flashquake Fiction - The Chess Master by Dave Lignell

flashquake
The Chess Master
by Dave Lignell

I poked my head in his office. Karl Statler sat behind his faux cherry wood desk, a desk he had polished to a mirror-like gloss. He held a gold pen, his eyes fixed on an empty message pad before him. I rapped lightly on the door and as he looked up he begin scribbling on his pad. Setting the pen down, he waved for me to come in. Karl aligned the pen parallel to the sticky-note pad.

"Good morning," I said, managing a closed smile.

He nodded agreement. I sat before him in a straight-back chair and picked up a chess piece from the gleaming cherry-wood set on the credenza to my left. He removed his glasses, grasping them between his thumb and forefinger. His furry brows closed together, his eyes fixed on the latent prints I would leave on his black queen.

"Jesus. Why don't they stick with the official Staunton set? I can't tell if this is a queen or some maid-servant whore to the Bishop." No reaction. He was waiting for me to set his queen down, which I did while holding his stare. I knew he would rush to disinfect it once I had left. I settled back in what looked and felt like a replica of an electric chair. I loosened my polyester tie.

"Interesting you should notice that chess set." Karl jutted out his double chin. I raised my eyebrows and gave another closed smile. He stood and took measured steps around his desk, stopping short of the chess set.

"I've observed that there are essentially two classes of people in our company — chess masters and poker players." He swept an upward palm before the chess set.

"The chess masters," he continued, "study the rules and follow a set of logical principles to master the game. They are, moreover, intelligent and accomplished." He now stood as a dictator of sorts — chest swelled, arms akimbo, eyes glued to the checkered battleground. I could sense he was on a roll, but I wasn't in a hurry.

"Poker players, by contrast, thrive on emotion," he continued, "often taking foolish risks or lying to gain advantage. Bluffing, I believe, is the word they use. He turned and walked behind his desk. He turned again and seated himself behind his desk, leaning on his forearms.

"While they possess a rudimentary set of rules, they demonstrate no integrity by which to apply those rules. They are motivated by greed, not principle."

I shifted before him and glanced at the framed shadow box displays he'd hung on his office walls.

"That's a new one, isn't it?" I said, pointing to a framed computer screen printout with the company logo in the corner. It had a graphic design of four people meeting in a company boardroom, but looking at computer screens instead of each other. Karl rose from his chair and strutted next to the display.

"Yes. My technology team has identified opportunities to reduce meeting costs through Internet conferencing. Executives would use their desk-top computers to meet over long distances rather than procure airline tickets and hotel stays to meet face-to-face." His fingers slid along the edge of the frame as he spoke.

"So have they used it yet?" Karl moved behind his desk and rested his hands on the top of his chair. He leaned forward and picked up his glasses between his thumb and forefinger. His dark eyebrows arched.

"I have to prepare for a conference shortly," he said, rubbing his glasses with a Kleenex. "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"Oh, it can wait," I said rising. "I just wondered if you were going to the corporate sales meeting." I made my way to the door already knowing what his answer would be.

"No! He sat down now, his hands spread wide on the desk to keep them from shaking. "Over three hundred people will be flying into Las Vegas for a week. I've estimated the total costs to be in excess of one million dollars. There's no reason why they couldn't hold a business conference over their computers."

I looked at him and stretched like a cat against his office doorframe.

"Nah. That sounds like a wet dream for accountants, not sales folk." I looked down at my loafers. "I don't think they'd like handing e-bills to e-strippers or getting e-drunk on e-beers."

I looked up at him and his face was red, his lips pursed. I paused to pick a ball of lint from my khakis.

"Too bad you're not going," I said walking out the door. "You'll miss the president's Poker game."