoots and a couple of laughs. I stared at the board, lost.
"Stalemate, Des?" his opponent said, the shade of a grin coming across his face. "I'm shocked."
"Gotta do what you gotta do," the other said. He didn't look happy about it.
They shook hands across the board and the one named Des started putting the pieces in a box as the crowd melted away, heading for home, or dinner, or a drink. His opponent got up from the table and walked alone towards the north end of the Circle, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulder hunched against the cold.
"Kransky," I called after him. "Jim."
He stopped in his tracks and turned around. He peered at me like he was looking through a fog, though I was standing fifteen feet away. The small grin he'd given his chess partner was gone and the severe frown was back in its place. He gazed at me for a long moment with the blank, noncommittal gaze of a lizard looking at a fly.
"Singer," he said, finally. "What the hell do you want?"
. . .
"Hi, Jim," I said, lamely. I hadn't given much thought to how I was going to approach this.
Kransky stared at me.
I took a step closer, stopped. "I figured I'd find you here. This is where you always went at five to chase the day away."
He got an impatient look on his face. "I know why I'm here. What do you want?"
"I need to talk. Have a sec?"
"No," he said and turned to walk away.
"Amanda Lane," I said.
He stopped and turned back again. "What?"
"Amanda Lane," I said. "Brenda Lane's daughter."
"I know who she is. What about her?"
"She's grown up, back in town, and in trouble," I said.
His face had all the warmth of one of the statues in the fountain. "Singer, it's cold, I'm on duty tonight, and--most important--I don't want to talk to you. You got something to say, I need to hear it. Now."
"It's complicated," I said. "I need a minute. That's all."
He stared at me, considering. We hadn't bumped into each other much over the years, despite both having careers in the MPDC. Having a couple thousand bodies on the force helped with that. It was probably a good thing, since we hadn't parted under the best terms. I could see him thinking those same things. He didn't owe me anything and had probably only stopped--and would only help me--out of curiosity. Whether that curiosity would win out over his feelings for me was a big gamble. I waited him out.
He jerked his head to one side. "Let's walk."
I fell into step beside him as we chased the loop out of the Circle and headed towards 18th Street. I was several inches taller than him, but we matched our pace, walking slowly, uncomfortable with each other and thinking carefully about what we wanted to say. The narrow sidewalk, crowded with outdoor seating, fences, and trees made it hard to maintain a safe distance.
Kransky broke the ice after half a block. "Alright. You came looking for me. What do you want?"
I ran a hand through my hair, composing my thoughts, then described my meeting with Amanda. I told him about her fears and what she'd told me about Wheeler's clandestine friendship: the flowers, the visits. I gave him my first impressions, which weren't good. Kransky was quiet during my monologue, only breaking the silence to swear once or twice and glower
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