The World Played Chess (37)

Amy smiled. Then she and Jennifer hugged, and we said our goodbyes. I turned to Amy, still a bit uncertain, but she alleviated any concern with one question. “You said something about beer?”

I brought her into the crowd, poured her a beer, and grabbed a few slices of pizza. I would have sat at a table in the corner, but Vincenzo having a cute young female was a novelty, and William had apparently told Mike and everyone else that Amy was the girl next door and soon to be rich. My sister, who rarely stayed long at the Village Host—neither softball nor beer were her thing—was the first to come over. Mike followed. Turned out Amy had grown up in Queens, one of the boroughs where Mike had once lived. Mike and my sister asked Amy about law school and where she would be working in Manhattan, and she and Mike discussed clubs in the city where Mike used to hang out. Common ground seemingly relaxed her, and me. I was grateful for the conversation, but also worried that Mike, or more likely my sister, would spill the beans that I’d just graduated from high school, but both either were adept in this situation or never thought to bring it up.

“You’re a Yankees fan then,” Mike said.

“Born and raised,” Amy said with pride. “I wore a Yankees pinstriped jersey home from the hospital. I have three older brothers and they’re also die-hard fans. We go to about twenty games a year.”

As she talked with Mike and the other New Yorkers, Amy’s accent thickened. “Father” became “Fawther.” “Billy Martin (Mawtin) is coming back, that’s the rumor in the Bronx, and he’ll get them playing great baseball again. Guidry and Munson will take them back to the World Series.”

“They may get there,” I said, “but I don’t see them beating the Pittsburgh Pirates with Willie Stargell, Dave Parker, and Bert Blyleven.”

“You watch. Yankees will sweep them.”

“Not going to happen,” I said. “They’d have to get by Baltimore first.”

She stuck out a hand. “Big words. How about a bet?”

I took her hand. “How am I going to recover when I win?” I said.

“You better figure out how you’re going to pay when you lose. What do you want to bet?”

“Ten bucks,” I said.

“Ten bucks? What, are you scared?”

By now several of the Northpark Yankees had become interested in the conversation and made clucking noises and uttered unflattering words about my manhood.

“A hundred bucks,” Amy said.

Since I could not envision how this bet would ever come to fruition, I agreed. “A hundred bucks,” I said to a roar of delight from the people around our table.

The conversation flowed easily now, and I went from thinking I’d never see this woman again to imagining going to Yankees games with her and her brothers. I fantasized about living in New York City with a big-time corporate lawyer. As I said, an all-guys high school didn’t exactly foster realistic expectations of relationships between men and women.

Amy asked me about Stanford, and I did my best to be vague but not avoid the subject. A few times I nearly told her the truth, but I never found the courage. So I fudged it. I told her I was studying journalism, that I hoped someday to write for one of the big newspapers, like the New York Times, and maybe take down a president, like Woodward and Bernstein. Yeah, I was laying it on thick, but what did I have to lose?

Amy apologized for Scott.

“What’s his problem?” I said.

She said she’d been in town for two weeks and her visit had cut into Scott’s time with Jennifer. “He’s been sulking the whole time I’ve been here. He wants to get laid.” Amy shrugged. “I was in the way. Dropping me off was his idea.”

“I figured as much. Anyway, I’m glad he did.”

Amy smiled and it looked sincere. “Yeah. So am I.”

As the night wore on, and the number of glasses of beer I drank increased, the liquid courage came on stronger. “You have gorgeous eyes,” I said at one point, and I meant it. Though she had a dark complexion and dark hair, Amy had these crazy blue eyes and long lashes.

“My mother is black Irish,” she said.

“And your father?”

“One hundred percent Italian. No doubt about it.”

“Get out of here. That’s the same as my parents,” I said. “Though my mom is blonde with blue eyes. Where is your father’s family from in Italy?”

“Southern part of the boot,” she said.

I leaned away from the table. “Your last name isn’t Corleone, is it?”

She smiled coyly and said, “Are you concerned I’m going to make you an offer you can’t resist?”

“I’m more worried you might have bodyguards.”

“DeLuca,” she said. “My father is Anthony DeLuca.”

“Wait, serious?”

She looked confused. “Yeah, why?”

“My father’s family is from Sicily and his last name is DeLuca.”

Her face went blank. I waited a beat, then laughed. “I’m kidding. My father’s family is from outside Bologna and his name is Bianco.”

Amy threw her pizza crust at me. Then she said, “You’re a good liar.”

It gave me pause.

Amy reached across the table and touched my hand. “Bet I can still make you an offer you can’t resist.”