Free Grandmaster by David Klass Page A

learn to separate.”
    Dad turned to Mr. Kinney. “And you’re a hedge trimmer?”
    “You made that up,” Mr. Kinney said. “That’s pretty good. But, yeah, I run a four-billion-dollar global macro hedge fund that tilts toward technology…”
    Meanwhile, I heard Brad telling Britney: “The steak house looks okay. Nothing special.”
    A hostess walked over to us and said, “Kinney party? Your table is ready.”
    “Gotta go chow down,” Brad grunted into the phone. “If I were you, I’d drag your mom out of there before she gets going. And watch out for those New York prep boys.” He hung up.
    “Make sure you triple-check those graphs,” Eric ordered his lab partner, and then he also punched out.
    “This way, please,” the hostess said, and we followed her through the restaurant to a table for six, in its own private alcove. I sat between my father and Eric. My family didn’t go out to eat often, and when we did it was usually for pizza or Chinese, or on special occasions to a nice family chain restaurant. Patagonia was by far the most elegant restaurant I’d ever been in.
    “Welcome. I’m Claudio, your server,” a tall young man with an earring said. “Let me tell you about today’s specials. We have…”
    “Save it,” Randolph cut him off. “We already know what we want. I’ll have the bone-in rib eye, bloody. Put something green next to it. And we need some wine.” He glanced at Dr. Chisolm, who was almost finished with his second glass. “Sam, what is that piss you’re drinking?”
    “It’s an estate-bottled Malbec,” Dr. Chisolm said.
    “Malbec went to hell in ’76 when frost killed off the old vines in Bordeaux,” Mr. Kinney declared.
    “Actually, we have more than two dozen Argentine Malbecs on our list, several of which are stunning,” Claudio interjected proudly.
    “Actually, they’re not,” Mr. Kinney told him, running his eyes down the extensive wine list. “So let’s not waste time. Bring us this Rhone—and let’s pair it with this Barolo. Now, I’m hungry, so let’s get some food on the table, pronto.”
    “Yes, sir,” Claudio said, swallowing his pride and no doubt imagining his tip.
    The rest of us ordered, and we were soon tucking into steaks the size of manhole covers. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Chess tournaments are very hard work. The game against Liu had exhausted me. I read somewhere that a grandmaster can lose between six to eight pounds of body weight during an average game just by concentrating so hard. Maybe this tournament would help Dad lose a little of his potbelly.
    He had barely touched his steak, and he was understandably staying out of a conversation, between the two other dads, on who drove the better sports coupe. Meanwhile, Eric and Brad were going through the girls at our school year by year, picking out the cutest ones and rating them on a scale of one to ten.
    I kept quiet and ate and thought we might get through this dinner without a major blowup.
    Then the table conversations changed. Eric and Brad began planning what they were going to do with their share of the first-place prize money. Meanwhile, their fathers shifted from sports cars to the importance of winning. There was a candle on our table, and Brad’s father held his index finger above the flame. “It’s all in the mind,” he said, slowly lowering his finger till the flame licked his skin. I swear I could smell flesh burning. His eyes were fixed and hard.
    My father reached out and pulled Mr. Kinney’s hand away from the candle. “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “We already know you’re tough.”
    “It’s not about being tough,” Randolph told him. “It’s a lesson I want the boys to take away from this weekend. If you want to win, you’ve got to be willing to take risks and endure things that others can’t.”
    As if on cue Dr. Chisolm got up from his chair and bent over all the way to the floor and then walked his feet up the wall of our