Page 78 of Moonlighter
“Absolutely!” Mr. Engels agrees. “There will be other tournaments.”
“Not necessary,” I argue immediately. And now I’m sorry I came. “Honestly. I’ll ask a friend. It’s really no big thing.”
Except I can’t ask a friend. They’re all going to Chicago in the morning for a game. Literally everyone I know is a hockey player or works for the team. I’ll think of something. Or—worst case scenario—I can just talk my way out of the hospital. I’ve done it before.
“If you’re sure,” my father says as I sit down beside him. “But what are you going to do about that loft of yours? Can’t imagine you’re allowed to climb stairs.”
He has a point. My studio apartment has double-height ceilings and a sleeping loft. It’s pretty slick unless you’re on crutches. “I have a pull-out sofa,” I remind him.
“When that gets old, come stay in my guest room,” Dad offers. “There’s always a place for you. And Maisy will spoil you with cookies and milk.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I guess my weird family isn’t so bad. “I might take you up on that.” And Dad’s housekeeper does make excellent cookies.
“Double you,” Mr. Engels says suddenly. He pushes the doubling cube toward my brother.
“Excellent,” Max says with another smirk.
“Dangnabbit! So it’s a terrible idea?” Mr. Engels says, and Max laughs.
A waiter in a black suit approaches me. “What will you have to drink, sir?”
“Uh, ginger ale. Thanks.” I’d love to order whiskey, but alcohol the night before surgery is a terrible idea. “And some of those warm cheddar crackers, if they’re still on the menu.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I love the crackers,” my father sighs.
“Me too. And they’re going on your tab, so I love ‘em even more.”
Dad grins.
The crackers are probably twelve bucks or some equally ridiculous price. But they’re not even the point of this place. Neither are the fine furnishings. The club’s real luxury is the company of other people. In this room, it’s against the rules to use your phone. There’s no Wi-Fi, either.
Dad and Max probably pay fifty grand a yeareachfor the sole purpose of rolling back technology for a few hours a week. Max plays backgammon, and Dad plays poker. There’s a masseuse on staff. You can get your shoes shined or your hair cut without an appointment. There are billiards tables, dart boards, and even air hockey. There are racquetball courts in the basement.
But it’s all about the camaraderie—rich guys want other rich guys to talk to after a long day making money. These are the same American titans who earn their billions getting everyone addicted to technology. They come here to play chess on a real board with a real opponent.
Tech used to be the luxury. Now it’s thelackof it that rich people really crave.
My snack arrives, and I dig in while watching my brother clean up the backgammon board with Mr. Engels.
“I should know better than to double down with you,” the older man complains. Then he looks quickly over both shoulders, like a naughty schoolboy. He needs to be sure that none of the stewards are nearby to catch him using his phone.
When the coast is clear, he whips it out and opens a payment app.
I glance at the die. The eight is facing up. Club rules say that no money changes hands, during games, but playing just for fun goes against their nature. They play for a hundred dollars a point. They’d like to play for more, but the payment apps would be obligated to investigate all those chunky transactions for money laundering.
Mr. Engels finishes his transfer and pockets the phone. “Well, Carl. I’m finished getting slaughtered by your firstborn. Let’s eat before we head to the airport?”
Dad jumps up.
I rise, too, but slowly. “Have a good trip. Dinner soon?”
“Yes!” I get a bear hug. “Take care of yourself, son. Let me know how it goes tomorrow.”
“No problem. The surgery is no big thing. It’s all about the recovery time.”
“Then I hope the physical therapy gods are feeling beneficent.” Dad gives me one more slap on the back before he goes.
