"Yea, yea, yea," he says, leaping a knight over the white pawns. Pushkin hesitates a second then slaps down the button on his timer, signaling confirmation of the move. The Greek scoops up the errant knight with a rook.

"Thank you very much," he says.

"You're welcome."

"C'est fini, la comedie," the Greek says to the board. Pushkin's position does look bad: he's down to his last knight, a straggle of pawns and a king crowned with a cap of tinfoil. A few moves later the Greek slides one of his pawns forward and pushes down the button on his clock. He is well into his allotted time. "C'est fini, la comedie. You know what I mean?"

"No, I don't know what you mean," Pushkin shoots back as he moves his king out of the Greek's trap.

"No opposition," the Greek observes. "Nothing, nothing, nothing." His white pawn reaches the back line and Pushkin spots him a queen. A mad chase ensues. Both men lean over the board, moving pieces and slapping the clock.

When the Greek's five minutes are up, Pushkin's king and a lone pawn are still standing. Pushkin sits back and grins; another draw. "Ha," Pushkin says, "you are strong like my grandmother."

They are here every day: Pushkin and the Greek, with Little Hat, Chief and the others. These are not their real names; they don't give their names to outsiders. They are mostly older men, some homeless, some retired and a few visiting suits from upstairs. They don't talk about themselves, in fact, there's little talking apart from the gentle slander of competitive patter. For them, the game is the thing.

The chessmen unroll their felt-backed vinyl boards on the cafe tables in the atrium of Park Avenue Plaza shortly after lunch and stay until well past dinner. On any weeknight there may be a half-dozen tables in play, alongside the coffee bar, below the perpetual waterfall, in the enclosed courtyard of this 44-story Midtown tower.

Compared to street chess, where loud and fast rules, the game played in the atrium is relatively genteel. Like the classic street contest, it lasts less than 10 minutes: each player has 5 minutes to make his moves. Unlike street chess, the men in the atrium play for fun, not money.

Tournament chess is a different game altogether. When Gary Kasparov successfully defended his world title against Vishny Anand atop the World Trade Center in 1995, each player was given the standard 2.5 hours for the first 40 moves. The players in the atrium could have completed 30 games in that time.

After another frenetic endgame that ended in a draw, Pushkin hums to himself as he sets up his battered black pieces for the next match. This time his opponent is the Chief. Like many of the players at Park Avenue Plaza, the Chief wears several coats indoors, where the temperature is about 65 degrees. He watches more games than he plays, sitting silently, broad back like a wall on one side of the table. He wears a knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows and his wide face is as weathered as an old satchel.

"Yea, I've been playing here for years," Pushkin is saying. "Sometimes I win and sometimes I lose."

"Most of the time he loses," the Chief says. The Chief and Pushkin play four quick games. Pushkin dances two of the games to a draw, checkmates the Chief in the third and runs out of time in the fourth.

"This clock is fast," Pushkin says, picking up the timepiece and pointing to the left dial. Pushkin speaks with a Russian accent, hence the nickname. He is also wearing an overcoat, the sleeves of which are frayed. Above his scraggly black beard, Pushkin's small, brown eyes are framed by thickets of wrinkles.

"You get beat by time and position," Pushkin explains as he sets up his minions for another game. He says he doesn't take it too seriously. "No good players here," he says, "-- all domino players."

The fifth game begins reflexively, pieces falling in a preordained slaughter. When the board is half cleared, Pushkin leans out over the grid, muttering to himself excitedly, reviewing an internal calculus of possible moves. The Chief stolidly presses forward, claiming pieces, but never the king. Pushkin gives him two queens and a knight and still the Chief cannot catch him. Pushkin, the escape artist, is in his element. "Check," the Chief announces.

Pushkin considers the board for a second. "Nobody dies from check," he says and slips away.

-- Rob Cummings