Frank crouched on the top of the wall, bunched up against the cold, blowing warm air into his balled hands. It was two degrees below, and most people would have considered that sitting around in Washington Square Park was not a sensible choice to make. His reason for being there made sense to him, at least, but that is not saying a lot.
About another half an hour passed before they arrived. Enlow came first with his trolley, filled with loose leaves of notepaper, covered in his scrawlings. He nodded to Frank and took a seat at one of the concrete chess tables; he stared quietly at the board inlaid on the top. McCreedy arrived only a minute or so afterwards. He did not acknowledge Frank as he took his place opposite Enlow. A stark contrast to the shambling, stooped form of James Enlow, Charles McCreedy was tall, slim, well dressed and clean cut.
Frank stepped down from the wall and reached into his jacket, bringing out a small ebony box. He stepped up to the table, and began laying out chess pieces from the box.
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