Mortimer and Sheila immediately recognized Dale and Slug from the previous night, and the recognition was mutual.

"Well," Dale said, "if it ain't that lady cop with the fancy fightin' moves, and her little wimpy punk boyfriend. The ones nosin' around and askin' too many questions. You two musta thought you were smart, figurin' out our little back door bolt hole. But you ain't that smart. Silent alarm, nothin' fancy. You, copper girl, shoulda figured it out. Well, too bad for you."

"I'm not a cop," Sheila said in an unsteady voice.

"Oh, no, 'course not," said Dale. "You're some kinda rock star like that gal Broccoli Spears, right? Sure ya are."

"Broccoli Spears? Hey that's a good one!" Mortimer said.

"Shut it or I'll put a slug in ya," Slug commanded. "Or maybe just slug ya one."

"Very funny," Mort said, but he kept it under his breath.

"Now," Dale resumed, "I ain't sure what you're doin' here but you're gettin' a little too deep into none a your business, and we don't like that, see? And we don't take no chances neither. So, sports, I guess you played your last little game and it ain't checkers neither. But first, you're gonna tell me what this is all about. One way or the other."

"Want me to twist the cop lady's arm?" Slug asked, "maybe break it a little." He laughed, showing stubby yellowed teeth.

"Not yet," Dale said, "and anyhow you gotta watch out for her moves. Nah, put a bullet in her right kneecap ... unless the wimp here starts talking. Fast."

Slug pointed his gun in the direction of Sheila's right knee.

"Wait, no!" Mortimer shouted, his face flushing red. "Don't hurt her! Look, it's like this. We were in the checker tournament tent when Bob Pace was shot, and well, Sheila being with the FBI and all ... "

"FBI?" Dale said. "I thought you said you wasn't no cop. You're dead for sure, now, lady ... "

"Oh Mortimer, you can be so stupid sometimes!" Sheila said. "I'm a lab tech, I'm not an agent."

"I ain't got no idea what that means, but if you're with the FBI in my book you're a cop."

"Look, look, just let me finish," Mortimer said, holding out his hands, palms facing Dale and Slug. "So anyhow we wondered about the murder and then this one cop and the Chief of Police got all nasty with us telling us not to interfere so we figured why not solve the case and then over at the bar we find out Bob Pace, he's the guy that was killed, came over here for some big time action but then when we came over you got suspicious and ran us off and we though you were maybe hiding something and so ... "

"Will you stop babbling like a fool!" Dale shouted. "Okay, you figured Pace was playing here. Well so what? He didn't owe us. We didn't have no reason to rub him out."

"Except ... oh! Now I get it! All of it makes sense! That name in the books ... "

"Whaddya mean ... "

The door to the office burst open again, and the hatch at the back flew to the floor at the same time.

"Drop the guns! Police!" a voice shouted.

Sheila dove towards Mortimer and shoved him to the floor just as shots started to ring out. Sheila and Mortimer heard bullets whiz over their heads and then everything was quiet. When they looked up again they saw Larry and Slug sprawled on the floor, unmoving.

"You're both under arrest!" a familiar voice called out. It was Detective Roger, and standing right next to Chief Easton.

"Wait, we can explain," Mortimer said, but by then he and Sheila had both already been handcuffed and pulled to their feet.

They did get to do their explaining, a lot of it, after they had been taken downtown and placed in an interview room. Sheila noted that they hadn't been booked yet, which she thought was odd, and that they were going to be interviewed together, which was odder still. They were left handcuffed to brackets on top of the interview table and made to wait.

Mortimer started to speak when they were alone in the interview room, but Sheila warned him at once that someone was almost certainly listening.

"Well, what I have to say they need to hear," Mortimer said. "Pretty funny, don't you think, that the Chief was there this morning? Why would he be? And how did they know where we were?"

"That's pretty easy," Sheila said. "They must have been watching us, ever since Detective Roger talked with us at the motel."

Just at that moment both Detective Roger and Chief Easton came in the room. It was the Chief who spoke first.

"I don't know that we can pin Bob Pace's murder on you," he said, "although I aim to try."

"You haven't got anything," Sheila said, "and you know from the ballistics it just isn't possible."

"Stuff it!" Easton shouted. "When I want to hear from little miss smarty FBI lady, I'll say so. Now like, I was going to say, I can sure get you for a lot of other stuff, like breaking and entering, possession of burglary tools, tampering with evidence, and some other stuff." He chuckled. "Maybe even assaulting an officer and aiding and abetting."

"Maybe tax evasion and jaywalking too?" Sheila said.

" ... unless," the Chief continued.

"Unless what?" Sheila and Mortimer asked, just about in unison.

"Unless you cooperate," Detective Roger said. "We're pretty sure that Bob Pace was killed by that gambling gang. You tell us what you found out, and we close the case. Those two goons are both dead, and that makes everything real easy."

"What's the option?" Sheila asked.

"We pin an accessory wrap on you two, plus all the other stuff the Chief was talking about. You both go away for most of the rest of your lives. And Iowa prisons ain't pretty places."

"And if we play along?" Sheila continued.

"You play along, you sign paperwork saying you'll keep quiet, you get to go home, and you don't never set foot in Des Moines ever again."

"As if I'd want to," Mortimer said.

"Then we'll all be happy," Roger concluded. "Now what's in going to be?"

There really wasn't any choice.

Mortimer and Sheila explained, or tried to explain everything, starting with what they had observed in their photographs, to their research on Bob Pace, the information gathered at the sports bar, and finally the nighttime encounter at the gambling den, and their subsequent morning return.

Of course the police had indeed been following them and knew of their movements, although they did tacitly admit that the taxi driver had lost them on the way back to their motel. When the police saw the two goons enter the Sweet Corn Cafe while Mortimer and Sheila were still inside, they decided to move in and as they put it, "capture everyone all at once."

Mortimer explained further about the betting records and how Bob Pace had gambled heavily. He was about to continue and then suddenly stopped.

"Can we take a little break?" he asked.

"What for?" Roger asked.

"Uh ... my throat's dry?" Mortimer replied.

"Finish this up," the Chief growled, "I've got other things to do. Then I gotta get out a press statement. Pace was bumped off because of gambling debts."

"But," Mortimer objected, "that's not ... "

"That's how it was," the Chief interrupted, and I don't want to hear nothing else. Roger, take care of it."

"Yes sir," the detective responded as the Chief left the room.

Mortimer wiped his brow. "Look, detective, I didn't want to say this in front of the Chief. Or show you this."

Mortimer used his free hand to reach into his socks, where he had concealed a folded slip of paper.

"Look at this," said said, passing it across to the detective.

Roger unfolded the paper and read it. Then he read it again. And then a third time.

"Chief Easton bet a hundred grand on Pace's match? For Pace to lose?"

"Yep."

Sheila looked as astonished as Roger. "But that means," she began, "that ... "

"The Chief killed Pace? Or had him killed? You can't prove that, and I don't believe it."

"Look," said Mortimer, "let me have a pen and something to write on."

Roger hesitated but tore a page from his notebook and passed it and a pen to Mortimer, who drew the following diagram.

"So?" Detective Roger said.

"So? Bob Pace was going to win this one. And the Chief bet against him. The Chief was going to be out most of a year's pay. And he must have been looking the other way about the goons making book. He was in pretty deep and might be looking at jail time himself."

"I still don't believe it," Roger said. "The Chief ... he just wouldn't. Not the Chief. And you think based on this I'm putting my career on the line by accusing him? Nope."

The door opened and a woman entered. She whispered in Roger's ear and then left.

"Well ain't that interesting," he said. "There was a fire at that gambling den and everything was destroyed including all the betting records. The place was supposed to be under police seal. Stuff happens, I 'spose."

"Doesn't that tell you something?" Sheila asked. "I mean, as a detective, doesn't that lead to ... certain conclusions?"

"Maybe it does," Roger replied, "and maybe it don't. But I ain't goin' there." He unlocked the handcuffs attaching Sheila and Mortimer to the steel interview table. "But I do know something. You two better get outta here. Go get your stuff, and be on the next plane to anywhere. There won't be no arrest record or nothing. Leastwise, not if you're in a different state by midnight."

Sheila and Mortimer, again not having any other option, did as the detective had said. When they were on their flight back to Denver, Sheila said, "Well, we did solve that one, Mortimer."

"For all the good it did," Mortimer replied, and then added, "do you suppose Roger was in on it?"

"Maybe," Sheila said, "although for sure there must have been others. Chief Easton wouldn't have done the shooting himself. He would have had someone else who was part of the scheme do it. But he forgot one thing, and so did you."

"What was that?"

"That I can talk to some people at my office in Denver. The FBI takes a lot of interest in police corruption and without a doubt I'll be able to get someone to start a little look-see. Chief Easton and probably a few others are going to be behind bars within a couple of months, mark my words."

Sheila smiled and Mortimer smiled back.

"One thing for sure, though," Mortimer said. "Next time I suggest we go to Iowa, whack my head a couple of times."

THE END

---

The last problem in this series is very difficult and you may need to refer to the solution. Don't whack your own head, though; see how you do and then whack your mouse on Read More to see the solution.

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In our last episode, Marvin had been fired from his $12 per hour job flipping burgers for McDouglas. Priscilla had been seriously insulted by the McDouglas manager and had been very angry.

That was on a Sunday evening. At first Priscilla had taken out her frustrations on Marvin, but the range of her ire quickly spread to McDouglas and the Doublejumpers.

Monday morning came along. Priscilla normally rose at 5 AM to exercise, have breakfast, and then ride in her chauffeur driven limo to her office, arriving promptly at 7:30 AM.

Marvin, especially since he had started working the two to midnight shift at McDouglas, generally didn't get up until around nine.

But this morning, he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him roughly. It was, of course, Priscilla.

"Wake up, Marvin. Now." It was said in a loud and insistent voice.

Marvin rolled over. "What time ... "

"Time for you to wake up and listen to what I have to say."

Marvin managed to glance at the bedside clock. "Gee Prissy, it's only six thirty ... "

'Don't call me Prissy! Now listen!"

Marvin sat up and tried, without a lot of success, to look alert.

"I'll be leaving for office in a few minutes. When I get there I'm going to make some phone calls, and I expect a lot of things will start to happen after that. I want you up and dressed and ready to go out on a moment's notice. If your phone rings, you are to answer it immediately, and, I might add, in a polite and business-like manner. Should I call and give you instructions, you are to follow them to the letter and without question. Am I making myself clear?"

Marvin, looking puzzled, replied, "Uh yeah, but what's the big deal? I mean, well, sure, I'm out of work now and need to look ... you trying to line me up with something? Or like, I dunno, get me back on at McDouglas?"

"Never mind the questions," Priscilla said curtly, "just do as you're told. That's the least you can do after what you put me through last night."

"What I put you through?"

"Don't start. I've calmed down, don't stir me up all over again."

With that Priscilla left their bedroom. Soon thereafter Marvin heard her leave the condo by her private elevator.

Marvin wasn't sure what to make of all this, but he thought it best to listen to Priscilla. She had been very poorly treated by his now ex-boss the previous evening, and Marvin did feel bad about it even though he shouldn't have to accept the blame. But Priscilla was Priscilla.

He quickly showered and dressed, and by 8 AM--- rather early for him--- he was ready for whatever might come along. Or at least so he thought.

There was nothing to do but wait. He took a cup of coffee into the breakfast room along with a copy of All Checkers Digest. This month's issue had a number of good checker problems and Marvin was looking at the one shown below.

Marvin thought he had a line on the solution when his phone rang. It was now about 10 AM. Heeding Priscilla's instructions he answered at once. The phone display showed "Unknown Caller."

"Hello?" Marvin said.

"Is this Mr. Mavin?"

"Yes, it is."

"This is Andrew Terry. I'm a senior partner in the law firm of Katzen, Ratzen, and Jatzen. I'm representing you in your lawsuit against the Detroit Doublejumper Checker Club, Inc."

Marvin, once again surprised, said, "What lawsuit?"

"You don't know? Ms. Snelson, your wife, called us this morning and had us institute an action seeking your full reinstatement plus statutory, punitive, exemplary, consequential and collateral damages for a variety of just and adequate causes including ... "

"Okay, uh, Mr. Terry, I get it. Is there something you need from me?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Mavin, you're to be at a meeting at Doublejumper corporate at 11 AM. That's an hour from now. The front desk will direct you. It seems the Doublejumpers are willing to settle on terms favorable to us. Can you be there?"

Marvin thought about what Priscilla might say if he didn't show up and said, "Okay."

"See you soon, Mr. Mavin." The line disconnected and immediately rang again. It was Priscilla.

"The limo will pick you up in fifteen minutes," Priscilla said. "Be ready." The line disconnected once again.

Marvin changed very quickly into a seldom worn suit and tie, and hurried to meet the limo, which was already waiting in front of the condo.

The limo sped him downtown to Doublejumper headquarters, a place which Marvin had been to many times before, generally as a part of contract negotiations. In the lobby he met up with Priscilla and a small man in a very expensive blue suit and lemon-colored tie. "Prissy --- I didn't know you'd be here ... "

Priscilla glared but only said, "Marvin, this is Mr. Terry, your legal counsel."

Marvin and Mr. Terry shook hands, after which Mr. Terry said, "Well, Mr. Mavin, are you ready?"

"Uh ... sure ... but for what?"

"You just let me take the lead," Mr. Terry said.

They all took the elevator to the top floor and were shown into the Checkers Conference Room, a large well-appointed meeting area with a long, wide mahagony table surrounded by leather chairs. A minute or so later, a bevy of Doublejumper personnel entered the room. Marvin recognized the Chairman of the Board, the Chief Executive Officer, the V.P. of Human Resources, and the V.P. of Legal Affairs, along with their assistants.

Everyone shook hands with Priscilla, Mr. Terry, and Marvin, and then seats were taken. The Doublejumper Chairman, Mr. Ward Warden, rose and addressed the group.

"We'd like to settle this dispute quickly," he began. "As you know the Doublejumpers are not having a good year, so to make a long story short, we'd like to reinstate Marvin as a member of the team and as team captain, effective at once." Mr. Warden smiled. "We think that's a great offer under the circumstances and should easily settle all outstanding issues."

But Mr. Terry put his palms flat on the table and said, "Not so fast, Mr. Warden. While my client appreciates your willingness to settle this case, you're going to have to do a lot better than simple reinstatement. My client suffered abuse and humiliation at the hands of the Doublejumpers. His life was thrown into chaos. He is suffering from trauma, elevated blood pressure, insomnia, sciatica, hives, dandruff, swollen ankles and ... um ... other problems."

"I am?" Marvin muttered but he was silenced with a glance from Priscilla.

However Mr. Terry was still speaking. " ... punitive and compensatory damages in the amount of $10 million, reinstatment at double his contract salary, full back pay, a public apology ... "

The Doublejumper V.P. of Legal Affairs, a Mr. Gerald Grimly, rose to his feet. "You can't seriously expect us to listen to such demands on behalf of someone who has behaved as poorly as ... "

"Sit down!" Mr. Warden told Mr. Grimly. "We have to settle this! Can you imagine the bad publicity we'll get? In case you haven't noticed, the team is in last place and we're losing money in ticket sales, sponsorships ... I want you to settle this case now."

The V.P. of Human Resources, a Ms. Ino Kea, said in a stage whisper, "But Mr. Warden, sir, our employee handbook strictly forbids ... "

"Keep quiet, you!" Mr. Warden said with an angry glance at Ms. Kea. "Now let's get on with this.

The discussion, or perhaps debacle from the standpoint of the Doublejumpers, lasted only another 15 minutes. Marvin was to be immediately reinstated to his former position, he was to receive full back pay, and also the full $10 million in damages. The only concessions were that his contract salary would be raised by 20%, to $6 million per year instead of doubled, and that the public apology would be mild rather than abject.

The meeting concluded with another round of rather cold handshakes. Back down in the lobby, after Mr. Terry had departed, Marvin remarked to Priscilla, "Gee honey, you sure did get some action with whatever calls you made this morning. But I thought you said it wasn't worth suing the Doublejumpers because of all their hot-shot lawyers and stuff?"

"A woman has a right to change her mind," Priscilla said with a smile, "and I have resources that you don't." She paused a moment. "By the way, we're not quite done yet. We're meeting our other lawyer for lunch."

"Other lawyer? What other lawyer?"

"Sandra Sprinkler, of Sprinkler, Mower, and Edger," Priscilla said. "She's handling our case against McDouglas. The McDouglas CEO will arrive on his private jet this afternoon and we're to meet with him at four o'clock. I expect we'll get quite a good settlement from them, too. And you'll probably like to know that your former manager has already been dismissed from his position."

"Wow!" Marvin exclaimed. "Don't mess with Priscilla!"

Priscilla gave Marvin a long, steady look before saying, "That's right, Marvin. Remember that. Don't mess with Priscilla."

---

We hope you liked the conclusion to our latest Marvin J. Mavin series. Marvin will surely have further adventures in the months to come.

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It's been a long journey but we've reached the end of the road, as we announce #77 in Bill Salot's wonderful series of checker problem composing contests; #77 will indeed be the last. The Checker Maven has been privileged to have published 22 of them and to have archived the rest for continued enjoyment into the future.

But all is not lost; Mr. Salot says he will provide us with problems on a continuing basis for us to publish from time to time in our regular weekly columns.

For now, however, let's focus on Contest 77, which Mr. Salot calls Entertainers. You can read more about it and try four creative and indeed entertaining problems on the contest page.

First, though, we'll let you try a "teaser" problem called Surprise, Surprise, composed by Roy Little and originally published in February 2021. You'll see where the title comes from when you solve the problem.

Surprise yourself by solving this one, and then spring a surprise by clicking on Read More to see the solution. And then, be sure to visit the contest page and vote for your favorite!

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Editor's Note: We're running this story a week ahead of Veteran's Day due to scheduling conflicts. However this gives us a good opportunity to mention that one of the best ways for Americans to honor our vets is to exercise your right to vote in Tuesday's election.

It was one o'clock in the afternoon on Saturday, November 5, 1955, and time for the Coffee and Cake Checker Club to meet. The club was informally run by Sal Westerman, who together with the "boys" (almost all of them over 50 years old) who made up the club, gathered at the Beacon Cafe in Bismarck, North Dakota.

At a few minutes past one, Sal was joined in the big booth in the back of the Cafe by regular attendees Wayne, Dan, Larry, Louie the Flash, Tom, and Mike. It was a good turnout.

Coffee mugs were filled by Deana, the Cafe's proprietess and a championship baker, who casually announced that there were fresh rhubarb bars in the offing. Small talk ensued and the topic turned to the Veteran's Day Parade which would take place the coming Friday, November 11. The parade would be led by Mayor Evan Lipps, and, as many veterans lived in Bismarck, it would be a big important event. Much of the city would turn out to honor the local vets.

The club members reminisced about their own military service. Sal had served in the Pacific as part of the Air Corps and had been on Tinian Island when the atomic bombers had taken off on their historic missions.

Wayne had also served in the Pacific with the Navy and had seen action in the Philippines and elsewhere.

Dan and Mike had been in Europe with the Army and both had been involved in the Normandy landings.

Larry had been in the Marines at Guadalcanal and other battles, while Tom and Mike had also been in Europe.

Louie the Flash served on the homefront in what was a highly secret bombsight facility.

In honor of their service, Deana offered them all free treats this afternoon, and the boys were very grateful, not just for the fine baked goods but even more so for the recognition and appreciation.

Of course talk inevitably turned to the subject at hand, checkers, and as was the custom, Sal had a problem for the boys to solve.

"No one has to buy today, Sal," said Dan, "thanks to Deana." The custom was that the boys would buy for Sal and his wife if they couldn't solve Sal's problem while Sal would buy if the boys did find the right line of play.

"Here you go, boys," said Sal, as he set up the following position on a couple of the checkerboards which lay ready on the booth's table.

"Take, oh, 45 minutes and see if you can do it."

The boys dove in at once and now all discussion was focused on finding the correct moves.

---

Solve along with the boys. We can't offer you free treats but we hope we're offering some good checker entertainment. When you're ready, click on Read More to see the solution.

[Read More]

The cab took them swiftly back to their motel. The cabbie tried to strike up a conversation but didn't get very far, as Sheila and Mortimer, breathless and nervous, were hardly in a talkative mood.

After the cabbie pulled up in front of the motel and Mortimer paid him, he drove off muttering, "Coupla weirdos."

Back in their room, Mortimer said, "You don't suppose we were followed, do you?"

"I doubt it," Sheila replied. "Although if they have connections they might be able to trace the cab. We probably shouldn't have come straight back. But it really isn't very likely."

"Well, now what?" Mortimer asked. "It's pretty clear that Bob Pace had some kind of involvement with that gambling den that they don't want known. Do you suppose ... "

"Suppose what? That Pace's killing was connected somehow? That's pretty likely. But it's not something we can exactly prove."

"Don't you think we should tell the police?"

Sheila frowned. "No. Well, ordinarily, yes. But they sure didn't want us involved, and instead of believing us they're more likely to give us a hard time for interfering with their investigation. And if those gunshots were heard and reported, they won't be happy with us at all and might even blame us."

"Then we need something, don't we. For proof."

"Sure, but what? And how do we get it?"

"We need their betting records. We need to go through them and see what sort of betting Bob Pace was doing. See if he was in deep or anything."

"Sure, but ... "

"We need to go back there when they're closed and, I don't know, break in or something."

"A gambling den? When does it ever close?"

"In the morning. Look, I happened to see the sign at the Sweet Corn Cafe. They don't open until 11, and I'll bet the den doesn't open until even later. Probably play stops around daylight. So we go at say, 7 AM, and we have a good two hours to get in and out."

"Break into the place in broad daylight? Besides there will be alarms, not to mention those thick doors with electronic locks."

Mortimer smiled. "Not a problem for me. As you well know."

It was Sheila's turn to smile. "Sure, you took those locksmithing classes. And you're a genius with electronics. But come on, you know it's not safe."

Mortimer gave her a wry look. "You know you want to."

Sheila, who had been standing, sat down on the edge of the bed and grinned. "Of course I do."

Mortimer and Sheila slept fitfully, knowing they would have to be up early, and at least slightly worried that the goons from the gambling den might find them. But there weren't any difficulties and they were up just before sunrise. They didn't have much in the way of tools for breaking into anything by brute force, so they would have to rely on Mortimer's lockpicking skills.

They decided on a cab rather than a ride share--- that way there would be no credit card records. They had the cab pick them up a couple of blocks from their motel and drop them off a few blocks from the Sweet Corn Cafe. They arrived at just after 7 AM as planned.

"What's the next move?" Sheila asked when they were finally across the street from the Cafe. "You going to pick the lock on the front door and then on that big oak door?"

"Nope," Mortimer said. "A frontal assault won't do the job. That electronic lock on the door to the basewent is likely too tough to defeat. And it's probably been set into alarm mode. But there's always a back door."

"A back door? Mortimer, why would there be a back door?"

"Aw, come on honey, we watch movies together, there's always a back door for the crooks to go in by or make their escape out of when the G-men are after them."

"The G-men. Like in those cheesy FBI movies that I keep telling you have nothing to do with how the FBI really works."

"Yeah, yeah, those. But look, there has to be an escape hatch. A place where they can go in without being noticed and get out in case of trouble.'

"I suppose ... "

"So let's just mosey on down the nearest alley. Those doors are always in the alley, right?"

"Mort, I don't know as how this is going to go well," Sheila said, but by then Mortimer was already hopping and skipping across the street.

There was indeed a back alley running alongside the Sweet Corn Cafe, and it dead-ended at a high wall at the far end of the building. There was a slanted wooden door, something like a storm door, attached to the brick wall of the building. The door had an L-shaped handle attatched at one end. Pulling on the handle did nothing.

"I think maybe it's that escape hatch you talked about," Sheila said, 'but going out only. Not that secret mobster entrance.'

"Has to be," Mortimer replied as he carefully ran his hands over every inch of the door and handle. Then he wet a finger and poked one of the ends of the handle.

"Well I'll be," he said, "look at this."

Sheila leaned over and sure enough, Mortimer's probing finger had released a spring-held cover which popped back to reveal a tiny keyhole.

"That's great," Sheila said, "but what's with wetting your finger?"

"They do that in the detective movies, especially the old British ones,' Mortimer said.

"Okay." Sheila shrugged her shoulders as Mortimer went to work with his lock picking tools.

"A hidden lock won't be too tough and it won't be alarmed," he said confidently, but Sheila didn't look all that convinced.

It barely took Mortimer two minutes to get the lock cylinder to turn and free the door handle. Mortimer gave the handle a half turn and heard the door release. It swung open on creaky hinges.

"Shine your cell phone flash down here," Mortimer said. Sheila did so and there was an iron-runged ladder, bolted to the inner wall, leading down.

"Come on," Mortimer said, swinging his legs through the door hatch, and then slipping and yelling as he fell with a crunch.

"Mort? Are you hurt?" Sheila clambered nimbly down the ladder. Her light revealed Mortimer rubbing his elbow and saying words that he normally didn't say in anyone's company, let alone Sheila's.

"I'm okay," he said. "Guess I'm just a little clumsy, huh?"

Sheila, recalling some of their other escapades, didn't reply.

"No alarm, that's good," Mortimer said, standing up. "Now let's just find the lights ... "

"Mortimer, there could be a silent ... "

But Mortimer was already shining his own cellphone light around the room.

" ... alarm," Sheila concluded.

Sheila was the one to find the light switch and it turned out, quite luckily, that the outer door led straight into the gambling den's office at the back of the basement. There were stacks of journals everywhere, and something else.

"Look at this," Sheila said, "cans of gasoline. If they got raided they must have planned to pour the gas on everything and toss in a match on their way out the escape hatch, to destroy their records. Kind of dumb. An FBI team would always think to cover potential exits."

"Yes," Mortimer replied, "but the local cops arent quite as astute, as you may have noticed. Now, let's get started. We're looking for information on Bob Pace, and we haven't got much time."

Sheila waved her arms as if to say, "Okay, sure, whatever." But Mortimer was already too busy looking through stacks of files.

"How are we ever going to find anything?" Sheila asked. "And won't the gang realize that someone has been through their stuff?"

"Only if we leave neat piles," Mortimer said with a smile.

It took them a good hour, maybe a little longer, but they did uncover quite a few betting records having to do with Bob Pace. It looked like he was a heavy gambler, betting not only on his own matches but on those of other players, and not just in Des Moines, but around the country. They didn't find evidence that Bob was heavily in debt, however.

Finally, Sheila said, "I can understand a hit, maybe even a very public hit to make an example of someone who didn't pay their debts. But that would be risky and not how most sharks do things. It's usually progressive, like a few broken fingers or a shattered kneecap or something. And anyhow, Pace didn't seem to owe anything. It just doesn't fit."

"There has to be more," Mortimer said. "We have maybe another 15 minutes, and we'll go back out the way we came in, so that might give us a little more time. Let's keep looking." Mortimer, wisely, failed to disclose that in the midst of one of the piles he had found an issue of All Checkers Digest and had surreptitiously torn out a page and put it in his pocket.

Perhaps ten minutes had passed when Mortimer exclaimed "Will you look at this! It's the answer!"

But just at that moment the door to the office burst open and in came Dale and Slug, automatics in their hands and pointed directly at Sheila and Mortimer.

To be concluded.

---

Hopefully no armed mobsters like Dale and Slug will interrupt your enjoyment of the problem above, as it's quite a nice one. Take a "shot" at it and then shoot your mouse over to Read More to see the solution. And don't forget to tune in next month to read the conclusion of our story!

[Read More]

"Do you want fries with that?" Marvin said to the middle-aged woman who was accompanied by two screaming children, likely her grandchildren.

"What do you think, dummy? Of course I want fries! Can't you see the kids want fries? Two extra large fries and they better be fresh. Don't you give me any old stuff that's been sitting around for hours."

"Yes ma'am, coming up right away, ma'am."

"And another thing, I want you to clean the restrooms. I don't want us to get sick from some germs or something."

"Yes ma'am, right away, ma'am."

"And stop calling me that! I'm Mrs. Smith and don't you ever forget it."

"Yes, Mrs. Smith, understood, Mrs. Smith."

Mrs. Smith grabbed the children with one hand each and dragged them off to find a seat.

Recall from our last episode that Marvin and Priscilla had quite a set-to about Marvin being out of work, having resigned from the Detroit Doublejumpers and being contracturally forbidden to play for any other professional checker team.

Priscilla had invited or perhaps even ordered Marvin to move out if he wouldn't get a job--- any job, even as a bartender. They had been married for little more than a year and all of a sudden it looked like the marriage was in trouble.

Marvin thought about just getting another little apartment in a bad neighborhood. After all, it was the way he had been used to living and that way he could live off his savings more or less indefinitely. He of course wanted to go back to playing checkers, but it simply wasn't possible.

However, he really loved Priscilla. She had her moods, sometimes pretty difficult ones, but things had always had a way of coming around. So he went out and found a job. McDouglas was hiring and Marvin signed on for four ten hour shifts a week. The pay was $12.00 an hour with no tips. That fell something short of the $5 million per year contract he had held with the Doublejumpers, but at least he could show Priscilla he was working.

For a couple of weeks Prisilla seemed pleased, and even praised Marvin for his willingness to take a step down in order to remain "productive" as she called it, even though Marvin's income from McDouglas didn't make much difference considering that Priscilla's compensation package as CEO of Rust Belt Holdings approached $50 million per year.

But then one Saturday morning, Marvin and Priscilla were sitting in the breakfast room of Priscilla's swank 5,000 square foot condo. Marvin had worked the 2 PM to midnight shift the previous evening at McDouglas and he was quite tired.

Priscilla was picking at her Eggs Benedict and reading the morning newspaper, the Detroit Freewheeler. She looked up and said, "Marvin, your Doublejumpers aren't doing very well this year without you. They're in last place in their division."

"Not my Doublejumpers any longer," Marvin muttered, preoccupied with the latest issue of All Checkers Digest. He was studying the following intriguing problem.

"Well, wait, just listen to what this columnist has to say." Priscilla began to read.

"The Doublejumpers are off to a miserable start and after a month of play are dead last in the standings. They can't get their act together and are performing like a group of demoralized zombies. Despite the controversy surrounding him, the Doublejumpers miss the leadership and inspiration provided by former team captain Marvin J. Mavin. Word is that Doublejumper management remains unwilling to readmit Marvin to the team after he quit training camp, alleging mistreatment and harassment, allegations privately sustained by other team members who for obvious reasons have remained anonymous."

"Nice," Marvin said, "but not much help. And I ain't going begging to get back on the team, neither. They gotta come to me. Anyhoo, I got another shift at McDouglas today so I better get going."

Things went along for another week. Marvin kept serving up burgers and fries while the Doublejumpers lost match after match. On the next Sunday afternoon, there was something of a quiet period as Marvin was in the middle of his 2 PM to midnight shift.

His boss, Alan, didn't allow the staff to slack off even if there were no cusomers. They needed to be doing something, whether is was sweeping or cleaning windows or any of a million other jobs that restaurant work entailed. Marvin was busy wiping down tables.

"Hey, you, Marv," Alan yelled, "you've already been five minutes on that table job. Let's take it up a notch, huh? Get your lazy tail in gear. The floor needs mopping in case you haven't noticed. Of course you haven't noticed, you useless deadbeat ... "

Alan kept on with his stream of criticisms and invectives when just at that moment, who should come through the main entrance but ... Priscilla! Marvin looked up and, with great surprise, said, "Hi honey! Whatcha doin' here?"

Alan stopped his spouting, turned to look at Priscilla, and then turned back to Marvin. "Did I just hear you call this customer honey?" he said. "That's it! I've finally got a good reason to fire you. You're a lousy employee anyhow and this does it. You're done, boy. Turn in your uniform and get off the premises."

"But Alan, that's my wife ... " Marvin protested.

"Your wife? What, is she here to ask for free food or something? All the more reason to fire you." He turned back to Priscilla. "And you, lady, we don't cotton to thieves here and asking for free food makes you a thief. So take this worthless husband of yours and get your worthless selves out of here! You're banned! Don't ever come back or I'll call the cops!"

Up until now, Priscilla was silent, but she had slowly been turning red in the face. "You have no idea what you've just done," she said, addressing Alan. "You've abused my husband, you've created a hostile working environment, and now you've fired him without cause. You've also slandered me. Yes, certainly we'll leave and certainly we'll never come back. But you haven't heard the last from me, not by a long shot."

Now she turned to Marvin. "Let's go," she said, "I need to talk to you about the situation you've just put me in. I came here to see how you were doing with your job, and look what happened."

Marvin quickly went into the locker area, changed back into his street clothes, and joined Priscilla outside in her waiting limo. There was silence for a short while and then Marvin said, "Hey, at least I didn't have to take the bus home." He forced a laugh.

Priscilla's previous shade of angry red had since turned into a deadly white. "That's not even funny," she said. "Why did you take a job in a place like that working for a person like that?"

"Hey, I thought you wanted me to work and was glad I got a job."

"I was. But I had no idea that I was being set up to be insulted and slandered by your employer. That's on you. Why didn't you work in a bar or something? Or take the Doublejumpers' offer?"

Recall that the Doublejumpers had said they would take Marvin back onto the team if he would play without pay (or at minimum wage) for one season with a Single-A minor league affiliate, as "penance" for his actions and for quitting the team.

Marvin was silent. He had no idea how to reply. All he knew was that he was now out of work--- again.

"It's Sunday evening now," Priscilla observed, "but tomorrow morning I'll be making some phone calls and everyone just had better watch out."

To be continued ...

---

We certainly hope you, our reader, aren't suffering woes the likes of Marvin's (or any at all, for that matter). But whatever your situation you can enjoy the challenge of today's checker problem, which will require many star moves to find the winning path. Work on it, and then work your mouse over to Read More to see the solution.

[Read More]

It was a beautiful fall afternoon in October, 1955, in Bismarck, North Dakota. The first weekend of the month had gone by, meaning all the yards had been raked up and made ready for winter, as was the unofficial but strict rule in Bismarck. Saturdays would now be a time for leisure with no more yard work until the first weekend in April.

That was certainly the case for Sal Westerman, the leader of the Coffee and Cake Checker Club, which met on Saturday afternoons from Labor Day to Memorial Day at the Beacon Cafe in the Provident Life Building. Sal loved his Saturday afternoons at the Beacon and eagerly looked forward to them.

Today, though, he was wondering if he should go at all. His wife, Sylvia, wasn't feeling well and Sal thought about staying home.

Sal said as much to Sylvia but she wouldn't hear of it. "No Sal, you go," she said, "it's only a few hours and I'll be fine. I'm only running a slight fever and I can take a couple of aspirin if I need to."

Sal wasn't so sure. Sylvia had had a high fever the previous evening and it was a difficult night for both of them. But Sylvia was insistent.

"I'll call you and check once or twice," Sal said.

"All right dear," Sylvia said, "but I may be sleeping so don't worry if I don't answer, okay?"

So at about quarter to one Sal started the ten minute walk to the Beacon Cafe. It was a pleasant walk on such a nice day, but he couldn't get Sylvia off his mind.

Sal arrived a few minutes ahead of the one o'clock meeting time. A couple of "the boys" as Sal called them (even though all but one of them was over the age of 50) had already arrived. Dan and Delmer had taken seats in the big booth at the back of the cafe. Sal said hello to the proprietess, Deana, and then joined the boys. Soon after Wayne, Larry, and Louie the Flash arrived, followed by Ron and Tom.

The group chit-chatted for a little while but after ten minutes or so Sal got up and quietly asked Deana to use the phone. "Sylvia isn't doing so well today and I need to check in," he explained, "but I don't want the boys to know."

"Sure thing," Deana said, "you can use the phone in my office."

Sal made his call and Sylvia answered on the second ring.

"I'm doing fine," she reassured Sal when he asked. "I'm just trying to rest," she said in just a bit of a sharper tone.

Sal hung up and went back to the booth.

"So, we're waiting for you, Sal," Wayne said. "What have you got for us?" The tradition was that Sal would bring along a checker problem and if the boys couldn't solve it, they would buy treats for Sal and Sylvia; otherwise Sal would buy for the group.

"Okay boys," Sal said, "here you go." He set up the following position on a couple of the checkerboards that were arrayed on the booth's table.

Just then Deana announced that today she had caramel apple cheesecake bars on offer. "Made with the best of this year's apples," she added.

The boys nodded approvingly but they were already deep into working on the day's checker problem.

Sal normally would sit and watch the boys as they tried various approaches to winning the position. But today he was fidgety and restless. About a dozen times during the next hour he thought to call Sylvia again, but he didn't want to wake her and neither did he wish to keep bothering Deana to use the phone.

Finally Sal called "time" and asked the boys how they had done.

---

We certainly hope no one in your family is ill and nothing disturbs your Saturday enjoyment. Solve along with the "boys" and see how you do, then click on Read More to see the solution and the rest of our little story.

[Read More]

The short term "run down" can mean several things in the rather flexible English language. That barn above certainly is run down, meaning dilapidated, neglected, in bad condition. If you're ill, you might be feeling "run down." And there are other meanings; a crime suspect might be "run down" by the police. A pedestrian, heaven forbid, might get run down in traffic. Or in baseball, a baserunner might be caught in a rundown (no hyphen) and tagged out.

In the game of checkers, a piece might get "run down" and captured. That's something of a hint for today's problem. Let's look at the run up to the run down.

1.	10-14	22-18
2.	11-16	26-22
3.	7-10	24-19
4.	8-11	28-24
5.	16-20	30-26
6.	9-13	...

If you search for this move in online databases, such as Checker Cruncher, you'll see one game in which this move occurs, and Black wins that one (there may be others that we didn't find). But actually 9-13 loses! Can you correct this? There are several moves that would draw here.

6.	...	18x9
7.	5x14	...

Alas, after the exchange, Black is in a loss. But White will need to demonstrate good cross-board skills and make a number of star moves to pull off the win.

The solution is a bit long, but don't let this problem run you down; instead, run down the solution and then run your mouse down to Read More to check your work.

[Read More]

"Can you please tell me what's going on?" Mortimer asked as Sheila rushed him across the street and toward the next block.

"Didn't you hear my conversation with Rosie?" she replied, a bit out of breath.

"No ... you two were whispering and that guy Ike was so loud ... "

"Okay, hold on a moment." Sheila came to an abrupt halt. "She mentioned that there was a gambling den--- a checkers gambling den--- somewhere inside the Sweet Corn Cafe. That's where we're going. She said we could find out more about Bob Pace there. Said he was a gambler and that might have something to do with his ... uh ... demise. She told me what to say so that they'll let us in."

"You sure this is such a good idea?" Mortimer gave an involuntary shiver.

"What can happen? You play some checkers and lose a few dollars? We'll be careful."

Marvin didn't look too convinced but followed along as Sheila started walking again. In the next block they came to a dingy looking storefront that bore a neon sign proclaiming "Sweet Corn Cafe." Some of the elements in the sign lights were burned out and a few others were flickering. Through the storefront window Sheila and Mortimer could see a few people sitting at formica covered tables. The place didn't look especially clean.

"Come on," Sheila said, pushing open the door.

Mortimer followed her up to the service counter where a older woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun, and wearing horn-rimmed glasses with obviously smudged lenses, said in an unenthusiastic voice, "Help you?"

"Yes," Sheila said, "we're looking for Colonel Checkers."

The woman looked up suspiciously. "Is that right? Well then who says he's here?"

"Rosie Double Rye."

During this exchange Mortimer looked on, appearing somewhat baffled.

The older woman gave both of them stares, in turn. "Well," she said finally, if Rosie sent ya, I 'spose it's okay. Through there." She pointed a bony finger at a red and white checked curtain at the side of the counter. "I'll buzz you in."

Pushing aside the curtain revealed what looked to be a very strong oaken door. The woman pressed a button underneath her counter and Sheila heard an electronic lock slip back. She pulled open the door and she and Marvin entered.

They were at the head of a dimly lit staircase that had a landing and a half turn part way down. As they descended they heard the oaken door swing shut behind them and the electric lock engage.

"That doesn't sound very good," Mortimer said, but by then they had turned the corner on the staircase and could see the basement room before them.

It was pretty large, evidently having been expanded and dug out beyond the original foundations of the cafe. There were a couple of doors towards the back which might lead to offices or smaller rooms. But the main part of the room was furnished with numerous ensembles of tables and chairs, each furnished with one or more checkerboards. Off to one side, along the far wall, there was a desk and a man sitting behind it, a big ledger book open in front of him. There was a heavy looking iron safe on the floor behind him. Sitting next to him was another guy, this one needing a shave and wearing a wrinkled suit and stained bowtie. There was a noticeable bulge under his left arm.

"Did you see ... " Mortimer whispered but Sheila squeezed his arm, a clear signal that it would be best for him to keep quiet.

The man behind the counter and the other man, obviously a guard, were staring directly at the couple. Sheila hesitated and then walked up to the counter. "Hi, my fiance ... he's, um, looking for a little checker action, you know, kind of off the books."

"Is he now? Well, boy, step up. What's your level?"

Mortimer moved up even with Sheila. "My ... level? Oh yeah class A amateur. In Denver. I mean we're from Denver. Colorado."

"I know where Denver is, kid. Show me your card. I ain't got all night."

Mortimer showed his US Amateur Checker Association membership card, which had his category printed on it.

"Okay, looks good. We don't want no sandbaggers here, get it? We don't like no funny business at all, ain't that right Slug?" The latter words were addressed to the guard with the shoulder holster, who in turn laughed and opened his jacket just far enough to show the butt of his automatic.

"Uh, yeah, well maybe this isn't quite the place for us, right honey?" Mortimer said to Sheila, a hopeful look in his eyes.

If Sheila was upset or worried, it didn't show, but before she could reply the man at the desk slammed a fist down and said, "You show up, you play. Them's the rules. Hunnert dollar bet, three game minimum. We ain't runnin' this place for no spectators. Who told you to come here anyhow?"

"I already told the lady upstairs," Sheila said.

"Well now you're tellin' me."

"Rosie Double Rye," Sheila replied.

"Rosie, huh? Well, okay, but your boyfriend still gotta play. Class A amateur is he? Hey!" The counter man shouted at someone sitting alone at one of the tables. "Cliff! Game for ya. Hunnert minimum. Says he's class A amateur. You up for it?"

Cliff turned out to be another big guy with another crushing handshake.

"Actually," Mort said after they had sat down, "I was really just looking to learn about the local checkers scene around here. I'm not much of a money player."

"You are now, squirt," Cliff said, laying a $100 bill at the side of the board. "Okay, show me yours. Your money."

Mortimer luckily had brought along enough cash on the trip and laid down a $100 bill of his own. Sheila took a seat off to the side, hoping to make conversation with some of the other players.

Mortimer and Cliff started their game. Sheila looked around the room trying to decide who might be a talker, when a medium sized older man with a sleazy look pulled up a chair next to her.

"Wanna play?" he asked.

"Oh, no, sorry, I'm not a rated player," Sheila replied, and then looked away as quickly as possible.

The man grinned. "I didn't mean checkers," he said.

"Forget it," Sheila snapped, "I'm engaged and not available."

"To that little punk? Aw, some guys have all the luck. Well if you ever get tired of him, Larry Burgess is the name and always ready for a game."

Sheila muttered something about not coming back but then decided to try to get a little information.

Mortimer, on hearing this exchange, looked angry, but decided not to pursue it further, as his game with Cliff was getting interesting.

Meanwhile Sheila pursued her conversation with Larry Burgess. "So, who would have known about this little place down below Sweet Corn Cafe?"

"Well, you musta!" Larry said with a loud laugh, "anyhow, heard you talkin' about Rosie Double Rye. Ain't she somethin'? She sure can put 'em down, them double ryes. Not too many fellas can keep up with the likes a her. Hey, speakin' of which, you want a little drink?"

"No, thanks, I had a few with Rosie over at Checkers on the Cob. But hey, even though I'm not really a player, all of that got me interested in the local scene. Looks like the real action is here."

"Some a the best action in Des Moines, if you got the bucks. And the skill. This ain't no place for fraidy-cat bee-ginners."

Then Sheila circled in on the main subject. "We read about that Bob Pace guy. A real shame getting shot like that. Who would shoot a checker player?"

"Yeah, yeah," Larry said, but his expression had changed. "Hey, don't you worry none about him. I'd worry about your boyfriend losing his hunnert bucks against Cliff over here. Cliff don't lose much."

Actually Mortimer was doing pretty well and Cliff wasn't at all happy about it. But, when Sheila had mentioned Bob Pace, Cliff glared in her direction.

In fact there was a little more tension in the room, and both the guard and the desk man had stopped talking and were listening to Sheila and Larry.

But Sheila, not noticing this, went on, "Did that Pace fellow play here much? There were some rumors about him being, well, something of a high-roller and this sure would be a place that would attract that kind of guy."

Before she knew it, the desk man, whose nametag said "Dale," was standing next to her. "What's with all the questions?" he said gruffly. "Around here people mind their business and don't ask nobody about nothing."

"Oh, I was just curious ... you know ... with the murder and all ... "

"You some kind a reporter?" Larry paused a moment. "Or ... some kind a cop? You look like you could be one. Comin' in here with that wimpy boyfriend for cover ... "

"Fiance," Sheila said.

"A cop for sure. How'd you ever fool Rosie? I gotta talk to that gal ... but I think we better check you out a little closer. Gimme your purse. I wanna see what you got in there, like your cop ID or somethin'."

"My purse ... no, I won't give you my purse. Mort! It's time to leave. Right now."

Mortimer looked up and turned in Sheila's direction. "Now? Aw, gee honey I'm winning this game ... "

"You ain't goin' nowhere!" Dale reached out to grab Sheila's arm but Sheila countered with a swift akeido move and in an instant he was sprawled out on the floor. Larry looked at Sheila and thinking better of trying anything, backed away quickly.

Now, Mortimer!" Sheila shouted. Mort, now definitely getting the message, joined her as they ran across the room to the stairway.

Dale, slowly picking himself up, said, "Slug! Take care of those two!"

"Yeah boss," Slug replied, but being both slow of wit and actual speed, lumbered after the couple while awkwardly drawing his automatic from its holster.

By then Sheila and Mort were around the bend in the stairs and almost to the big door. Mort yanked on it. They heard a yell of "just a minute" from the other side and then heard the lock click. Under Mort's pull the door opened almost quickly enough to knock him back down the stairs.

Sheila and Mort dove quickly through the door and, from the other side, shoved it closed. No sooner than they had done so they heard the sound of a gunshot and a buller ripping into the back of the door.

"Hey you two!" the waitress shouted, but Mort and Sheila were already out into the street.

"This way!" Sheila called out and led Mort down an alley that opened on a side street. Just as they were exiting the alley they heard two more gunshots and bullets zinging by.

"Quick!" Sheila and Mort ran down the sidewalk to the left and at the next corner, miraculously, there was a waiting cab. They jumped in just as they saw Slug exit the alley and look all around.

"Duck down!" Sheila said. She and Mortimer crouched down on the back seat, trying to stay out of sight.

The cabbie, not knowing what to think, simply said, "Uh ... where to, folks? Or are we just playing hide and seek?"

To be continued.

---

Mortimer might have missed the chance to win some money but it seems as if he and Sheila escaping with their lives took a higher priority. We can't really blame them. However, unless something is going on that we don't know about, no one named Slug is chasing after you, so you can take your time with today's problem. You won't win any money (at least, not from us) but you will have an enjoyable challenge. Take a shot at it and then slug your mouse onto Read More to see the solution.

[Read More]

"Dinner, Marvin," Priscilla said in something of a sharp tone. "Put down that magazine."

She was in Marvin's study, where Marvin was looking over some checker problems in the latest issue of the magazine All Checkers Digest.

"Gimme a minute Prissy, this is a real good one."

"I won't give you a minute and don't call me 'Prissy,'" Priscilla said. "I feed and house you and the least you can do is be grateful."

Marvin sheepishly set the magazine aside and followed Priscilla into the smaller of her two dining rooms.

So why the tension? Weren't Marvin and Priscilla happily married?

Recall from our previous story that our hero, Marvin J. Mavin, after suffering some pretty serious abuse and humilation during August training camp, quit his position as captain of the Detroit Doublejumpers, and walked out on his $5 million per year contract.

A month had passed and Marvin had spent all of that time at home playing Solitaire on his laptop, reading checker magazines, and listening to 1940s big band music.

His wife, Priscilla, the CEO of the vast conglomerate Rust Belt Holdings, had become very unhappy with him. Of course she earned easily ten times more than $5 million per year in her own job (not counting her annual bonus and stock options), but she still thought Marvin should be contributing by bringing in income of his own. She didn't like the idea of Marvin sitting around her luxurious 5,000 square foot condo doing nothing productive. Naturally, domestic staff did all the housework, cooking, and so on, but Priscilla still thought Marvin should be working.

It was complicated, however. No other professional checker club could make an offer to Marvin, as technically the Doublejumpers hadn't released him from his multi-year contract, instead invoking a "no pay for no play" clause. That left Marvin with no income and no prospects, at least not in the world of checkers. And it was up to the Doublejumpers to recall Marvin to the team, something they had publicly said they weren't going to do unless Marvin met their conditions, one of which was that Marvin would spend one season with their single-A minor league affiliate without pay.

It seemed to all be coming to a head one evening as the couple sat down for dinner. Priscilla's chef had prepared Pacific salmon with truffled foie gras, accompanied by fresh boiled red potatoes in their jackets and steamed asparagus with olive oil and lemon dressing, which was relatively ordinary fare by Priscilla's standards.

Dinner began in an uncomfortable silence, and about midway through, Priscilla said, "It's been a month, Marvin. You either go to work or move out."

Marvin's asparagus spear fell off his fork as surprise overtook him. "Huh?" he said.

"You heard me. Go to work or leave. Go get a crummy apartment in a bad neighborhood, like you had before we got married. Live off your savings; they should last you quite a long while if you live modestly."

Marvin, still in shock, said, "But honey ... there ain't nobody going to hire me. You know what the contract says. And I won't take the team's offer for me to work for free for a year."

"Yes, you can take it and in fact I insist upon it, and it won't be working for free. By law they have to pay you Federal minimum wage so you'll earn $7.25 an hour. Before taxes, anyhow. It's a bit of a pay cut but you need to work."

"Gee, I don't know, and I'd have to move out of Detroit for a year too."

"You can visit here on your off days. I'll even offer to pay half the bus fare. Well, once a month at least."

"Bus fare?" Marvin recalled being made to ride the city bus when he returned home after quitting August training camp.

"Or you could get a different job. You could maybe be a bartender. You like beer and you know all about bars. Or if you don't like that idea you could drive for a rideshare company. I'd even rent you one of my cars--- at the going market rate. You'd better not get into any accidents, though."

"What I oughta do is get a lawyer ... "

"You quit, Marvin; a lawyer won't be able to help you. Oh, I know, you can say you were forced off the team due to harassment and all that, but let's face it, the Doublejumpers have lawyers too, lots of them. You'd spend a lot of money for nothing, and don't expect me to help you. You made this mess yourself, you get out of it yourself."

Marvin stood up suddenly, surprising Priscilla with an uncharacteristic serious look on his face. "I married you for better or worse, Prissy, and you did the same with me. Well, this is worse if there ever was worse. I thought you'd stand behind me. But what happened? You made me ride the bus home instead of sending your car that day last month when I got back to Detroit. You won't take my side even though I was treated badly. You want me to take some minimum wage job and suffer another year of humiliation. Is this what marriage is all about? I thought we were supposed to take care of each other. Maybe I was wrong. If I was, just say so and I'll do exactly what you said earlier ... move out and get my own apartment. Maybe it will tiny and dingy and in a bad part of town. But I'll keep my dignity and my self-respect, something you're determined not to let me do here."

So saying, Marvin left the room and retreated to his study, leaving Priscilla at the table, wondering what would happen next and what she should do about it.

To be continued.

---

Is Marvin and Priscilla's marriage on the rocks after only a year? What do you think? Are the Doublejumpers being too hard on Marvin? Is Priscilla? Should Marvin take that minimum wage posting and do a year of penance? We'd love to hear your views.

But first, see if you can solve the checker problem Marvin was working on before that "ordinary" dinner (which sounds pretty extraordinary to us). Feast on the problem and then let your mouse take a bite on Read More to see the solution.

[Read More]