In two years Matt hadn’t won a single game against the West Village’s homeless Bobby Fischer. Matt wondered sometimes what had brought the highly intelligent man to the streets, but he never asked. He moved his bishop, capturing the pawn on g7.

Reggie shook his head, as if disappointed in him. Eyes on the board, Reggie said, “What, you just getting back from a party or something?”

“Yeah, over at Goddard.” Matt directed his head to Goddard Hall, a washed-brown brick tower just off the park.

“Goddard? Hangin’ with the freshman girls,” Reggie said with a gravelly laugh. He knew more about NYU than most grad students. Maybe that was it; maybe he’d once attended the university.

It was odd because people usually confided in Matt, told them their life stories, their secrets, their problems. He guessed he just had that kind of face. Or maybe it was because he preferred listening, observing, over talking. And boy, could Reggie talk. Yet despite his incessant chatter, Reggie offered no clues about his life before the park. Matt had looked for signs of the backstory. The man kept a green military-looking bag; maybe he’d been a soldier. His hands and nails were always impeccably clean; maybe he’d worked in the medical field. His street talk at times seemed genuine, at times forced. Maybe he was hiding his real identity, on the run, a criminal. Or maybe he was just a guy who’d hit hard times, loved to play chess, and didn’t feel the need to justify his life to an annoying college kid.

“My man. Out all night with the coeds.” Reggie chuckled again. “How’s that pretty redhead of yours feel about that?”

A fair question. But that pretty redhead had broken up with Matt yesterday. Hence too many drinks at Purple Haze. Hence the after-party at Goddard and the frolic upstairs with Deena (or was it Dana?). Hence 7:00 A.M. in the park with bed head and no way to get back into the dorm—his security card, room key, and phone in the pocket of his missing coat.

Reggie moved his rook to g8, then gave a satisfied yellow smile. “I’m startin’ to wonder how you got admitted into that fine institution.” Reggie gazed at the admissions building, the purple NYU flag flapping in the wind.

“Now you’re starting to sound like my father,” Matt said, moving his own rook to e1. His eyes lifted to Reggie’s. “Check.”

Reggie moved his king to d8, but it was too late.

Queen to g3. Checkmate was inevitable.

“Mother…” Reggie said. He called out to a player at one of the other tables. “Yo, Elijah, check this out. Affleck gone and beat me.” Reggie always called Matt “Ben Affleck”—his derogatory shorthand for “white boy.”