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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued ...

---

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

[Read More]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sal hung up and went back to the booth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

[Read More]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Read More]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rosie Double Rye."

During this exchange Mortimer looked on, appearing somewhat baffled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well now you're tellin' me."

"Rosie Double Rye," Sheila replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wanna play?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fiance," Sheila said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued.

---

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

[Read More]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued.

---

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

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

[Read More]

The two, two-part blends above are symbolic of Bill Salot's newest Problem Composing Contest. No, Bill didn't switch from checkers to coffee--- we understand in fact that he personally eschews coffee--- but what he has done is to present us with two two-part blend problems which will challenge and entertain you as never before. You can find them on the contest page, where you are invited and requested to vote for the one you like best.

As a sample of what awaits you, here is a previously unpublished two-part problem composed by Mr. Salot himself. He calls it The Albatross for two reasons. One is that the setting (somewhat) resembles an albatross. The other is that an Albatross symbolizes something that makes accomplishment particularly difficult, as in the expression "an albatross around one's neck" which takes its derivation from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's celebrated poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Will this problem be the albatross that hangs around your neck? We certainly hope not, for after giving it a go you can always click on Read More to see the solution.

[Read More]

It was the first Saturday after Labor Day Weekend, 1955, and for Sal Westerman, that meant his Coffee and Cake Checker Club would resume its weekly meetings.

The Club met at the Beacon Cafe, in the Provident Life Building in Bismarck, North Dakota, at 1 PM each Saturday from just after Labor Day until just before Memorial Day, with only short breaks for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years.

Now, summers in North Dakota were fine times, but Sal sorely missed his checker friends, and he was happy to see fall roll around. It was a fine day in early autumn and Sal made sure he arrived at the Cafe at a couple of minutes before one o'clock, so he could greet the returning members.

Of course he first said hello to Deana, the proprietess and one of the best bakers anywhere. "How did the championships go?" Sal asked her, referring to a very big baking contest in North Dakota's easternmost city, Fargo.

"I won three blue ribbons and two red," Deana said with a big smile, "so I scored in all of the categories I entered."

"Not surprised to hear it," Sal said, but just then in came Larry and Delmer, closely followed by Wayne, Tom, Kevin (a.k.a. "Spooler"), Ron, Dan, and young Blaine. Bill also arrived; he was seen only a few times a year but made it on this opening day.

Coffee cups were filled and the "boys" as Sal called them, even though Blaine was the only one under age 50 and most were well beyond that, took seats in the large booths at the back of the cafe.

Talk started with summer activities. A few members had gone to the family farms to help out during the busy summer months. Others had just enjoyed time at home with occasional fishing and camping trips. Young Blaine had to work, of course, but he and his fiancee did take a week off to go climbing in Wyoming. Spooler had played in a tournament in the Minneapolis area, although he would only say that he didn't do all that well.

Of course everyone knew about Sal's checker booth at the fair, and Sal talked a little about his adventures in Jamestown.

But soon it was time to get down to business. Checker business.

"It's been a long summer without Deana's treats," Tom said, "so show us what you have for us today, Sal; we're all anxious for you to buy!"

"We shall see," replied Sal. The tradition was that Sal would always bring along a checker problem and buy treats for the boys if they solved it; otherwise the boys would buy for Sal and his wife Sylvia as well as themselves.

"I've got chocolate chip brownies today!" Deana called out from behind her counter. "Not to be missed!"

Meanwhile, Sal laid out the following position on a couple of the waiting checkerboards. "There you go," he said, "and I'll give you 45 minutes, seeing as how we've spent a lot of time already in chatting."

There were a couple of brief groans but it didn't take long for the boys to get down to that aforementioned checker business.

---

We don't know if you did or didn't do much in the way of checkers over the summer, or if you missed going to your favorite club, cafe, or coffee shop, but whatever the case, join the boys in opening the new season at the Beacon by trying out this problem, and then clicking on Read More to see the solution.

[Read More]

You might be a blue collar worker, such as the plumbers shown above.

Or you might be a white collar worker or even a business executive.

Labor Day is for all of you and for all of us, as we recognize once again that all honest work deserves respect, and that every worker is an important contributor to our economy and our way of life. It's a great American (and Canadian) holiday.

For this celebration, in our Checker Maven columns we typically turn to Tom Wiswell, a great American checker champion, checker writer and teacher, and one of the most outstanding checker problemists in the history of the game. Today we invite you to try out The Sea Dog, which Mr. Wiswell dedicated to William Grover, the brother of another checker great, Ken Grover. William Grover served in the Merchant Marine during World War II and became a prisoner of war.

As is typical for Mr. Wiswell, this is an elegant problem and you will enjoy solving it. When you're done, click on Read More to see the run-up and the solution.

[Read More]

Sheila and Mortimer took a moment to regroup after the surprise visit from the police detective.

"So," Mortimer began, "we know someone shot from the outside with, presumably, a gun--- likely a pistol or something relatively small--- pushed up against the tent wall. That sounds kind of random."

"Let me see that photo again," Sheila said, and then laughed. "It would really frost that detective if he knew we had made copies. Well, he probably figured we did, I suppose."

Mortimer opened his laptop and brought up the photo of the small hole in the tent with burn marks.

"Enlarge it," Sheila said, "and enhance the focus if you can."

Mortimer did as Sheila asked, and then said, "Well, I'll be ... "

"Yes," Sheila said, "there's the hole marked by burns, such as from the muzzle of a gun, but the burns are more on the sides than the top and bottom, and there's a longer slit running up and down from the hole."

"So not random," Mortimer said. "Someone cut a slit to have a look, probably to take aim, and then inserted the pistol and fired."

"You know my next question," Sheila said, placing a hand on Mortimer's shoulder.

"Yup," Mortimer replied. "Was Bob Pace the target, or just a target of opportunity."

"In other words," continued Sheila, "did someone just want to shoot someone ... "

" ... or did that someone want to specifically shoot Mr. Pace," Mortimer finished. "This calls for some research. I can probably do a lot of it online."

"Good," said Sheila. "Meanwhile, I'll look over my own photos a little more closely. I took quite a few of the body and the floor and so on. Maybe that will give me some ideas."

"This is all kind of straightforward so far," Mortimer said. "Don't you think the police will be a few steps ahead of us?"

"They might be," Sheila replied, "but if they were very far ahead they wouldn't have come here asking for our photos, I don't believe. They're looking for leads, but they're too proud, or stubborn, to ask directly for help, despite this being a high profile crime."

But Mortimer hardly heard Sheila; he was already deep into his research.

About an hour went by. "Interesting," Mortimer finally said.

"What did you find, dear?" Sheila replied. Then she hesitated. "Oh, I hope it's not some checker problem ... "

Mortimer had this on his screen ...

... but he quickly switched views. "Uh, yeah, sweetheart, I found out some stuff about ... about Bob Pace."

"Like?" Sheila had her hands on her hips, and Mortimer knew that could go one of two ways. Sheila did have a temper at times, even though it wasn't very often.

"He's a well known player. But not the best in Iowa. Not the best in Des Moines either."

"I see," Sheila said, "and yet he was playing for first prize. Makes me wonder ... and combine that with what I found out, too."

"What?"

"Well, obviously I couldn't do an autopsy, and for sure the police aren't going to share those results with me, but Mr. Pace was hit squarely in the forehead with a single shot. That's not something your average random shooter does."

"You mean ... "

"Yes. A random shooter, shooting at just any target, would be in a hurry and wouldn't be so precise. That's not impossible, of course, but it's not the typical profile. No, I'll bet Mr. Pace was deliberately targeted, and by a professional. I'd say I'm certain, except for one thing."

"Which is?"

"It's too complicated and risky," Sheila went on. "If someone wanted to do a hit on Bob Pace, why would they do it in such a public setting? Why take the risk when they can corner him somewhere when he's alone and out of sight and just do him in then? No, something doesn't fit, or else we're missing something."

"Look," Mortimer said, "there's a lot here on the internet from the Des Moines Checker Club and Bob Pace's page on MyFace and so on. But we need to get more of the inside scoop."

"How do we do that?"

Mortimer smiled. "That's easy," he said. "We go to a checkers sports bar! There are a couple of them in Des Moines, and maybe we should start at the biggest one and do a little asking around from the local fans. We can do that tonight. The place is called Checkers on the Cob Sports Bar."

"Checkers on the Cob? You're making it up, right?"

"Dear, no one could make up a name like that."

Sheila insisted on Chinese for dinner saying she had enough of midwestern food, so she and Mortimer took a ride-share to Iowa Woks, which was just a block away from Checkers on the Cob.

Although the waiter insisted that the Sweet and Sour Corn Fritters were not to be missed, Sheila and Marvin both passed and they ordered Beef and Broccoli Stir Fry and Chicken Lo Mein.

"Pretty Americanized," was all that Mortimer would say, and Sheila didn't disagree. Mortimer said there would be stale fortune cookies along with the check, and it turned out he was right.

But then it was time to go to the sports bar. "Bet they serve corn on the cob," Mortimer said.

"No bet," Sheila replied.

They arrived a few minutes later. The place was large, with modern tables, wall murals, and a long bar that ran nearly the length of the main room. The lighting was surprisingly warm and bright, and it wasn't especially noisy inside, let alone rowdy.

A number of patrons were at the bar.

"Let's sit up there instead of at a table," Sheila suggested. "It'll be easier to talk to people."

"Uh, yeah," Mortimer said.

"You getting cold feet?" Sheila asked. She knew that Mortimer was on the shy side and not so great at talking to strangers.

"N..no," he replied, "this was my idea in the first place."

They took a couple of stools nearby but not adjacent to a couple of people who looked like regulars. On Sheila's left was a lady about 45 years old, with dyed blonde hair, plenty of makeup, and unexpectedly expensive looking clothes. On Mortimer's right was a burly guy in a muscle shirt and wearing sunglasses.

"What's popular?" Mort asked the bartender.

"Corn on the cob, what else!" the bartender replied. He was a chubby young fellow with a black bow tie that didn't match his brown apron and blue button-down shirt. "But look, if you're not hungry, a couple of Blue Ribbons ought to do ya."

"Okay," Mort said, "a couple of Blue Ribbons, then."

"You're joking," Sheila whispered. "Blue Ribbon beer? That's like drinking ... "

"Don't say it, honey," Mortimer whispered back, "they'll be offended."

The beers arrived and Mort took a sip. He grimaced, and the fellow next to him noticed.

"You from outta town?" he asked. "Don't like our beer?"

"Uh ... yeah ... I mean no ... I mean ... well yeah I'm from Denver. Here for the State Fair. And the beer ... just not used to it."

"State Fair, huh? Well that didn't work out, did it now, what with that guy Pace gettin' killed. Hey, you weren't in that tournament, were ya?"

"I was, actually," Mortimer said. "Kind of had an abrupt ending."

The big guy laughed. "Yeah, sure did! Hey, you ain't bad for an out of town doofus. What's yer name? I'm Ike, but my friends just call me Ike." He let out a loud laugh and offered his hand. Mortimer put out his own right hand and it was at once enveloped in a bone crushing grip.

"Ow," Mortimer said, but Ike just laughed again as he let go.

"Holy cow ... anyhow, my name's Mort," said Mortimer.

"Mort, huh? Well you're kinda short so I guess you're Short Mort!" Another laugh. "Hey, you any good? At checkers I mean, 'cause you ain't no good at handshakes!"

"Not great," Mortimer said, "but I was doing okay and maybe could have won some prize money. Guess I'll never know now. It's all closed down." He took another sip of beer and this time tried not to grimmace. "So you know anything about this guy that got shot?"

"Bob Pace?" Ike replied. "Yeah, kinda sorta good player but he ain't no pro, or I oughta say he wadn't no pro. Plays around town a lot. The type a guy what finishes third or fourth most a the time. Don't never win first place much. Maybe second once in a while."

"He was doing pretty well," Mort said. "He was in line to win."

"Yeah, that was a big soo-prise to a lotta people," Ike said.

Meanwhile, Sheila had struck up a conversation with the lady next to her, who, as it happened, called herself Rosie. "Like my complexion, you know," she had said with a titter. "I'm from New York, actually, but it's kind of fun to hang out in these little towns and I sorta struck up a--- well--- a thing with Ike over there."

Sheila didn't think Des Moines was all that little, but maybe compared to New York, it would seem that way. She also didn't know what Rosie might see in Ike, but appearances can be deceiving.

"Those two are talking about that Bob Pace fellow," Rosie went on. "Bet Ike doesn't give your boyfriend the real inside scoop, though."

"Oh," said Sheila, "you mean there's deeper story?" She gave Rosie a conspiratorial wink. "Buy you a drink if you spill," she said.

"Honey, you got a deal," Rosie replied. "Hey Larry," she said, calling for the barkeep, "double shot of rye straight up."

Sheila wasn't surprised when Rosie took the shot in one gulp. "Ah, love that rotgut," Rosie said. "Well, here's the deal. That Bob Pace, he was an okay player like Ike said but he wasn't nothing great. Thing is, he liked to bet a few dollars on the side. Like quite a few. Liked to bet on himself, too. Lost a lot of the time. Heard he was in hock to some people that ... well let's say they ain't too nice, and ain't too forgiving, if you get me."

Sheila knew there was organized crime in Des Moines, but didn't know a lot about it. "Hmm," she said, "no kidding."

"Well," Rosie said, putting her head close to Sheila's and whispering, "I think there was somethin' goin' on."

"Really? We were right there when it happened. Kind of scary. What do you think it was all about?"

"Don't know. Just know that Pace played at this illegal gamblin' joint that kinda specializes in checkers. Better not say more, though." Rosie leaned back toward her own seat.

"Where's this place?" Sheila asked. "My boyfriend here ... he likes to place a bet or two on his games and we haven't seen any action around here."

"I shouldn't tell ... it ain't safe ... but if you buy me another drink ... "

This time Sheila was surprised when Rosie put down another double rye without so much as taking a deep breath.

"It's not far ... you go over to the next block ... there's the Sweet Corn Cafe. Go in and ask for Colonel Checkers ... "kernel" checkers, get it?" Rosie laughed. "They'll take care of you from there. They'll ask who sent you and you say, "Rosie Double Rye." Then they'll know you're legit. But keep this to yourselves, okay?"

"Thanks Rosie ... well, uh, we have to go." Sheila turned to Mortimer. "Honey, we have to go. Pay the tab and come on."

"But ... okay," Mort said. "Nice to meet you Ike but I'll skip another handshake, okay?"

On the way out Mort asked, "What's the rush?"

Sheila replied, "You won't believe what I found out. We have one more stop to make."

"Where?" Mortimer asked.

"The Sweet Corn Cafe."

"The Sweet Corn ... "

Mortimer wore a puzzled look as Sheila pulled him through the door and out onto the street.

To be continued.

---

Do you, like Mortimer, take little breaks from your work to look at checker problems? We can't blame you if you do; just don't let the boss find out. In any case, try out the problem that was distracting our hero and see how you do. Clicking on Read More will show you the run-up and the solution.

[Read More]

It was August, which was usually the hottest month of the year in Bismarck, North Dakota, and 1955 was no exception. Although North Dakota is often rightly thought of as a very cold place, summers, though brief, could be scorching hot, with temperatures above a hundred degrees on some days.

Sal Westerman, the unofficial leader of the Coffee and Cake Checker Club, usually stayed in town during August. His wife Sylvia always went to Dickinson to spend two or three weeks with her sister Phoebe, and while she was away Sal would retreat to the relative coolness of his basement to read his checker magazines and do some study from his large checkers library. The Club didn't meet during the summer, and in fact their usual venue, the Beacon Cafe, closed down in August so the proprietress, Deana, could go to Gackle to visit with family and help with the wheat harvest.

But this year Sal decided to do a little travel as well. His nephew, Maurice Kamsky, ran a plumbing business in Jamestown, and was himself a decent amateur checker player. Maurice was always trying to get Sal to visit, and when he pointed out that Jamestown was having a first ever checker festival, Sal finally agreed to go.

So, on a Friday morning in early August, Sal gassed up the family sedan and rode east on Highway 10 toward Jamestown. The ride took around three hours and Sal finally parked in front of Maurice's modest house at about noon. Maurice saw Sal's arrival and rushed out to help Sal with his suitcase, getting him settled in the guest room before his wife Kate put out a lunch of pastrami sandwiches.

The three chit-chatted over lunch making mostly small talk. Sal wanted to talk about the checker festival, which would take place the following day, with lessons, casual play, and a rapid-play tournament in the afternoon. But before Sal could say much, Maurice said, "It's boy's night out tonight, Sal ... Friday night." Maurice looked over at his wife. "Right, honey?" he said.

"I suppose," Kate said with a bit of a sigh. "As long as you keep it to once a month. Anyhow, I'll go out for ladies night. That will be a lot more fun, I'm sure."

Maurice looked over at Sal and winked. "We'll have fun, too," he said. "Best you get a little rest after lunch as sometimes we have, well, a lot of fun."

Kate raised her voice ever so slightly. "Now, Maurice, watch the drinking, okay? There's that tournament tomorrow, you know."

"Oh honey, I'm not worried about the tournament." He turned and winked again at Sal.

"Well, yes," Sal said, "you have to remember I'm older and shouldn't make a late night of it."

"Aw, get in a nap this afternoon and you'll be good to go, you won't even notice the time," said Maurice. "Look, I need to get back to the shop. Dinner is usually around five-thirty and we'll take off after dinner at seven." Maurice got up, said good-bye, and headed out the back door. In a few minutes Kate and Sal heard his old pick-up truck pull out of the driveway.

"I think I will take that rest," Sal said to Kate. "Thank you for a nice lunch."

Dinner was pot roast with vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy, and lime Jello for dessert. Kate served coffee but it was obvious that Maurice really wanted to get going.

"Ready for a big night?" he asked Sal.

"Well, I don't know," Sal replied, "I know you'd like me to go with you on your boy's night out, but I really wanted to study a little checkers before the tournament tomorrow."

"Ah, no worries Uncle Sal, you'll win in a breeze. Let's go!"

Reluctantly, Sal put on his jacket and Fedora and followed Maurice out to his pickup.

Within moments they were on a seedy part of Jamestown's Main Street. Maurice pulled up in front of a wide storefront with a sign over it that only said "Island Bar."

"Island Bar?" Sal asked. "Seems kind of odd."

"You'll see. This ... uh ... this kind of bar is sort of ... its own thing, if you know what I mean."

Maurice held the door open for his uncle to enter, and the scene that greeted Sal was like something from a movie shot during the Roaring Twenties. The large bar room was crowded and filled with smoke. Nearly all of the patrons were men, and then Sal saw why. At the front of the room was a sort of raised stage, and on the stage were a dozen or so young girls dressed in, shall we say, a provocative fashion. A piano player was playing just below the stage and the girls were all dancing in an approximation of a Folies Bergere manner.

Sal stopped and turned to Maurice. "I don't think this is quite appropriate for me," he said, "and probably not for you either."

"Hey, come on Uncle, it's just good fun. Anyhow I have a surprise for you a little later. Let's have a couple of drinks first and enjoy the show. Something a bit different is good for a guy sometimes ... "

"But I don't ... "

Maurice had already found a vacant table and had pulled out a chair for Sal.

A waitress, dressed in approximately the same way as the girls on stage, arrived almost at once.

"Beer," Maurice said.

The waitress nodded and looked at Sal. "What'll you have, hon?" she asked.

"Hon?" Sal muttered under his breath but then continued, "Coca Cola, please. Just a small glass."

The waitress, whose name tag read "Candy," replied "If you say so, hon, but a shot of whiskey would do you good and loosen you up some." She bustled off before Sal could say anything further.

Maurice had his beer, and several more, while Sal nursed his Coca Cola and got increasingly irritated by the smoke and the noise. He didn't pay any attention to the stage show, but Maurice watched it eagerly and let out cheers and yells from time to time. Finally, he looked at his watch and said to Sal, "Nine o'clock. Time for your surprise."

"More like time to go home," Sal said but Maurice got up from the table and motioned for Sal to follow. He led his uncle to a door in a corridor at the very end of the bar room.

Sal entered and to his surprise saw about half a dozen checker boards and an equal number of games going on. The players all had glasses of beer or liquor at hand and were evidently drinking steadily.

"What's this?" Sal asked.

"Checkers, what else?" Maurice replied. "This is the big time, way bigger than the tournament tomorrow. There you just get a ribbon or something. Here you can win ... big ... if you're good enough and have the courage to play."

"You mean play for stakes?" Sal said.

"Big stakes. Serious play, serious money."

"And serious drinking? That doesn't go with good play ... "

"Tell these boys that. Or better, don't tell them as they might not take too kindly to it."

"I'm leaving," Sal said. "You can drive me or I can call for a taxi, but one way or the other, I"m leaving."

However just at that moment, one of the games finished. The winner looked up and saw Sal. "Well lookie here," said the man, who had a gruff look, a lined face, and some of the attributes of a heavy drinker. "New blood. Kind of an old codger but if Maurice brought him here, maybe he'll have what it takes to play me."

"That's Mike Laury," Maurice said in a low voice. "He's pretty good."

Laury stood up. "Ain't you going to answer me, old timer? You in or are you chicken? A hundred bucks says I can take you."

"Sorry, I don't play for money," Sal said, "but thank you for the offer."

"Scared are ya? Now listen up and listen good. Maurice brought you here and anyone who comes here plays. Thems the rules and a hundred is our usual stake."

"I said I don't play for money," Sal replied, "and I don't have a hundred dollars on me in any event. So I'll be going now."

"You ain't goin' nowhere!" Laury said. "Maurice'll give me a marker for your hundred, won't you, Maurice?"

Maurice said, "Yeah sure, why not. But I'm warning you, my Uncle Sal is darn good. In fact he's the ... "

"Good is he? Well I'm better. Now get over here and sit down, old man, before I make you."

Sal's temper started to rise, something that was quite rare. "Now look here, you, I don't have to ... okay, you know what? You want to play so badly, we'll play. My nephew tried to warn you."

"Ha ha ha! Warn me did he? About what? That you'll have a heart attack while you're drinking soda pop? Let's go!"

Sal sat down and the game began. Laury was surprisingly good, especially for someone who had half a dozen empty shot glasses at this side. After a while, the game reached the following position with Sal to play.

Sal thought for a little bit and the said, "You were warned, Mr. Laury, so fair is fair." Sal then made his move.

---

We'll guess that none of our readers has ever been to a 1955 dive bar in Jamestown, North Dakota, where checkers was played in a back room for high stakes; after all, our story is fictitious. But could you have defeated an ornery old cuss like Mike Laury, who despite everything else had talent? We suggest you don't drink six shots of rotgut before trying this problem (none would be the right amount). See how you do and then click on Read More to see the solution and the rest of the story.

[Read More]