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She
awoke
the
next
morning
with
a
crushing
headache
and
a
determination
to
get
on
with
her
career
.
Mrs
.
Wheatley
was
dead
.
Harry
Beltik
was
gone
.
The
U
.
S
.
Championship
was
in
three
weeks
;
she
had
been
invited
to
it
before
going
to
Mexico
,
and
if
she
was
going
to
win
it
,
she
was
going
to
have
to
beat
Benny
Watts
.
While
her
coffee
was
percolating
in
the
kitchen
,
she
poured
out
the
leftover
burgundy
from
the
night
before
,
threw
away
the
empty
bottle
and
found
two
books
she
had
ordered
from
Morris
’
s
the
day
the
invitation
had
come
.
One
was
the
game
record
from
the
last
U
.
S
.
Championship
and
the
other
was
called
Benny
Watts
:
My
Fifty
Best
Games
of
Chess
.
On
its
dustjacket
was
a
blowup
of
Benny
’
s
Huckleberry
Finn
face
.
Seeing
it
now
,
she
winced
at
the
memory
of
losing
,
at
her
damnfool
attempt
to
double
his
pawns
.
She
got
herself
a
cup
of
coffee
and
opened
the
book
,
forgetting
her
hangover
.
By
noon
she
had
analyzed
six
of
the
games
and
was
getting
hungry
.
There
was
a
little
restaurant
two
blocks
away
,
the
kind
of
place
that
has
liver
and
onions
on
the
menu
and
display
cards
of
cigarette
lighters
at
the
cashier
’
s
stand
.
She
brought
the
book
with
her
and
went
over
two
more
games
while
eating
her
hamburger
and
home
fries
.
When
the
lemon
custard
came
and
was
too
thick
and
sweet
to
eat
,
she
felt
a
sudden
pang
of
longing
for
Mrs
.
Wheatley
and
the
French
desserts
they
had
shared
in
places
like
Cincinnati
and
Houston
.
She
shook
it
off
,
ordered
a
last
cup
of
coffee
and
finished
the
game
she
was
going
over
:
the
King
’
s
Indian
Defense
,
with
the
black
bishop
fianchettoed
in
the
upper
right
-
hand
corner
of
the
board
,
looking
down
the
long
diagonal
for
a
chance
to
pounce
.
Black
worked
the
king
’
s
side
while
White
worked
the
queen
’
s
side
after
the
bishop
went
into
the
corner
.
Very
civilized
.
Benny
,
playing
Black
,
won
it
handily
.
She
paid
her
check
and
left
.
For
the
rest
of
the
day
and
night
until
one
in
the
morning
she
played
over
all
of
the
games
in
the
book
.
When
she
had
finished
,
she
knew
a
great
deal
more
about
Benny
Watts
and
about
precision
chess
than
she
had
known
before
.
She
took
two
of
her
Mexican
tranquilizers
and
went
to
bed
,
falling
asleep
instantly
.
She
awoke
pleasantly
at
nine
-
thirty
the
next
morning
.
While
her
breakfast
eggs
were
boiling
,
she
chose
a
book
for
morning
study
:
Paul
Morphy
and
the
Golden
Age
of
Chess
.
It
was
an
old
book
,
in
some
ways
outdated
.
The
diagrams
were
grayish
and
cluttered
,
and
it
was
hard
to
tell
the
black
pieces
from
the
white
.
But
something
in
her
could
still
thrill
at
the
name
Paul
Morphy
and
at
the
idea
of
that
strange
New
Orleans
prodigy
,
well
-
bred
,
a
lawyer
,
son
of
a
high
court
judge
,
who
when
young
dazzled
the
world
with
his
chess
and
then
quit
playing
altogether
and
lapsed
into
muttering
paranoia
and
an
early
death
.
When
Morphy
played
the
King
’
s
Gambit
he
sacrificed
knights
and
bishops
with
abandon
and
then
moved
in
on
the
black
king
with
dizzying
speed
There
had
never
been
anything
like
him
before
or
since
.
It
made
her
spine
tingle
just
to
open
the
book
and
see
the
games
list
:
Morphy
—
Lowenthal
;
Morphy
—
Harrwitz
;
Morphy
—
Anderssen
,
followed
by
dates
in
the
eighteen
-
fifties
.
Morphy
would
stay
up
all
night
in
Paris
before
his
games
,
drinking
in
cafes
and
talking
with
strangers
,
and
then
would
play
the
next
day
like
a
shark
—
well
-
mannered
,
well
-
dressed
,
smiling
,
moving
the
big
pieces
with
small
,
ladylike
,
blue
-
veined
hands
,
crushing
one
European
master
after
another
.
Someone
had
called
him
“
the
pride
and
the
sorrow
of
chess
.
”
If
only
he
and
Capablanca
had
lived
at
the
same
time
and
played
each
other
!
She
began
going
over
a
game
between
Morphy
and
someone
named
Paulsen
,
played
in
1857
.
The
U
.
S
.
Championship
would
be
in
three
weeks
;
it
was
time
it
was
won
by
a
woman
.
It
was
time
she
won
it
.
When
she
came
into
the
room
,
she
saw
a
thin
young
man
wearing
faded
blue
jeans
and
a
matching
denim
shirt
seated
at
one
of
the
tables
.
His
blond
hair
came
almost
to
his
shoulders
.
It
was
only
when
he
rose
and
said
,
“
Hello
,
Beth
,
”
that
she
saw
it
was
Benny
Watts
.
The
hair
had
been
long
in
the
cover
photograph
of
Chess
Review
a
few
months
before
,
but
not
that
long
.
He
looked
pale
and
thin
and
very
calm
.
Still
,
Benny
had
always
been
calm
.
“
Hello
,
”
she
said
.
“
I
read
about
the
game
with
Borgov
.
”
Benny
smiled
.
“
It
must
have
felt
terrible
.
”
She
looked
at
him
suspiciously
,
but
his
face
was
open
and
sympathetic
.
And
she
did
not
hate
him
anymore
for
beating
her
;
there
was
only
one
player
she
hated
now
,
and
he
was
in
Russia
.
“
I
felt
like
a
fool
,
”
she
said
.
