car?’ I pressed, with no small amount of urgency. ‘When I last heard from Lily, she was on her way here for a party – that must’ve been an hour ago. Where is she?’
‘They were hungry. So while my crew’s digging out the car, your aunt and her sidekick are watering and foddering at the Mother Lode,’ Key said.
She meant a restaurant just off the track, which specialized in wild game, and I knew the place well. They had so many horns, antlers, and other cartilaginous display on the walls there that walking through the room without paying attention was as dangerous as running with the bulls at Pamplona.
‘For God’s sake,’ I said, my impatience bubbling over. ‘Just get her here.’
‘I’ll have them at your place within the hour,’ Key assured me. ‘They’re just watering the dog now, and finishing their drinks. The car’s another matter, though: It’ll have to be shipped to Denver for repairs. Right now, I’m at the bar, and they’re still at the table, thick as thieves, whispering and sipping vodkas.’ Key snorted a laugh into the phone.
‘What’s so funny?’ I said, in irritation at this further delay.
Why did Lily – never a drinker – require a booze infusion at ten in the morning? And what about her chauffeur? Though, in fairness to him, it appeared he wouldn’t have much left to be chauffeuring around, if the car was that badly damaged. I confess, I had trouble visualizing my flamboyant, chess-playing aunt, with her de rigueur flawless manicure and exotic clothes – brunching atop the peanut-shell-and-beer-encrusted floors of the Mother Lode, nibbling away at their trademark fare of possum stew, rattlesnake steak, and Rocky Mountain Oysters – the Colorado euphemism for deep-fried bulls’ balls. The image boggled the brain.
‘I don’t get it,’ Key added sotto voce, as if reading mythoughts aloud. ‘I mean, nothing against your auntie – but this guy is pretty hot stuff, like an Italian film star. The staff and the clientele all stopped talking when he walked in, and the waitress is still drooling on her shirtfront. He’s dripping with as many furs as your aunt Lily is, not to mention the designer gold trim and custom-made clothes. This guy could get any babe. So pardon me – can you clarify – exactly what draws him to your aunt?’
‘I guess you were right all along,’ I agreed with a laugh. ‘He’s attracted to her figure.’ When Key said nothing, I added: ‘Fifty million.’
I hung up to the sound of her groans.
I realized that I probably knew Lily Rad better than anyone else could know such an eccentric; despite the difference in our ages, we had much in common. For starters, I knew I owed Lily everything. It was Lily, for instance, who had first discovered my chess abilities when I was only three years old. Who had convinced my father and my uncle that these leanings of mine should be developed and exploited – over my mother’s irritated, and eventually angry, objections.
It was this bond with Lily that made my phone conversation with Key seem so odd. Though I hadn’t seen my aunt in a number of years – and she had also dropped out of the chess world – I found it hard to swallow that a person who’d been an older sister to me, as well as mentor and mother, could suddenly be lobotomized by hormones over some good-looking hunk. No, something was wrong with this picture. Lily just wasn’t the type.
Lily Rad had long earned a reputation as the Elizabeth Taylor of chess. With her voluptuous curves, jewels, furs, designer cars, and cash liquidity bordering upon the obscene, Lily had single-handedly brought glamour to professional chess; she’d filled that enormous black hole of Soviet lassitude– all that remained back in the seventies after Bobby Fischer had departed the game.
But Lily wasn’t all just panache and pizzazz. People had flocked to her games in droves, and not only to observe her cleavage. Thirty years ago, in her chess-playing
‘They were hungry. So while my crew’s digging out the car, your aunt and her sidekick are watering and foddering at the Mother Lode,’ Key said.
She meant a restaurant just off the track, which specialized in wild game, and I knew the place well. They had so many horns, antlers, and other cartilaginous display on the walls there that walking through the room without paying attention was as dangerous as running with the bulls at Pamplona.
‘For God’s sake,’ I said, my impatience bubbling over. ‘Just get her here.’
‘I’ll have them at your place within the hour,’ Key assured me. ‘They’re just watering the dog now, and finishing their drinks. The car’s another matter, though: It’ll have to be shipped to Denver for repairs. Right now, I’m at the bar, and they’re still at the table, thick as thieves, whispering and sipping vodkas.’ Key snorted a laugh into the phone.
‘What’s so funny?’ I said, in irritation at this further delay.
Why did Lily – never a drinker – require a booze infusion at ten in the morning? And what about her chauffeur? Though, in fairness to him, it appeared he wouldn’t have much left to be chauffeuring around, if the car was that badly damaged. I confess, I had trouble visualizing my flamboyant, chess-playing aunt, with her de rigueur flawless manicure and exotic clothes – brunching atop the peanut-shell-and-beer-encrusted floors of the Mother Lode, nibbling away at their trademark fare of possum stew, rattlesnake steak, and Rocky Mountain Oysters – the Colorado euphemism for deep-fried bulls’ balls. The image boggled the brain.
‘I don’t get it,’ Key added sotto voce, as if reading mythoughts aloud. ‘I mean, nothing against your auntie – but this guy is pretty hot stuff, like an Italian film star. The staff and the clientele all stopped talking when he walked in, and the waitress is still drooling on her shirtfront. He’s dripping with as many furs as your aunt Lily is, not to mention the designer gold trim and custom-made clothes. This guy could get any babe. So pardon me – can you clarify – exactly what draws him to your aunt?’
‘I guess you were right all along,’ I agreed with a laugh. ‘He’s attracted to her figure.’ When Key said nothing, I added: ‘Fifty million.’
I hung up to the sound of her groans.
I realized that I probably knew Lily Rad better than anyone else could know such an eccentric; despite the difference in our ages, we had much in common. For starters, I knew I owed Lily everything. It was Lily, for instance, who had first discovered my chess abilities when I was only three years old. Who had convinced my father and my uncle that these leanings of mine should be developed and exploited – over my mother’s irritated, and eventually angry, objections.
It was this bond with Lily that made my phone conversation with Key seem so odd. Though I hadn’t seen my aunt in a number of years – and she had also dropped out of the chess world – I found it hard to swallow that a person who’d been an older sister to me, as well as mentor and mother, could suddenly be lobotomized by hormones over some good-looking hunk. No, something was wrong with this picture. Lily just wasn’t the type.
Lily Rad had long earned a reputation as the Elizabeth Taylor of chess. With her voluptuous curves, jewels, furs, designer cars, and cash liquidity bordering upon the obscene, Lily had single-handedly brought glamour to professional chess; she’d filled that enormous black hole of Soviet lassitude– all that remained back in the seventies after Bobby Fischer had departed the game.
But Lily wasn’t all just panache and pizzazz. People had flocked to her games in droves, and not only to observe her cleavage. Thirty years ago, in her chess-playing
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