When the SOS call to shoulder arms for The Black Knights came on Saturday evening, Vinny turned to Angie with a pleading air.
“I’ve gotta go, love. We’re a body shy and we’ll be fined for giving a walkover. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a couple of hours, and sober as a judge too, I promise.”
Angie glowered but then softened. “Go on then, and kick some ass while you’re at it,’ she said, planting a kiss on her husband’s jowly cheek.
Vinny reached for his coat. His chess mates needed him and he couldn’t let them down. It was, he suspected, a request Angie had been unlikely to reject, not after the biting terms of Vinny’s return to Mount Prospect Avenue which, he felt, made Germany’s first World War reparations look like a good deal.
As Angie laid down the rules, Vinny had nodded in silent agreement: no alcohol from Monday to Friday, no gambling on the nags until Christmas, and no more cheese puffs, were the more penal clauses in the Treaty of Clontarf.
Vinny had accepted the stipulations with fortitude, for he would have done anything to return to the bosom of his wife and children. The health scare over Oisín seemed to have knocked sense into the portly bus driver in terms of his priorities and he had come through the first week of his new tough-love regime better than he imagined though, privately, he was gasping for a night out with the lads.
He had just been about to fix himself a large gin and tonic when his phone buzzed with the 11th hour text from The Black Knights, a motley chess-playing crew, who used Foley’s lounge as their home.
The Knights played every other week from Halloween until March in the Dublin Pub Chess League (Division 3) and Vinny, whose knowledge of the game was modest, was occasionally asked to sub up when someone cried off.
Under the rules, each player got 30 minutes of game time. It meant tight duels couldn’t last longer than an hour, which allowed for post-game analysis over pints, the bit Vinny enjoyed most.
As he headed for Foley’s, Vinny rattled off the few chess strategies in his head, the opening four-move checkmates, which had never ever come off, the Sicilian Defence, when to Castle, and when not.
In golfing terms, he was a 28-handicap chess player, unlike Two-Mile Boris, who was a scratch player.
Two-Mile Boris, whose real name was Vadim, was from Volgograd but he had lived a bachelor life in Clontarf for 20 years and sat quietly every other night in the front bar, sipping pints and solving crosswords. He had been a child chess prodigy, but now, obese and shaven-headed, he played just for fun.
Two-Mile’s chess brilliance was aligned to an extraordinary numerical knowledge. Whenever Two-Mile joined the lads for a pint, he’d lob out some curious stat such as the numbers on a roulette wheel, 1 to 36, when added all together, coming to 666 ‘The Number of the Beast’.
The previous week, he startled the lads about a prime number 73,939,133 and how, if you removed the last digit from the right, each subsequent number remained a prime number – 7,393,913, 739,391, 73,939, 7,393, 739, 73, 7.
Whenever Two-Mile played, The Black Knights were guaranteed to win board number one and visiting teams were known to put their weakest player against Boris, in the hope they might gain a point elsewhere. As he entered Foley’s, Vinny was beckoned over by Charlie St John Vernon, a cagey chap to have at number four, as he could stonewall opponents when outgunned.
“Vinny, The Board Walkers from Foxrock have pulled a fast one and are opening the batting with Gung-Ho Gus, whose cavalier approach wouldn’t last five minutes with Two-Mile, who has agreed to play at two instead. Will you lead us into battle?”
Vinny had little option. Playing one, or five, he would be up against Gung-Ho Gus, whom he knew by reputation as a fearless aggressive player. “At least, it will be quick,” he thought.
Gung-Ho Gus was a foppish dandy who wore a cravat and carried a mahogany cane. With that, the clocks were set and Vinny switched on his little grey cells. What happened next was unexpected.
After Vinny followed his standard pawn to king four opening by moving his white bishop into a menacing position, Gung-Ho Gus moved his Queen’s Knight for a second time.
Vinny’s third move was to place his Queen in front of his white bishop’s pawn, threatening Fool’s Mate. Surely, Gung-Ho Gus could see the danger? Improbably, he chose to ignore it as his shoved king’s pawn went forward.
Vinny immediately thrust forward with his Queen, capturing the pawn on the diagonal square between Gung-Ho’s King and King’s Knight. “Er, checkmate,” he said softly.
A startled Gung-Ho Gus looked up and then stared at the board as the blood drained from his cheeks. “Good God,” he moaned. “I need a drink.”
Vinny too was heading for the bar when Two-Mile called him over. “Great win,” he said. “Here, check our Lotto numbers. I went for something different this week.”
Vinny looked at the two-line selection – he, and the lads, all paid a euro a week into the Lotto kitty.
Five numbers, “3, 6, 10, 15, 21” appeared on the line, followed by 29 on the upper line and 31 on the lower.
“What’s the catch Two-Mile?” said Vinny. “See the first five numbers,” smiled Two-Mile. “They can all be arranged into a stacked triangle. Isn’t that wonderful?” Vinny wasn’t so sure. “What about 29 and 31, then?” he asked. “They are are the numbers of my birthday and yours, nothing more,” said Two-Mile with shrug.
Vinny popped into the Spar next door for a print-out of the Lotto results. He was back in favour with his wife, and had just delivered a rare point for The Black Knights. He would have four pints, no more, and be home by 10.
“Life is good,” he sighed as he checked the Lotto results.
It took several seconds for Vinny’s brain to register what he was seeing. He checked, double-checked, and triple-checked the numbers, one by one. “Jaysus,” he gasped as he clutched a lamp-post for support. “We’ve won the bleedin’ Lotto.”
