Jim Court was a big man. Big in every sense of the word. At six feet six inches and 200 pounds, he was physically large. He worked out regularly at an exclusive gym and was muscular and strong, and it all led to a very intimidating appearance. He was in his late 30s in age but he had the strength and endurance of a twenty year old.

He was a big man in other ways, too. Big in business, as the CEO of a major construction company headquartered in the midwestern city in which he lived. A big man around town, as a member of the City Council, chair of the Budget Committee, and with prospects of maybe being elected Mayor at some point.

He was wealthy. His construction company had started long ago as a family business. When Jim inherited it, he took it public and make a fortune overnight. He had a hundred million in investments, property, and cash, and he knew that would only grow with time.

Nothing could stand in Jim's way, and if you were to ask Jim he would tell you as much.

One Sunday in mid-December, when the cold weather had set in, Jim was sitting in his penthouse condo with a glass of French wine, and he started to think about the upcoming holidays. He didn't like this season. For one thing, he had to pay his employees for not only Thanksgiving but Christmas and New Year's Day as well, days on which they did no work for the company at all. Jim had wanted to do away with the holidays. If the workers wanted off, they could go without pay for a day. But it didn't work out and the holidays stayed on the books. However, when the workers started asking for the day after Thanksgiving off, too, Jim drew the line. "I pay you for six holidays a year already," he roared, "and you're not getting another one as long as I'm here!"

He was stingy about raises, benefits, and just about everything else, doing just the minimum the law required. He actually had cut wages once when unemployment was high and the workers had nowhere else to go. "A dime a dozen," he said of his laborers. Jim was a little more careful with the office staff, doing just enough to avoid too much turnover. But he would instantly fire anyone he thought of as disloyal.

Another thing he hated about the season was all this nonsense about giving gifts. Some of his staff gave him gifts; that was fine if they thought they could butter him up that way, but he'd be darned if he'd give gifts to anyone else, and as he had no living family, he didn't have to bother with relatives, either.

His thoughts weren't making him happy and were ruining his enjoyment of his $250 bottle of wine. Jim was stingy with everyone but himself. "It's my money and I'm the one who should enjoy it," he would often say, especially when turning down requests for charitable donations.

"I think I'll go for a walk and clear my head of all this Christmas nonsense," he said to himself, "although I suppose there will be those stupid decorations everywhere and people asking for handouts."

Jim put on his faux fur coat and hat and his Italian leather gloves and took the elevator down to the lobby. When the doorman said, "Happy holidays, Mr. Court," Jim scowled at him and said, "You must be new here. If you want to keep your job you better watch what you say."

Jim walked for maybe twenty minutes, setting a brisk pace, until he came upon a park where the checker hustlers hung out, at all times of the year in all sorts of weather. Now, Jim fancied himself a good checker player, much as he thought he was good at nearly everything. In fact, he was pretty good, though short of professional status.

"Maybe I'll go win a game or two," he thought, and he let his footsteps carry him into the park. There were concrete tables all around with embedded checkerboards. Despite the cold there were quite a few people in the park, as you might expect for a sunny Sunday afternoon. A few were playing chess but most were playing checkers. A couple of tables seemed open, with just one person sitting at the board.

A ragged looking fellow, probably in his forties and sporting a scruffy beard, waved at Jim. The man's hands were encased in gloves with the fingers exposed. "Hey man," he said, "how about a game? Only five bucks and you'll learn something for sure."

Jim looked over at the man. "Learn something, will I? Okay, let's play and we'll see who learns what."

"Five bucks," the man said. "That's the stakes."

"Make it ten," Jim said, "or more if you like."

"Okay, ten, but I don't ... "

"Play, don't talk," Jim said as he sat down on the concrete bench attached to the table. The seat was cold and Jim swept the lower part of his coat underneath him.

The game went on for a little while and Jim won. The hustler was pretty good but he made a mistake and Jim took advantage of it.

Jim made to stand up. "Pay me," he said.

"Aw, man ... how about double or nothing?" the hustler said.

"Okay. Go on. You get White this time."

Jim won again, and the disheartened look on the hustler's face was impossible to miss.

"Twenty dollars," Jim said, "and no more double or nothing stuff, either."

"Gee, I'm poor and can barely buy food ... hey, it's Christmas, and from the looks of you, you got money ... can you give me a break? Anyhow I'm sorry but I ain't got twenty bucks."

Jim leaned over the table and grabbed the hustler by his tattered coat. He lifted him off his seat with one hand and tightened his grip, making a fist with the other. "Twenty dollars, or else."

The hustler struggled a little but Jim's grip was too strong. The man looked frightened. "Mister, come on, I told you, I ain't got ... "

"I'll pay it." Unseen by Jim, another, more elderly man, dressed all in white and wearing a white cap and gloves, had approached. "Put the man down, Mr. Court. You're committing assault."

"Who are you?" Jim roared, "and how do you know my name?"

"Everyone knows you, Mr. Court, you're a big man, aren't you now?"

"That I am, and now I'm warning you to mind your own business. This hustler is a fraud and he owes me."

"I said I'll pay it," the white coated man said. He offered a twenty dollar bill to Jim. "My name is Gabe and I'm happy to clear this up."

Jim let go of the hustler, who fell back onto the hard bench. Gabe took another twenty and handed it to the hustler. "For your troubles," Gabe said, "and a Merry Christmas to you."

"Thanks ... I ... Merry Christmas to you too!" the hustler said. He quickly got up and hurried out of the park.

"Now," Gabe said, "there seems to be an opening at this table, Mr. Court. Would you like to play a serious game for a serious stake?"

Jim looked Gabe squarely in the eye. "I don't know who you are and what you're up to, but you're an interfering busybody and I'll be happy to teach you a lesson. Name your stakes."

Gabe pulled out an envelope. "I have here cashier's check, made out to you, for one hundred million dollars," he said. "Examine it if you wish. It is genuine. You don't have anything similar with you, but I will accept your marker when you lose."

Jim's eyes popped when he saw the check. It was indeed genuine; Jim had an eye for that sort of thing. Another hundred million --- that would just about double his fortune. Of course if he lost, he'd be dead broke ... but there were ways around that. And he wasn't going to lose.

"Let's play," Jim said.

The game began. Jim built up a huge material advantage and was certain he would win. He could barely believe that when the following position was reached, with Gabe to play, Jim was ahead by six pieces. It was the strangest game Jim had ever played.

Jim was smiling--- but so was Gabe, as he reached out to make his move.

---

We doubt that any checker player anywhere has ever played for a one-game stake of a hundred million dollars. Big Jim certainly has a lot on the line here. But for you, our reader, there are no stakes at all and it's just for fun. Give today's problem a try--- maybe a hundred million tries--- and then click your mouse on Read More to see the solution and the rest of the story.

[Read More]

It was Saturday, December 17, 1955 and in Bismarck, North Dakota the Coffee and Cake Checker Club was having the last of its weekly meetings prior to a two-week holiday break.

The club, under the informal leadership of Sal Westerman, met at the Beacon Cafe in the Provident Life Building, where proprietess Deana Nagel made and sold the best baked goods in the region. There was a good turnout today; Young Blaine was there along with Sam, Wayne, Delmer, Dan, Old Frank (who was hardly the oldest one there; in fact only Young Blaine was under the age of 50), seldom-seen Ron, Kevin the Spooler, and Louie the Flash. That made for quite a crowd and it spilled over into the second large booth at the back of the cafe.

The talk was about Young Blaine, who during the previous holiday season had become engaged to his girlfriend in Minot. The engagement was now about a year old and Young Blaine was getting teased (Young Blaine was always getting teased) about not yet having set a wedding date.

"Don't make her wait too long," Louie the Flash--- himself a confirmed bachelor--- was saying. "She'll drop you if you don't get a move on."

"As if you'd know," said Wayne, who had been married for many years.

"It's been a year since you gave her that ring," Dan observed. "What are you going to do to top that this year? You not only ought to set the date, you need to give her something nice besides."

"Aw, come on guys, give me a break," Young Blaine protested. "I'm still a junior engineer at the power company and I don't make a big salary. It's like I've been telling Moira lately, we can set a date as soon as I get my first promotion. That won't take more than another year."

"Another year?" Delmer exclaimed. "When you told Moira that how did she take it?"

"She got kind of quiet for a while," Young Blaine said, "and then she was kind of grumpy for a few days. I didn't really get it."

The rest of the boys could be seen to shake their heads, and then Deana, who never missed anything, spoke up from behind her counter. "I don't want to be mean about it," she said, "but if I were your girlfriend, you'd get a real clear ultimatum from me and you'd have about sixty seconds to deal with it. Come on Blaine, you know darn well what to do. Go buy her another piece of expensive jewelry--- buy it on time if you have to--- and then ask her to set the date. And make it real clear that she can choose any date she wants and you'll be delighted to go along with it."

"Wow," Young Blaine said, "I'm getting it from all sides. Not my day, I guess."

"No, young fellow," Deana went on, "it is your day. We're giving you good advice which is going to save you a lot of grief and heartache."

At that point Sal decided to step in. "Okay, boys," he said, "we're here for checkers so let's get down to today's business. I have a nice problem for you, one that will take you into the holidays in good cheer until we meet again in January."

So saying, Sal set up the following position on a checkerboard in each of the big booths.

"Now, my wife Sylvia and I could use some nice treats today, so maybe you won't get this one and you'll be buying for us," he said, referring to the tradition that if the boys could solve Sal's problem Sal would treat everyone, while if they couldn't solve it, the boys would buy for Sal and Sylvia.

Meanwhile Young Blaine looked relieved to be off the hook at least for the moment, as the boys were very quickly deep into the checker problem. They didn't even hear Deana announce that today she had freshly baked cinnamon raisin bars.

---

Were the boys and Deana giving Young Blaine good advice, even if it was unsolicited and perhaps unwanted? We'll leave that up to you to decide, just as we'll for the moment leave it up to you to solve today's problem. Don't wait a year or more for a possible job promotion; see how you do, after which we advise you to click on Read More to view the solution. You will have to provide your own treats and coffee, though, and it's only fair to warn you that this problem is tricky and devious in the extreme.

[Read More]

With today's column, The Checker Maven celebrates its 20th anniversary of publication.

We never thought we'd publish for so long, and we now stand, at least in terms of longevity if nothing else, alongside some of the great publications of days gone by. Certainly in recent times only a handful of publications have been around longer.

Our original plan was for 10 years. We increased that to 15 and then we said we'd carry on as long as we could. Your editor's recent successful eye surgery encourages us to continue even beyond the 20 year mark (we had been doubtful due to deteriorating vision). Old age of course is catching up with us, but who knows whether or not there might be a few more years of publication yet to come. As of this moment, we plan to carry on.

In our heyday we had as many as 7,000 weekly readers. As checkers has continued to slip out of the public eye, our circulation has dropped substantially but we still boast around 2,000 weekly readers. Not bad, actually!

With our stories and our own brand of humor, with our no compromise intellectual attitude towards the game and its players, we have tried to make checkers fun and interesting, and we'd like to believe that over the years we've done our part in attempting to popularize the game and demonstrate its many attributes.

Of course without you, our reader, none of this ever would have happened and we are grateful to each and every one of you.

So to celebrate we'll reach into our dwindling store of problems by the late lamented grandmaster problemist Ed Atkinson. Ed was our correspondent for many years and we think it is fitting for this column to honor him. Here is a problem which Ed, in his inimitable fashion, titled Seldom Scene.

Stay on the scene and solve the problem, after which you can click on Read More to see the snappy solution.

[Read More]

It was Thanksgiving, 1955, and a very festive occasion at the home of Sal Westerman in Bismarck, North Dakota.

As our regular readers know, Sal is the informal leader of the Coffee and Cake Checker Club, which meets every Saturday afternoon from just after Labor Day until just before Memorial Day, taking off for the Thanksgiving and Christmas-New Year's holidays.

Sal generally celebrated Thanksgiving at home with his wife, Sylvia. Once in a while they would invite friends, or be invited by friends. On occasion, Sylvia's sister Phoebe would come over from Dickinson to join in the festivities. That was something Sal tolerated rather than enjoyed, as his relationship with Phoebe was, shall we say, prickly.

But this Thanksgiving was special, as Sal and Sylvia's daughter (and only child) Joyce made the trip from Washington D.C., where she was a senior associate at the law firm Dark, Darker and Darkest. Joyce's work didn't give her a lot of free time and Sal and Sylvia were delighted that she was able to come and visit this year.

Sylvia, with Joyce's assistance, had laid out a beautiful table in the small dining room of Sal's modest home. The two ladies had spent all of the previous day and all of Thanksgiving Day preparing a spectacular feast. Of course there would be roast turkey basted with butter and stuffed with Sylvia's heirloom celery, sage, and onion dressing. Homemade cranberry sauce would accompany the turkey, as would yams, baked potatoes, a vegetable casserole with broccoli, cauliflower and cheese, fresh baked bread, and pan gravy. The meal would open with a shrimp cocktail, a green salad, and onion soup. Afterwards there would be a cheese tray followed by baked Alaska with coffee and tea.

Sal watched the preparations with more than a little awe. "There will be enough food for a week of eating," he remarked, just before Sylvia asked him to please stay out of the kitchen while she and Joyce were working.

By just before five in the afternoon, when it was beginning to turn dark outside, dinner was served. There was great family conversation throughout and everyone was as content and happy as could possibly be. Dinner didn't end until about seven-thirty, and as Sylvia poured Sal's coffee, Joyce spoke up.

"Dad," she began, "I won't be able to be here for Hanukkah this year, as it starts on December 9 and it's long before the office closes for the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. So I brought you your gift now, and if it's okay, I'd like to give it to you."

"A gift?" Sal remarked. "Honey, I don't need a gift. Your presence is gift enough. Why with all the money you spent for airplane fares ... "

"Oh, Sal, don't spoil the moment," Sylvia said. "Joyce has something special for you."

Joyce grinned. "Indeed I do," she said. She quickly went into the kitchen and came back with a carefully wrapped package. "Open it, Dad," she said as she handed it to him.

"Well, well, what can this be?" Sal mused, even though from the shape of the package he could have ventured a good guess. Sal carefully removed the wrappings and lifted out the contents.

"So what do you know!" he said, a happy look on his face. He held up a large hardcover book and pointed to the title, Collected Checker Problems From All Checkers Digest. The subtitle proclaimed The 500 Best of the Best.

"I hope you like it, Dad," Joyce said.

"Like it? I love it!" Sal replied.

"500 problems?" Sylvia said. "We probably won't see you for the rest of the weekend!" But she smiled as she said it.

"Oh, no," Sal said, "family time is precious. But ... well ... can I maybe try just one problem with my coffee?"

"Go ahead, Dad," Joyce said, "the book is yours to enjoy."

---

As our longer term readers know, Thanksgiving is our favorite holiday. It has something for everyone; it can be secular or religious as you wish; it's a great time for family get-togethers; and we happily point to its American roots. Being thankful for what we have, instead of being envious of what we don't have, can really lift our spirits.

Of course for checker fans, a good checker problem can lift one's spirits as well. Today's problem is drawn from the publications of that great American checkerist, Tom Wiswell. See if you can solve it and then lift your mouse onto Read More to see the solution.

[Read More]

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.

[Read More]

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.

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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!

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"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.

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