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doors of Broadway theaters. I hurried along next to my dad, listening to the sounds of the city and inhaling its scents: sizzling meat from a parked gyro truck, steam hissing up through a subway grate, and a lady in a fur coat sashaying ahead of us in four-inch heels that click-clicked off the sidewalk as if she were stabbing it with each purposeful step.
    A doorman in a top hat stood outside the Palace Royale Hotel, helping people in and out of cabs, which he summoned with earsplitting blasts on a silver whistle. “Okay,” Dad said to me, “ready?”
    “As I’ll ever be.”
    “Then let the madness begin,” he said, and we spun our way in through the revolving door.
    The lobby was brightly carpeted, with a chandelier glistening high above. A sign near the check-in desk read WELCOME CHESS PLAYERS. I could pick out dozens of them—sharp-eyed kids clutching sets and clocks, many of them nose-deep into chess books, as if in the next hour, before round one started, they were going to uncover a key secret that would mean the difference between victory and defeat.
    Their dads hovered around them, and it was easy to spot the father-son resemblances—the hawk-nosed dad and the eagle-beaked son; the hyper kid who couldn’t stand still and his nervous dad who paced from side to side at the check-in line like a caged tiger.
    We reached the front desk and a pretty clerk asked for my dad’s name. “Pratzer,” he said. “You should have a reservation for a standard room, two twin beds.”
    “That’s been changed,” she informed him. “You’ve been upgraded to a suite and moved to our club floor.”
    “I don’t want a suite,” Dad told her.
    “Oh yes you do,” she replied with a knowing smile. “Thirteen hundred square feet, two luxury bedrooms, and a living area with spectacular views.”
    “But I didn’t ask for that,” Dad pointed out. He looked a little embarrassed and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to pay for that.”
    “Not to worry. It’s already been taken care of.”
    He stared back at her. “By who?”
    She studied her monitor. “Randolph J. Kinney. He’s on the club floor, too, right next to you. Here are your key cards. Suite 2207. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Pratzer.”
    We took the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. “I can’t let a stranger pay for my room upgrade.” Dad fumed.
    “Why not?” I asked. “He owns a hedge fund.”
    “I don’t care if he owns his own bank.”
    “He probably does,” I said. “Let’s check out the suite before you give it up.”
    The elevator reached the twenty-second floor and we got out. The club floor was elegant and silent—a welcome change from the crowded lobby. “Not bad,” I said.
    “Don’t get used to it,” Dad warned me. “I’m gonna get us downgraded right after our first round is over.”
    We opened the door to suite 2207 and I sucked in a breath. The marble entry hall led to a spacious living area, which featured two leather couches, an enormous flat-screen TV, and floor-to-ceiling windows with stunning views westward over Manhattan rooftops all the way to New Jersey. The sun was going down over the Hudson, and it gave the mile-wide river a dark purple tinge. The two bedrooms had king-size beds and their own TVs, the master bathroom had a Jacuzzi, and there was a fruit basket on the desk with the words WELCOME GRANDMASTER PRATZER—THE MANAGEMENT.
    “If you downgrade us from this room, I might have to kill you,” I told my dad.
    He was contemplating the fruit basket. “How could they possibly know I was a grandmaster…?”
    A loud knock sounded on our door, and I went to open it. A tall, handsome, and athletic-looking man in slacks and a sports coat was standing there, grinning and looking past me. “Is that you, Grandmaster? Randolph Kinney.” He stepped into our suite and a second later he was pumping my dad’s right hand in a grip that made my father visibly wince. “How do you like the spread?”
    “It’s great,” I