To the last pawn - Part IV

“’Saved by the bell’ rule will be in effect in all rounds. A player saved by the bell will be penalized by deducting one minute off his clock.”
- World Chess Boxing Association (WCBA) rules, article 12.3.f

An hour later, Favreau steered the red convertible to the parking lot of the Caesar’s Palace Hotel and Casino.
“Can I help you please?” The parking valet approached the dusty car, wearing an expression of snobbishness and disgust to match his white suit and blue tie.
“You can help yourself to keep your job by parking this baby without scratching it,” Dominguez said.
The valet didn’t budge. “Do you have a reservation sir?”
“Come on, man, don’t you recognize them?” Lisa was unable to take this travesty anymore, “Those are Vince ‘Vindicator’ Favreau and Enrique ‘Endgame’ Dominguez!”
“Ah, I see. Well, Mr. Santoro reserved your parking. And now, if you will let me have the keys please … thank you … Have a great time at the Caesar’s Palace Hotel and Casino!”
“Let’s go,” Favreau nudged Dominguez as the convertible disappeared between the rows of parked cars, “it’s six o’clock already.”

“Where do we go from here?” Dominguez wondered as they entered the luxurious lobby. His doubts were immediately dispersed by a young man wearing a black suit that fit him so well that it seemed surgically grafted onto his skin. The suit approached them confidently and said, “Mr. Dominguez, Mr. Favreau? I am Martin Bentley, Mr. Santoro’s aide. You’re late. Let’s go, your cornermen are already waiting.”
“What about me?” whined Lisa.
“Who is this young lady?” asked the suit.
“She’s …” Dominguez started.
“She’s my niece. My wife’s niece. My wife’s ex-niece. I mean, my ex-wife’s niece.”
“Ah, how nice. You see, that’s exactly what we are trying to promote, the image of chess-boxing as a family sport. There you go, young miss.” The suit reached into its pocked and produced a small rectangular piece of paper. “A ticket for the match. And now, say goodbye to your uncle, and enjoy yourself at the Caesar’s Palace Hotel and Casino!”
The three ran off, leaving the dumb-founded Lisa gazing at the yellow ticket as if it fell into her arms from the moon.

The suit raced them through a maze of corridors so complex as to prohibit all possibility of an escape in case either of them changed his mind. Finally, after rounding a corner, they ran into a group of four men waiting for them in front of two locked doors.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce everyone,” the suit said, “Mr. Favreau and Mr. Dominguez are our fighters. And these are Mr. Kalugin and Mr. Markov, the trainers, and Mr. Leone and Mr. Vega, the cutmen.”
“I believe we know each other,” said Markov with contempt. He and Dominguez avoided each other’s gaze.
“Fine, that settles it then,” the suit beamed, “Mr. Markov, Mr. Vega, you are in Mr. Dominguez’s corner, please go through here to the White Dressing Room,” he swiped a magnetic card and unlocked one of the doors, “Mr. Kalugin, Mr. Leone, Black Dressing Room please, with Mr. Favreau.”

Markov refused to follow, and instead whispered something in Kalugin’s ear. The two trainers started a loud debate in Russian, in which the others could only understand “Garden”, “d6” and “Checkmate”. Finally they managed to resolve their disagreement. Markov went with Favreau, while Kalugin passed over to Dominguez’s side.
“Ah, so you want to change trainers.” The suit was still smiling, ”Fine. I’ll let Mr. Santoro know. Go to your dressing rooms now, and good luck.”

The dressing room was very spacious, but barren on the inside. Only a massage table, a locker, a chess table, and a shower stall violated the monotony of the brick walls. Dominguez lay down and allowed himself to close his eyes while Vega was massaging his shoulders.
“What opening you play?” Kalugin’s voice awakened him from his catnap.
“Not now. We just drove three hundred miles.”
“Yes now. Chess boxing all about discipline and work. No discipline, no results. What opening you play?”
“Always been an e4 guy.”
“Good. Solid move, e4. Let me look up this … what his name, Vincent Favreau, in my database… Strange, no games in last year,” he said, frantically pushing the buttons of his palmtop.
“Don’t bother. He’ll play the Sicilian Najdorf.”
“How you know?”
“I prepared him.”
“You what!?”
“Prepared him. Look coach, I’m going to be fine with the chess part. My body just needs some rest now, ok? Let me rest.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” Kalugin, insulted, sat at the chess table and started playing blitz against his palmtop to pass the time.

Meanwhile, in the other room, Markov desperately tried to convince Favreau to play the French Defense.
“See, it is best defense to equalize! Botvinnik, Korchnoi, everyone play it when need to equalize! After 1.e4 e6 2.d4 d5 3.Nd2, black plays 3…c5 and is equal already! And after 3.Nc3 Bb4, it’s all strategic game, no tactics. Why bother with unclear Sicilian positions if you can …”
“Sorry, Mr. Markov, but I’ll stick to Sicilian...”
“Fine. So we can try the Sveshnikov. Kramnik played it a lot when…”
“…Najdorf, if you don’t mind.”
“Najdorf? Are you crazy? The hardest tactical opening of all, and you want to play it after being out of business for a year? Of course I do mind, it’s like digging own grave!”
“I’ll play the Najdorf. That’s it, coach.”
“Fine. Have it your way.”

“So, how’s my man Vince doing?” Santoro stood in the doorway, radiating smiles in all directions.
Vince jumped up from the massage table, wearing only a towel. Santoro’s female ‘administrative assistant’ giggled slightly behind her boss’s back.
“Fine, Sir, thank you, Sir.”
“Getting ready to give a good fight, Vince?”
“Yes sir. At this opportunity, I’d like to thank you for believing in me and …”
“No problem son, Todd Santoro always has room for one more good player. Just go out there and give those people a thrill, ok?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good, good.” Santoro patted Favreau on the shoulder and turned to leave, “And one more thing, Vince. I have one automatic qualification slot for the next year’s Interzonal. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Well, sir…”
“What’s your rating?”
“2705, Sir, but haven’t played a year.”
“Now listen to me, Vince.” The fat promoter stepped so close that Favreau could see every crevice and pore on his face. “Win this match. Bury that Mexican punk. Put him in the hospital. Can you do this for me?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Bury him, and you’ll play the Interzonal. Understood? Now sign here for the contact, and we’re ready to rumble.”

A minute later, Todd Santoro paid a visit to Dominguez’s dressing room.
“Mr. Santoro, thank you for giving me this chance to …”
“Shut your trap, Dominguez.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Now listen, you worthless piece of nothing. The odds at you going down before the gong were 1,000-to-1, do you realize that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Shut up. Don’t ‘yes sir’ me. You cost me two million dollars of hard earned cash that day. Not to mention the blow that my reputation took. You think it’s easy to be known as a crooked fighter’s agent?”
“No Sir…”
“Shut up. What’s your rating?”
“2565, Sir, but it was 2710 before…”
“Shut up. Fate smiled at you, you scum. You don’t deserve this chance, but you got it. Now that Alfredsson is in hospital and Thompson in rehab, this is your one and only chance to redeem yourself for the Garden. I want you to bury that Canadian, do you hear me? I want you to destroy him. Grind him to dust, and you’ll be able to work with me again. Can you do this?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Sign here. Great. And, Rico, one more thing. No more checkmates on move eleven. I buried your career when you did it once, and I swear I’ll bury you if you do it twice. I want this match to go to the last pawn.”

***

“Kicking the opponent is strictly forbidden, both during the chess and the boxing rounds.”
- World Chess Boxing Association (WCBA) rules, article 12.3.g

The capacity crowd of the Palace roared like a hurricane when Favreau and Dominguez entered the hall from opposite direction. Each was accompanied by their trainer and cutman. Reporters snapped their pictures and fans high-fived them as they made their way to the ring.

They stood there, face to face, like gladiators of ancient times, muscular and beautiful, their skin gleaming in the floodlights.
“Introducing now the preliminary fight,” the announcer was also in the ring, microphone in hand, “In the black corner, hailing from Montreal, Quebec, Canada, weighing 83 kilograms, V-I-N-C-E-N-T ‘V-I-N-D-I-C-A-T-O-R’ F-A-A-A-A-V-R-E-A-A-A-U-U-U!!”

He took a breath and then continued, “And in the white corner, from Mexico City, Mexico, weighing 81 kilograms, E-N-R-I-Q-U-E ‘E-N-D-G-A-M-E’ D-O-O-O-O-O-M-I-N-G-U-E-E-E-E-Z!! And now, your ring judge, Martin O’Mally.”
“Ok, listen to me, guys. I want a clean match. No j’adoubes, no illegal moves, no low punches, no biting. Obey my instructions at all times. And now, shake hands and let’s start!”

As they shook hands, a chess table and a pair of chairs were lowered into the ring on cables. The players sat down and O’Mally started white’s clock. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

Without thinking even a second, Enrique started with 1.e4 and punched the clock. The following moves were played quickly: 1…c5 2.Nf3 d6 3.d4 cxd4 4.Nxd4 Nf6 5.Nc3 a6, and at that point Dominguez plunged into contemplation.

To be continued …

And at this point I, the author, would like to ask you, the readers, a question: who are you rooting for to win? No, the results of this small poll will not change the outcome of the story (the story is already written), but I'm just interested to know with which player you sympathize more. Let me know.