A/N: For ilreleonewikia13 who said she wanted a "Benny gambles his way to Moscow AU" on the B2 server
I'm relying on a lot of worldbuilding details from the book, especially Benny's prowess at poker ("he made more money from poker and backgammon than he did from chess") that is only barely referenced in the show (but is probably a big part of why he's not playing as many tournaments as Beth), and the more realistic timeline where Beth actually has to play out her adjournment with Luchenko iafter/i her already scheduled game with Flento. I'll mostly stick to show events/dynamics as much as possible though, since I think that is more familiar to most readers (and myself).
I'll also be ret-conning some details that bothered me, because this is AU and I DO WHAT I WANT. 😜
"Don't call me anymore."
Benny's so pissed after hanging up that he automatically lights up a cigarette to try to calm down, which, he's even more annoyed to note, is a habit he'd acquired from Beth.
God, he should have walked away while he was ahead.
There's an actual, physical pain in his chest that the smoke doesn't ease in the slightest, even though he'd been the one to tell her to fuck off.
He'd accepted her excuses about her house, but deliberately tossing out his ticket to Moscow? What the fuck?
And he still doesn't get what changed. He can still remember the way she'd looked at the airport, hesitating in her seat as if she wanted to kiss him before getting out of the car. How they'd spent that morning fucking, and how smug he'd been over how many times he'd gotten her off, certain that she was going to play her absolute best in Paris and then come back for more.
It wasn't just the sex either. Even before they'd started sleeping together, he'd relished setting up his pieces across from her every morning; the way it felt like everything, from his senses to his thoughts, was whirring at a higher gear just from her proximity.
He could've sworn she'd felt the same from the way her eyes lit up during their conversations, always ready with some smartass comeback or a keen observation. Even chores had been less onerous because his brain had been happily occupied picking apart analyses or debating the strength of a position while pinning their clothes up on lines or drying and putting away the dishes she'd hand him.
He's never had trouble attracting women for casual encounters, but Beth actually knows him, even the chess obsessed, ruthlessly competitive asshole parts, and she'd still looked at him — laughed with him — like he was everything she wanted.
Those looks and laughs had become more and more wistful and unsure, and he can admit he'd played it too cool and she'd gotten the wrong message. Which is why he'd been counting on this Moscow trip together to convince her otherwise and doing due diligence to be her second: going to the Russian embassy to apply for and then pick up the visa, studying up on the games of her opponents and adding a couple packs of condoms to his suitcase in case Russian ones were hard to come by.
Songs on the radio might be all about fickle females and the mysterious workings of their minds, but Beth's always been like a dog with a bone, everything she wants and feels written plainly across her face and in her body language. He can remember the pensive way she'd bite her lip and touch her neck, her delighted smile as she explored his body with her hands, how astounded and gratified she'd been after he'd made her come for the first time. He's positive she'd been falling for him; that he hadn't been reading her wrong.
Trust Harmon to somehow change a weaker position into an upset, though. First his title, now his heart.
Benny takes one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette, heading to the bedroom to dig out his poker bankroll.
Fuck this. It's Friday, which means there will be plenty of players going into the weekend with a fresh paycheck. He needs to get his mind off chess and how goddamn empty his own apartment feels without Beth in it.
Beth has had butterflies in her stomach all day. She's done all the usual things: going over his past games minutely, even the ones she's known by heart for years, and preparing strategies to develop from his favored openings.
She wishes Benny were here; knows he would understand how much of a thrill it is that she actually gets to play Luchenko.
"You attack like Alekhine," he'd said to her once.
That ache in her chest at the thought of him is a familiar one now, and then the inevitable hypotheticals where she'd done things differently; taken the time to calm down and think through what to say first instead of calling him right after the Christian Crusade ladies flounced out. She's almost relieved when there's movement in the doorway to distract her from that morose mental cycle.
Luchenko has arrived for their game. It had seemed so surreal to see their names printed next to each other's in the tournament schedule and now it's actually happening: she's going to play a living legend.
Time to see if she can fare better against him than Alekhine did.
Benny agrees to an invite from Arthur and Hilton to the bar by their place, and he's mildly surprised to see Cleo with them at their usual table.
"Hey. Didn't know you were back Stateside," he says, ducking close for the usual cheek kisses before he starts unwinding his scarf and shrugging out of his coat.
"Ah, I was fortunate to be offered some print work for a cosmetics company. Which meant I could spend some time with friends, as well." She tilts her head as if bemused. "Are you well, Benny? You look rather tired."
Benny shrugs. "Been playing a lot of poker. Some games go until the morning."
Arthur and Hilton exchange a not-so-surreptitious look that Benny deliberately ignores, signaling the bartender for a beer instead. He hasn't touched a chessboard or his chess magazine subscriptions for weeks, and he's striving not to care that it's because he's moping over a girl. Constantly grinding at poker means he's been more flush with cash than usual, and they can always play down at the Marshall if they want decent chess opponents.
They've been trying to nudge him out of his funk, "rip off the band-aid" and get him playing chess again, but he's still surprised at the complete lack of tact when Wexler clears his throat and shoves a folded newspaper across the table, tapping at the picture. "So it looks like Beth is at the Moscow Invitational, huh? I don't recognize her second – have you ever played this guy, Benny?"
He can't help immediately scanning the picture and article. Moscow looks bleak and cold in the background, and their expressions in the picture are equally solemn. Beth's hair is longer in the picture than he remembers, and she looks like a fashion plate, as usual, but he doesn't recognize the middle aged guy in the overcoat. He isn't named in the brief article either, which is strange – Weiss was pretty pleased that he got that credit when they went.
"...She said she didn't have the money to go after she blew off her sponsor," he says bitterly, shaking his head.
Arthur and Hilton give him apologetic looks while Cleo's eyes brighten with gleeful interest.
"That's a surprise. So you don't talk anymore?"
Benny scoffs, taking an angry swig of his beer before speaking. "Not since she told the good people at Christian Crusade that she wouldn't "recite propaganda" and flushed my ticket down the drain."
"Ah." She blinks and frowns. "I don't understand - wasn't Beth raised in a Christian orphanage? Évangélique or something - I'm not sure of the word. It is not the same belief?"
Benny lifts a shoulder and waves a hand, making a face. "It's why she hates all that bullshit. They gave her an ultimatum about making some press release about Jesus hating communism."
Hilton frowns, puzzled. "Wasn't some Christian organization your sponsor when you went?"
"Yeah, the same people. They paid for everything. Actually came home with almost a grand extra even though I didn't even place."
Arthur shakes his head with a sigh. "She really should have just done the same thing."
Benny sips his beer and frowns, thinking back.
He actually wasn't asked to make any kind of public speech. There were pictures with a bible and a chessboard and a bunch of self-righteous suits who kept declaring how proud they were of him "taking a stand against atheism and the Kremlin" before insisting they all pray together, as if God actually gave a shit about who won some chess tournament.
Picturing the same group around Beth, he can guess exactly why they'd figured they could force a barely twenty year old woman on her own to do more, can recall her tendency towards knee-jerk defiance with perfect clarity.
He grimaces and slowly sets down his beer, remembering how desperate she'd sounded.
"Come on, Benny. I don't want to go to Moscow by myself."
Shit. Maybe she hadn't meant to blow his ticket after all.
Beth keeps thinking back to herself with a book in her lap and a chess board in her mind, knowing she would particularly enjoy playing through a game whenever the name D. Luchenko was one of those printed over the list of moves. She knows she should try to clamp down on that sense of giddy delight, as if the outcome of the match doesn't matter.
But this really is already a dream come true. She's playing the King's Indian Defense against Luchenko, who was a Grandmaster before she was even born, and he's chosen the Fianchetto Variation in response. She has to struggle to suppress a smile despite the hush and serious intensity of the audience watching; the weighted, beautifully carved pieces they're moving.
If only Mr. Shaibel could see her. She wonders if he'd actually believed in heaven, or if they'd had his funeral at a church simply because he'd worked at Methuen. It's comforting to think that maybe he's watching this game somehow, shaking his head in wonder.
Maybe that's why she takes too long to realize he's subtly gone on the attack. And that she's already in trouble.
Maybe he's gone just as crazy as Beth, but a few phone calls help him figure out that it's actually possible, especially since he's already got the visa.
There's a direct flight out of Kennedy to Moscow on Friday, and he needs to be on it if he's going to show up in time to actually help Beth against Borgov. She's won all her games so far, and the Times has gone from printing small blurbs about the tournament on the fourth page to proper articles with notation on the second page.
It feels good, wiping the dust off his chessboard and playing through her games; slowing to admire a particularly pretty move she'd made with a pawn sacrifice turned attacker when Laev had refused the bait.
There's really nothing more beautiful than a well played chess game.
He also discovers that the guy in the overcoat (according to Mike at the Kentucky branch of the Chess Federation) is no hastily scrounged-up second but rather a State Department sponsored chaperone/guard, since Beth's a single American woman on an Official Trip to Russia and there's a Cold War and all. So Beth's really playing on her own, which fills him with both admiration for her sheer ballsy determination and guilt over his own angry intransigence.
Well, he was hurt and shocked, and he lashed out. But maybe he's still got a chance to support her when she'll need it most.
Mike has actually known Beth since that first tournament where she'd taken Beltik's State title, and considers himself (and his brother Matt, also a chess player with a fairly decent rating) one of her friends, so Benny makes sure to get his home phone number and Beltik's for good measure.
If it comes down to it, he intends to form their own team to back her up in adjournment. Give the Russians a taste of their own medicine for once.
The other, far more pressing problem is the money: because he'll be paying last minute holiday prices, he needs to come up with at least another grand and a half in two days, and it's midweek.
The easiest way to get a couple hundred for rent has always been at card tables with lively action and new fish on the weekends: he knows plenty of easy games in every borough on Fridays and Saturdays. Benny had realized a few years ago that having an excellent memory and a knack for reading and manipulating people meant he could make better –- and faster - money on poker than chess. So he'd developed the skill of running the odds and playing tight, as well as the mental fortitude not to tilt off an unlucky string of hands: all necessary to make a consistent profit.
It's actually a good thing he's been avoiding chess in favor of poker recently, since his bank roll is way more padded than usual, and he's become a familiar face on the scene. But to get the rest of that airfare, he's still going to have to hit proper carpet joints instead of the usual dollar ante places.
Higher buy-ins, stakes and payouts. Higher chance of rounders, too – sharks that make their whole living paying cards, while he's just a small-timer. At least he knows which clubs are notorious mitt joints, and not even worth chancing.
He can't think of any safer play that'll come through before Friday though, so even though his fingers are threatening to twitch, he counts out bills into two neat stacks of a hundred each. His aim for tonight is to triple that.
He shines his shoes and combs a bit of pomade into his hair before heading to his closet to pull on the last shirt Beth ironed and a suit and tie.
The first place he intends to go has a rep for high rollers, elite players and overpriced drinks, and he needs to look the part if he's going to get in the door.
Beth knows she's barely keeping her head above water. Playing black always means starting at a disadvantage, but she can still usually strike back hard and fast enough to demoralize her opponent.
Instead Luchenko has managed to get out in the open while her pieces are still mostly cramped on her side of the board. She's always admired his aggressive style; now she's moving as cautiously as possible just to try to keep him from gaining even more advantage.
She wishes Alma were there for moral support instead of just her lipstick as scarlet armor. It's one thing to lose to somebody as terrifying as Borgov, and another to play so poorly in front of a Grandmaster she's admired her whole life.
The Mayfair is better known as an elite backgammon hall, but as poker has been coming into vogue, more and more poker tables have been added to keep up with the times.
Years spent schmoozing at international chess tournaments have taught Benny a thing or two about charming rich sponsors. It's all part of the entertainment so that they don't mind spending their money on the excitement of a game, and he knows exactly how to put on a performance.
He usually doesn't talk much while playing poker: the more you talk, the more verbal tells you give off. But most of these people aren't real card players, besides a couple of sharks he recognizes. So he relays stories about playing chess in Europe while dealing; exclaims over the possible winning hands of those at the table and loses with gregarious flourish to keep more fish at the table playing under the guise of loose, friendly action.
Makes Benny wish he'd bothered to dress up and stake the buy-in before: must be even livelier on weekends. The card decks are clean and fresh, the tables and chairs are solidly made with polished wood and even the chips are nice, well made and easy to stack. There are also armed guards at the doors and keeping an eye on the room, as well as by the house desk where cash and chips are exchanged – players need to feel secure, and he bets their presence helps discourage would-be-bottom dealers as well.
Benny still plays tight, folding fast when he's got a bum hand and nudging other players towards bumping the pot when he knows he's got the nuts, keeping his own fingers from giving anything away by resting them against the table.
Only an idiot doesn't know their own tell, and he knows exactly how to manage his.
"Yeah, I'm going to check," he says, trying to look slightly unsure about the pocket queens and pair of fours he's got. He's got a full house with the queen in the river, and it looks like Steve from Indiana hasn't managed to make his flush but is hoping to bluff it, Max totally forgot that the four of spades he's looking for has already been discarded by Terry, who wisely folded early, and that Dennis, a manager at GE, is still debating over his two pair.
So Benny gives them a little nudge by frowning slightly, and Dennis confidently check raises like a good little fish.
Benny pretends to debate before tossing a $5 chip into the pot.
Easy money.
Beth's almost out of time.
It's rare for her, but she's playing against a tiger: what did she expect? She needs to make three more moves in fifteen minutes or forfeit. The intervals between her moves have been almost embarrassingly long, but all her pieces and Luchenko's are supported by at least another piece each. If she doesn't calculate out the possibilities, she's going to end up in a trap, and she can't afford to lose even one more piece now.
Really the only way to survive will be to use an adjournment to her advantage.
But how? He'll calculate the best string of moves as well as alternates and variations while in adjournment, just as she will, simply in more comfort. The respite might not be worth it, but her mental sharpness is dulling the more hungry and tired she gets, her body aching from the sustained tension of being under attack for hours.
She should pull a page out of Benny's book: play with a sly little trick in the sealed move; something unusual and unpredictable.
It takes her another eight minutes before she sees it.
She'll lose her last knight, but she'll be able to trade his bishop for it. And there's finally a plan flickering to life in her mind, the subsequent moves taking shape in her head.
She'll need to check and double check once they're in adjournment. Eat and rest and prepare for Flento tomorrow as well.
But first she moves her sacrificial knight to check.
Benny makes six hundred at the Mayfair before action winds down. It's a weekday – it's to be expected, even if most of the rich folk don't actually have a job to get to in the morning. He heads home to drop off his profits and hang up the shirt and suit to air – he'll need them in Moscow, where they treat chess games like a night at the ballet. Then he heads out to a diner for food and coffee: he needs to stay fueled and sharp before he heads to the goulash joint on 79th to make his next run – they've always got at least one lively game going in the back room, probably with guys getting off graveyard shift and looking to unwind right now. And he can grab a bite and more coffee there before heading to the Algonquin Hotel, where the game suite should start loosening up by noon, with early shifters squeezing in a few games before heading home.
Crazy poker runs make good stories anyway. He just hopes this one doesn't end with a tragic bust.
Beth has her hotel routine set: take off her shoes once she's in her room, order room service and then replay the game she'd just played, looking for weaknesses while waiting for her supper to be delivered.
She's surprised when she spots Borgov, Luchenko and Shapkin through an open door at the end of the hallway though, with a chessboard on the table between them. They're talking easily while pouring each other vodka from a bottle, their expensive, tailored suit jackets casually slung over the backs of their chairs. She moves cautiously closer to look inside, curious. And her eyes widen when she sees the position of the pieces on the board.
She can actually feel the blood draining out of her cheeks.
They're helping Luchenko against her. This is what Benny meant by "play together as a team, especially during adjournments." She won't just be trying to outthink Luchenko on this, but the combined analytical might of three Russian Grandmasters.
She's felt utterly alone like this before, standing frozen with horrified disbelief.
But she forces herself to turn and put one foot in front of the other until she's back at her suite. And she hurries to the desk to set up the board and pieces herself, not even bothering to take off her coat.
She doesn't want to give in to the heavy sense of loneliness and intimidation, but the clarity that she'd felt earlier has vanished: she feels insignificant and dull staring at the pieces. And she can't stop rueing how her first instinct is still to call Benny, but she can't anymore because she's completely ruined things between them. The ache for the relief of chemical cloudiness is almost unbearable, and she gets up again and hastily walks over to the nightstand, snatching up the pill case there.
The green pills make an almost musical sound as she tips them into the water in the toilet and Beth flushes them quickly before she can do something stupid like scoop them back out. Then she hurries back to the phone, glancing at the clock before she calls down to the front desk to connect her to a number for a law firm in Louisville.
It takes a few seconds of clicking on the line before it finally rings and a smooth, alto voice answers on the second ring. "Good afternoon, you've reached the law offices of Riordan and McAllister."
Beth swallows hastily. "Yes, I'd like to speak to Jolene DeWitt?"
There's a stunned silence before Jolene speaks again and sounds like herself this time. "...Beth?! Shit - are you really calling me from Russia?"
Beth presses her lips tightly together, suddenly on the verge of tears. It's so good to hear a friendly voice. "Yeah, it's me. I just... I might have bitten off more than I could chew again. On purpose. And I feel like an idiot. "
"Aw, cracker, what happened? I thought you been winning all your games? They're in all the papers."
"I asked for an adjournment tonight, hoping to throw off Luchenko with an unexpected sealed move, rather than continuing on while I was worn out and starving. And now he's got two Russian grandmasters helping him figure out possible lines and tactics against me – one of whom is Borgov."
"Those cheating assholes!" Jolene declares.
Beth can't help huffing a laugh despite herself. "It's actually completely above board – if I'd had a second, they would be helping me do the exact same thing. Benny warned me, but I had no idea what he was talking about. Now it's too late to take anything back," she says wistfully.
Jolene makes a sympathetic noise. "...I wish I could help you with that, I really do. You eaten yet?"
Beth blinks and looks over at the menu card sitting in its usual place. "I was so thrown off, I forgot to order dinner. All I wanted was the pills. But I flushed them down the drain and called you instead."
"Well, there you go. Already making smart moves. Now you listen to me, Beth Harmon: you get yourself a good supper. Something that'll stick to your guts. Then you get yourself cleaned up and calm before you work on your own game plan."
Beth nods miserably. "…What if I lose?"
Jolene sounds nonplussed. "What if you do? You still got how many games?"
"Two, against Flento and Borgov. And this adjourned game against Luchenko, of course."
"The first guy any good?"
Beth takes a breath as she considers. "Flento seems to be the weakest player at this tournament. He's already had two losses and two draws. His career is... erratic, too."
"Hmm. So it sounds likely that you're getting at least third place. How much is that going to get you?"
"Three thousand dollars."
"So you'll come home even-steven with what you had, having learned not to ask for adjournments against Russian geezers that gang up. And you got to travel to Moscow and take another shot at the Big Bad Wolf. Sounds pretty good to me. You said you've got some special sealed move, too? What makes you think it won't work?"
Beth sighs and shakes her head, leaning back into the chair. "The 'Russian geezers' are like... chess machines."
"And you're not?" Jolene scoffs. "Look, it sounds like you already know what your next move is, and no amount of regretting is going to change it. So do what you were going to do anyway. You know we're all proud of you whether you lose two moves in or win the whole damn thing."
Beth's cheeks warm with affection, and she smiles when that knot in her stomach finally loosens.
"Thanks, Jolene."
Benny knows bad beats are a statistical guarantee; that managing variance and the very human instinct to avoid losing is part of what separates the sharks from the fish.
It's still humbling to be busted upon occasion, and the timing of this one is particularly bad.
He was already up $150 at the Algonquin after a couple of hours and figured playing a few more hours should get him to Moscow - he'd only managed to add $300 to the roll at the table in the back room of Sereda's, so he'd changed venues. And at first that had worked out fine. In fact he'd welcomed the stream of young guys coming in to play - the younger they are, the more reckless they tend to be.
Most players bet more aggressively when they're confident they have a good hand or when they're trying to bluff. And statistically, the odds of a straight are just over 1 in 250 and the odds of a straight flush infinitesimally smaller: 1 in over 72,000.
But Benny doesn't play against the cards: what's more important is the way people react to their own hands and then to the river cards; what their eyes linger on and keep going back to; how they clutch or fiddle with their cards. And Colin and his best buddy Kevin are typical brash young suckers: they toss back beers, jeer when players fold and whoop loudly when they toss chips in to raise.
So when Colin keeps raising over what could be a possible straight flush, Benny keeps his eyes open for tells.
He himself has only got a full house with fives over sevens, which is well worth calling and check raising over. But he's used to shitty bluffers quailing, to seeing stiff fingers and nervous tics; the carotid pumping visibly. And over several rounds of betting, Colin has continued to raise like he's got the goods, with no physical signs that he's subconsciously nervous, all the way until it's down to the two of them in a showdown and he shoves his whole pile of chips into the pot. "All in."
Despite what Beth says, Benny doesn't actually consider himself a gambler: he's relying on skill and not luck to win at poker. And he's not wasting another $50 when everything he knows says that Colin isn't bluffing, even if the odds that he's actually got a straight flush are perishingly small. So he raises his brows and places his cards down. "Yeah, you got me. Fold."
Colin whoops and slaps his hand down. "Yeah! Look who's a lucky son of a gun! That's a straight flush, fellas. "
Except it isn't. Benny can hardly believe what he's seeing and has to blink and look again.
Kevin snorts with laughter. "You're missing the ten, buddy! It doesn't go from nine to Jack. That's only a flush."
Which means Benny got bluffed off the win by a fish too stupid to know better: a factor he hadn't accounted for but should have.
Benny can feel his fingers twitch as he leans back in his chair and tries to play it cool even though he's reeling.
Fuck. It's only $50, but he's on the verge of tilt, and playing poker while emotional is always the wrong call. So he cashes out immediately, picking up a copy of the paper on his way home.
He'd been meaning to reward himself with Beth's game with Hellström after getting enough to pay for the trip, and instead he's $500 short and his fingers are still twitching even when jammed into his coat pockets. But he figures he deserves it anyway for giving it a damn good try.
And there's something soothing about lining up the pieces on his kitchen chessboard as if Beth were across from him and then playing through it.
He's delighted to discover that she'd played the English Opening, which has always been his favorite. Just being able to move the pieces quickly with easy familiarity makes him feel instantly at ease, like pulling on his favorite pair of jeans. And once he's done the game, he goes back to the one she'd played the day before with Duhamel, then the one with Laev again.
Beth is facing down the impenetrable Russian Chess Bloc on their home turf seven hours ahead and over 4000 miles away. She's probably playing Shapkin, her second Russian opponent, right now. And the hardest players she'll have to face are still to come.
Makes his own run seem less daunting actually, since he's already got most of the money. Or maybe it's the chess calming him down - there's no luck or lying in his favorite game: it's pure intellect and tactics contained in sixty-four squares.
And thinking of Russia reminds him that there's actually one other high stakes game in town.
Jolene was right. Beth feels a lot better after having polished off a nice dinner of beef and potatoes with glazed carrots and then taking a long, hot shower. Once she's clean and comfortable in her pajamas, with her next day's outfit chosen and carefully placed over the back of the armchair, she finally sits down to take a look at the game again.
The lines spring to mind immediately, as if they were there in her head all along.
Maybe they'll see right through her, and she'll have to prepare for that possibility. Or maybe she'll finally be able to mount some attacks of her own.
Beth gets to work: preparing for the worst and hoping for the best is all she can do.
"Word on the street is some babyfaced smalltimer has been hitting up high stakes card joints."
Benny doesn't bother to deny it. This particular place in south Brooklyn doesn't even have a name, but everybody knows of it. Still, they all say this game is above board, just operated by Russian Jew mobsters.
Intimidating, but they're also reputed to follow a scrupulous code: it's their rep if a player gets roughed up for their winnings in their territory, so muggers steer clear.
Cheaters, too, since apparently these guys don't just put a sign on their back when they catch them.
"...Then you know I play straight. I'm just playing the rush."
The beefy doorman looks him up and down, with a question in his eyes. Almost makes Benny wish he'd gone full effect, in the duster and cowboy hat. "I feel like I know your face."
Benny gives him a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't have time for bullshit. If this place doesn't pan out, he'll have to go home and change for the Mayfield. "Am I in or not?"
The big guy shrugs and heaves open the heavy metal door. "It's your money."
It will be, he thinks automatically, though he's mindful enough not to actually be that cocky aloud. Taunting a gorilla is never the smart play, and he squashes the memory of Beth reflexively. He needs to be extra careful about guarding against tilt now.
It seems Russians on this side of the pond like chess too, though.
The grizzled mobster behind the cash cage takes one look at him before he orders his partner to count Benny's money instead, rifling through a pile of magazines stacked on the floor before he slaps a battered Chess Review next to the chips being stacked out.
"This is you. Benny Watts."
Benny glances at himself on the cover and raises a brow, shrugging. "That's a couple years old."
"Former US Chess Champion. And still US Open Co-Champion. This is the wrong game for you, huh?"
Benny tilts his head in mild disagreement. "...Not exactly a lot of chess games with action," he says by way of explanation.
The mobster purses his lips and nods shrewdly, though he makes an aside in Russian to the other guy. "This one will be able to remember every card that's been dealt, backwards and forwards, and calculate odds. Not as soft as he looks." He switches back to English. "Count the chips."
Benny suppresses a cocky smile at the not inaccurate assessment as he does as bid.
He's not surprised when the guy who recognized him and the doorman end up coming in to spectate a few hands in, noting the deference with which the railbirds watching the game treat the older mobster in particular. He can also overhear some of the chatter in Russian: it's rather amusing that they're referring to him as "The Chess Player'' now, anyway. He stays deliberately focused on the game in front of him though – if he goes down to the felt here, it'll be the end of the line, and the best help he'll be able to give Beth then will probably only be a phone call to wish her luck.
It's fast company: Vadim and Illya are known rounders and the other guys can't be total Georges either if they're playing high stakes poker. Benny figures he can always cash out if he can't crack the game and head back to the Mayfair again instead for a softer seat, but after a couple of hands, he understands how the economy of this place functions: most of the fish are sailors or deckhands who get paid a huge chunk of change all at once and want to live it up while they're ashore.
They're decent players – probably play a lot of poker while stuck onboard whatever ship they're on. But they're also far less cautious than they should be, drinking plenty of vodka while playing and prone to tilt once they hit a bad stretch, trying to get back to even with aggressive bets even on bluffed hands.
The higher stakes just make it easier for Benny to hit his goal playing quiet and steady. It's almost anticlimactic, that last $70 pot he pulls in before he thanks the guys for the game and stacks his chips to cash out.
The temptation to keep going is there, but he's been awake for almost 36 hours straight and it's finally not money he's short on now, but time. He needs to book his seat ASAP – if it's sold out, he'll just be shit out of luck, but the Pan Am sales lady said there was still availability when he called, and most people won't be dropping a couple grand on a last minute plane ticket.
The relief flooding through his veins has him feeling a little shaky as he waits to change out the chips.
But the older mobster isn't done with the chess angle yet: he slides out this morning's brand new edition of the Times under the neatly bundled bills for Benny to count.
He can't even help it: his fingers twitch at the sight of Beth on the front page as he reaches for the money, and he gives a chagrined cough as both the guys in the cage give him smug grins.
"...Needed enough for a ticket to Moscow, okay?" he admits.
The head mobster nods sagely, folding his hands over his belly, as if satisfied. "Mondays and Fridays, 13:55 out of Kennedy. Although it would only cost ten cents to see the game like this, you know," he admonishes, tapping the notation on the page: the game she played against Shapkin yesterday. Benny was actually going to pick up the paper on his way home, and he can't help grinning when he sees that she won it too. Two Russians down, two to go.
"Really not the same," he replies, his heart already beating faster in anticipation. He's never actually watched her play, come to think of it.
"It's nice. You're a nice boy. You can comfort your Lizabeta when our Borgov beats her again," he says.
Benny sucks in a breath and shakes his head, smiling slyly in response to the taunt. It feels good to smile again – he's been running on tension since he first hatched this crazy idea. Maybe that's why he says it.
"...A hundred bucks says you're wrong."
He almost regrets it when the mobster grins even wider.
It's not a reprieve. The game against Flento is interminable and Beth can hardly believe he's giving her this much trouble – he's astoundingly well versed at the four-knights variation, and she hasn't spent much time studying it, something she's going to remedy as soon as she gets a chance.
She still needs to save her energy for her adjournment with Luchenko and she tamps down irritation at her own unpreparedness, having to waste time thinking through each move carefully while he responds with ease.
But she finally manages to trade herself out of the position in the middlegame, and then he's the one dragging out the intervals between moves. Although it's not until the endgame that she gets her vengeance, mercilessly carrying out a series of checks on his unsupported king until he resigns.
The applause doesn't buoy her as usual as she follows the referee from the hall after the four hour game, Mr. Booth hurrying to join them.
"Where are you going?" he asks, baffled.
"Somewhere I can rest for half an hour. Then I have to finish the adjourned game against Luchenko from yesterday."
She's profoundly grateful for the pot of hot tea with sugar, jam and cookies that's brought to the small antechamber type sitting room they're escorted to, and she applies herself to them ravenously while Mr. Booth stalks around, peering out the windows, obviously uncomfortable with the deviation from the norm.
Beth is too tired to care - at least if Luchenko dispatches her quickly, she can go back to the hotel and sleep that much sooner. They may talk about the stamina of youth, but the relentless schedule has been wearing her down. She really needs to get a good night's sleep before she faces Borgov again tomorrow.
The rest of the morning is a blur - Benny's just glad he's so used to traveling that packing a suitcase, getting a taxi to Kennedy and navigating from the ticket counter to the foreign currency exchange to the gate is something he can do practically on autopilot, buying shitty airport coffee and going through Borgov's newest games to stay awake.
Once he gets to his seat on the airplane though, he's asleep before the wheels have even lifted off.
They're already flying over Eastern Europe when he finally wakes, and he spends the rest of the trip polishing off a reheated meal from a stewardess (since he'd slept through both dinner and breakfast) and then continuing to analyze Borgov's endgame traps.
Once they land in Moscow, he impatiently waits for customs to go through his suitcase before hurrying out to the taxi queue he remembers.
"The State Kremlin Palace, please," he says in Russian.
The taxi driver nods amiably. "Another Elizabeth Harmon fan, huh? Sure, sure."
Once he arrives, he discovers that he won't be able to get a seat for the sold-out Flento game still in progress, and it seems that most of the Russian public haven't been able to either. There's a crowd hovering outside in the subzero temperatures made up of those who could never hope to afford a ticket but are still hoping to catch a glimpse of Beth as she walks by, which is insane.
Luckily for him, he has the rubles for a chance at an occupied seat going empty for her adjourned game with Luchenko.
It's late, and a few people have already quietly left the Flento game as it dragged on. But Benny almost deflates with relief when his number gets called.
He's been analyzing the adjourned game and he's actually worried about how it stands now: a winning line is going to be hard to find, especially now that the Russian Chess Establishment has been helping Luchenko calculate his moves.
Beth doesn't even notice him when he's escorted to his seat, which is no surprise, considering he's behind a couple rows of people and there's a glaring spotlight over her head. He can barely see the board, in fact, though his heart beats faster to finally see her, dressed in soft looking dark green. His fists clench when she tries and fails to suppress a yawn, and he swallows hard to see her slouching slightly in her seat, obviously exhausted, though she smiles politely and greets Luchenko softly in return once he approaches the table.
A hush of rapt attention has fallen over the audience ever since Luchenko arrived, and once he takes his seat, the referee opens the envelope with Beth's sealed move and shows both of them the paper before he reaches down and makes the move himself before starting the clock.
Benny blinks with surprise, and he's not the only one: there were two solid rook moves, both of which he'd calculated out, but she's gone with a pawn sac to KR5.
Luchenko is visibly baffled as well, but after pondering for a minute, he takes it.
Beth straightens her posture and even though she demurely retreats her king in response, Benny has troubles suppressing a smirk.
Oh, he knows that look. Oh, it's on.
And her recovery is ingenious and incredible, hounding Luchenko's queen into retreat and then slicing clean past his pawn wall. It's one of the most thrilling endgames he's ever witnessed, and it all takes less than ten moves. After Beth advances her bishop to Q5 to pin down any hope of rescue, Luchenko gives his head a slight shake before he says something quietly to her and puts his hand over the clock – resigning in the old fashioned way.
Beth absolutely beams in response and Benny can't help grinning to see her so giddily happy, ducking her head shyly in response to an obvious compliment.
Benny enthusiastically joins in the standing ovation when Luchenko stands and bows to take his leave. This will be one of those iconic games that goes down in history, and he feels damned privileged to have witnessed the best part.
Totally worth it already.
Beth's nerves are still buzzing, and she can't keep the smile off her face when she stands to leave amidst tumultuous applause.
Luchenko said she was a marvel. Luchenko, who was so gracious and kind, thinks she might be the best chess player he's ever played.
She can't even feel anxious about the game with Borgov tomorrow yet, even though her body aches from sitting for so long and she feels a little lightheaded from all the adrenaline starting to crash. She desperately needs to eat something more substantial than cookies before getting a solid night's sleep – she'll do her last bit of preparation in the morning.
She looks over at Mr. Booth to signal him to start walking out of the auditorium behind her and as she's turning back, she spots a man in a suit with hair that looks uncannily like Benny's in the audience.
A frisson runs up her spine, so she turns back to look more closely and her eyes widen. She doesn't notice that Mr. Booth has to stagger to a halt to avoid crashing into her, because she's stopped short, staring.
Tears spring up in her eyes unbidden and she shakes her head, letting out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
She didn't think it was possible for anything to eclipse the elation she was feeling a moment ago. She has to be dreaming that crooked smile, the emotion in his eyes - he's wearing a suit?
"Benny?!"
A/N: Beth's game with Luchenko is on lichess if you want to see exactly how it played out. (I mishmashed book and show canon together to write this, so it might not be accurate, but I tried. 😅) Her game with Hellström that Benny plays through is there, too! It's my personal headcanon that his favorite opening is the reverse of Beth's Sicilian because they are obviously soulmates, so it was rather sublime to realize the actual game he'd see just when he was at his lowest started with it!
Historically, casinos weren't legal in New Jersey yet, so no, heading to the Taj in Atlantic City wasn't possible for Benny, but the Mayfair Club was real in the 60s and very posh! Poker wasn't actually its main game until the 70s so I took a few liberties, but I think they are plausible. Ditto the Russian mob run game in Brighton Beach.
Reviews are always welcome! Just a reminder that I have both a tumblr and an AO3 account under the same username if you ever want to see WIP snippets or drop me an ask. There is a lot more content on both of those than ffnet allows, so do check them out if you would like to see more of my stories or TQG edits.