Mad Powers (Tapped In) (6 page)

He made quick work of his opponent; after each move, Drako commented with explicatory
comments such as
“What, are you stupid?”
or
“You embarrass yourself, you disgust me
.” I detected an eastern-bloc accent, maybe Czech, or perhaps Slovakian …
how did I know that?
Drako’s opponent was getting frustrated. His black hair was wet with perspiration from the hot afternoon sun. He wore a red T-shirt and dirty jeans. I also took a quick peek into his thoughts and immediately read, and felt, his annoyance at Drako’s bad manners and intolerable arrogance. The man in the red T-shirt was soon defeated and left the table without a word. Another conquest for Drako. If nothing else, this guy needed to be taught a lesson, I thought to myself. Truth is, I had no idea if I was the one who could give it to him. I definitely had an advantage over his previous opponents—I could read Drako’s thoughts. The other six tables were now empty; apparently, no more combatants were willing to face humiliation.

As Drako moved over to my table and sat down, I pointed down the line. “I’ll play all those tables as well, if you’re still up to it?” Drako looked surprised and somewhat amused. We stood and reconfigured the pieces on all the boards. Marco and several others from the mission were among the growing crowd of onlookers. I had the white pieces at table one, so I would move first. I peered into Drako’s mind. He not only was deciding his opening move for this game, but for each of the others as well. I found it interesting that he was giving himself additional mental challenges—not similar opening moves. Each game its own strategic challenge. He expected to finish me off quickly and looked forward to my inevitable embarrassment.

“We play five moves at each table before moving on to next, yes? We start now,” he said. His guttural, eastern-bloc accent had a menacing tone to it.

Play started out fast, never a hesitation from either side. One table started a play from Drako with a standard Sicilian Defense move; the next, a Zukertort Opening; Symmetrical Variation from me, followed by Drako with a Trompowsky Attack … The irony wasn’t lost on me: how I knew, in ridiculous detail, what each of these chess maneuvers were, and how to implement each one precisely, yet remained clueless in remembering my own last name.

We made several runs up and down the line of tables. I wondered if I could play at this level without the advantage of reading his thoughts. Probably not. Drako was nothing short of genius-level‚ a savant. The crowd had grown too. Over a hundred onlookers, virtually all cheering for the new guy: me … someone who could avenge their lost honor.

As each of the matches came to a close, fewer and fewer chess pieces were left on each board. The level of concentration became almost overwhelming. It seemed the amount of time between Drako selecting his next move, and then implementing that move, was in mere fractions of a second. In the end, Drako won two games to my five. I tipped over his last standing king; checkmated. The crowd rushed in with a chorus of hoots, cheers and pats on the back and men wanting to shake my hand. Drako, his face expressionless, picked up his chess pieces and chessboard and placed them in a canvas satchel. As the crowd dissipated, he walked back over to me.

“My name is Drako Cervenka.” He put his hand out to shake, which I accepted. He continued, “I can’t remember the last time I was defeated. Thousands and thousands of matches. Then, I lose five matches in one day. So, I wonder, who is this man—one who can beat me like no one else ever has?”

“My name’s Rob,” I said, “and I think luck played a big part in that … you play extraordinarily well.”

“No, Rob, luck had nothing to do with it. Do not act stupid. I do not need to be coddled. You must acknowledge this win with pride. As I would have done,” he said with conviction. “This is great day. We must play again, very soon.” Drako hesitated, as if considering something—then continued: “You come again tomorrow and we play here at park,” his broken English becoming more pronounced.

“Um … Well, thanks for the offer, Mr. Cervenka, but I’m not sure where I’ll be …”

“You call me Drako. What’s wrong with you? Why you here with these people?”

Annoyed at his
these people
comment, I was more than ready to get away from the guy.

“Look, Drako, I was recently in a car accident—just left the hospital yesterday and I’m having some difficulty with my memory. Truth is, I’m not really sure who the hell I am … I’m living at the homeless shelter till things …” I realized this was more information than I wanted to provide, especially to this abrupt stranger. “I have to go … perhaps I’ll bump into you again here sometime.” I headed back toward the mission; my head was pounding. Drako was fast on my heels—I could hear him running to catch up with me.

“I help you,” he said eagerly. “Yes?”

I stopped and looked at him, ready to tell him to just back off. Peering into his mind, I found something unexpected. Was it kindness? Yes, but something else too:
concern
.

It seemed as though I had made another new friend. I walked with Drako out of the park, briefly explaining my predicament and the events of the last few days. He turned to look at me.

“An interesting puzzle, huh? You tell me what you do remember and maybe I help put pieces together, yes?”

Drako’s convertible was parked beneath a large oak tree at the side of the road. “It’s my baby. A 1957 Porsche 356. One of my favorite automobiles. What do you think?”

“Nice.” I noticed there was a laptop computer laying on the passenger seat and a wad of cash on the center console. Drako saw where I was looking.

“I am a wealthy man, Rob. But people here know I am not one to steal from. I will think about your problem, find out who you are, Rob. Then we play chess again.”

As Drako got in his car and drove off, I headed across the street.

Chapter 9

People had started to file into the mission. Marco was there and we joined the line. An elderly husband and wife team were greeting people at the door. The wife, Malinda, was all smiles and welcoming warmth, while the husband, Ken, wearing a Vietnam veteran’s cap, took a much closer look as we came through the door. First at Marco ahead of me, and then at me, as he explained the simple rules of the house: “No weapons; no drugs; no smoking in the hall; dinner at six; lights out at nine; breakfast at seven; and everyone gone by eight-thirty—no exceptions.” Ken shook my hand and held it. “Where you from, friend?” he asked, his piercing blue eyes unwavering from my own.

I shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said, matching his stare.

“Well, my name’s Ken—let me know if you need anything.”

“Name’s Rob, and thanks …”

He nodded, smiled, and released my hand. I followed after Marco into the main hall of the mission. There were close to one hundred cots set up, and by their precision, barracks-like in straight rows and blankets symmetrically-placed, I was betting it was the meticulous work of the Vietnam vet, Ken. There was some part of me that was comfortable with this level of organization and order. There were twenty or so other men, who mostly appeared to be migrant workers, spread throughout the room. I moved to the back of the mission and selected a cot close to a wall.

Privacy was not an option in a homeless shelter, but my cot location was about as close as I could get. I didn’t have anything to lay dibs with on this particular cot, so I unfolded the blanket and laid it out. Then I pulled off my belt and laid that across the pillow. Marco had chosen a cot several rows over, and I wondered if he always chose the same one or liked to mix things up a little every night. The cafeteria was open and a line was forming. Then I spotted three familiar faces—Russell and his two idiot friends, whom I’d met earlier at Denny’s. They were making a beeline towards the cafeteria. No one stopped them when they cut to the front of the line, grabbed two trays each, and proceeded to intimidate the young volunteer server into piling mountains of mashed potatoes, gravy, extra slices of turkey and multiple pudding cups onto their trays. Ken made his way across the cafeteria and headed toward them as they commandeered an open table.

“Hello, boys, I see you’ve got yourselves quite a spread there. We make it a policy to provide a well-rounded meal to those in need—but I feel you’re taking advantage of our offerings.” Russell was seated now and had tucked his paper napkin into the top of his shirt. Without acknowledging Ken in the slightest, Russell took his plates and pudding cups from his two trays and set them on the table. Then, with casual disregard, tossed the trays onto the floor at Ken’s feet. The loud clatter brought startled stares from the other tables. Ken stepped around the trays and stepped up closer to Russell.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave … all three of you. Get up and get out—don’t come back here.” For the first time Russell looked up at Ken. Although he was trying to stand tall, Ken must have been pushing seventy, maybe seventy-five. Age spots covered his hands and he walked with a slight limp, perhaps a souvenir from the Vietnam conflict years earlier. Heads down and quietly eating, those around the three men were minding their own business. Ken was on his own. With eyebrows raised, Russell smiled at his two friends and looked down at the food on the table.

“As you can see, we’ve just sat down for this beautiful feast. Me and my two associates, Wriggly and Jordan, would like a little peace and quiet while we enjoy our supper. If you would be so kind as to fuck off, I’d be most appreciative.” Wriggly and Jordan, mouths full of mashed potatoes and gravy, chuckled and looked up to see how Ken would respond. Moving fast for an older guy, Ken reached for Russell’s arm, obviously intending to forcibly drag him out if necessary. Russell stood up to meet Ken’s advance and slapped him, open-handed, across his face. The loud crack reverberated throughout the now silent room.

This was the second time these three had acted inappropriately in my presence. The first time, I’d pretty much let it go. But not now. Even before Ken grabbed for Russell, I was well on my way to their table. I stepped in between Ken and Russell and turned my back on the larger biker. I faced Ken and smiled. “Let me talk to them. I might be able to convince them to leave.” Few things are as humiliating as being slapped in the face, especially by another man. Ken didn’t say anything, but took a tentative step backward. Russell was ready for me when I turned to face him. Knife in hand, he would not have been happier to see his own mother’s face.

“If it isn’t my friend from Denny’s. You know, I’ve been looking for you. Seems like destiny, don’t ya think?” His mistake was taking his eyes off me, even for the quick second it took him to look over at his two friends. I’d moved just slightly to his right. When his head jerked back, catching my movement, I was in a better position to grab his wrist with my left hand and then, using both hands now, I twisted his knife in and towards his own body. Even after he’d been forced to release his knife, there was an audible crack as his carpal bones snapped like dry kindling. Russell yelped in pain, bending over to protect his ruined wrist. Wriggly and Jordan had lost their smiles and were up out of their seats. Wriggly, the taller, fatter of the two, moved to my left, while Jordan, the more muscular and seemingly more intelligent of the pair, was attempting to flank me around the right. I waited for them, expending no more energy than necessary. Almost simultaneously, both pulled knives from their boots. I had the distinct feeling they had rehearsed this maneuver before. Even with my memory a total wash, I instinctively knew that how an opponent holds their edged weapon speaks volumes. While untrained combatants hold a knife skyward, as if waving a flag, pros typically hold a knife downward, in line with their wrists, keeping it moving. Both Jordan and Wriggly had opted for the flag-waving technique.

I had just enough time to pluck Wriggly’s tray off the table. Plates with half-eaten mashed potatoes, turkey and gravy scattered to the floor. With eyes on Wriggly, I spun 180 degrees around backwards and caught Jordan by surprise with the edge of the tray, hitting him in the temple. He went down like a bag of rocks. Then I turned to face Wriggly. “Your two friends are on the floor, do you want to join them?” Apparently, Wriggly did not. He took several steps backward, looked down at his two friends and rushed for the door. Ken was still standing where I’d left him. Malinda, at the far end of the cafeteria, was on her cell phone—it wouldn’t be long before the police were dispatched.

“Thank you for …” Ken paused and looked around the room. “Listen, we’re not unaccustomed to trouble. It comes with the territory. It follows people like them—and it follows people like you. I saw the way you moved; you’re military or ex-military. What you’re doing here, I don’t know—or particularly want to know. But I don’t want any more trouble. You got that?”

I knelt down to clean up the mess we’d made. Marco was at my side and stacking plates onto a tray. Ken slowly walked out of the cafeteria without saying another word. As I thought about what had just happened, what I had reflexively done, it occurred to me that my past was quickly catching up to my present.

By nine o’clock, everyone was hunkered down on their cots for the night. The other men had given me a wide berth, with the exception of Marco, who brought out a deck of cards and schooled me on the intricacies of
Conquian
‬, a Mexican card game he’d played since he was a child. It seemed to be more a game of chance than of skill, such as poker or even black jack. We ended up about even when Malinda made her rounds, letting us know it was lights out in five minutes.

The large room was dark; someone was snoring several rows over. I stared up at the ceiling above me, in thought. I made two mental columns for positives and negatives. On the negative side, I still had virtually no memory of my life prior to the accident. I also discovered someone, or even some organization, might be trying to kill me. I was hampered by continual headaches and quickly moving toward a strange addiction to getting tapped-in to high-voltage power lines. On the positive side, I had a new ability that was nothing short of incredible, if not unbelievable. An ability to look into people’s minds and influence their decision-making processes.