Work Text:
Two men barely glanced at the chess pieces arrayed in front of them. One was ruggedly handsome, affable and well dressed, the other, quick, wiry, short haired, heavily tattooed, and quite taciturn.
“I will never understand why you insist on having me address you as 'Mr. Rook.'” the short haired man complained, “Nor your appellation for me, 'Mr. Shorthair.' This is puerile nonsense when your face is displayed on dust jackets in every bookstore from here to London, and you know my name. Check.”
Handsome frowned briefly, removing his king from immediate jeopardy with practiced grace. “I spend so much time plotting elaborate murders that I need some whimsy in my life to keep me sane, that's why.” He sighed, “And everywhere else I go, I'm 'the Rich Guy,' 'the Dilettante,' or, 'The Writer.' You're one of the few guys around that takes me seriously.” They traded moves. “Check.”
Now it was Wiry's turn to frown at the board. His affable, almost buffoonish opponent was a much better player than most people would believe. “Your talents are wasted writing those lurid and improbable mystery novels of yours. Worse, they're becoming quite stale. Perhaps a new protagonist would reinvigorate your Muse.”
Handsome stared at his opponent, the former, no, the recovering junkie he met during the research for his latest book. The man was far too perceptive to ignore, and, much to his dismay, “Mr. Shorthair” was right. He pursed his lips looking at the board, the pieces left were few, evenly matched, and most importantly, the best either of them could hope for was another stalemate. “I believe you may be correct.” He pulled out his phone, and checked his calendar. “Ah, good,” he said in his maddeningly cheerful voice, “same time next week?”
“Yes, I believe that would be quite agreeable.”
That night Handsome called his friend, the mayor of New York, to make arrangements to shadow a detective in the 12th precinct of the NYPD.