That night, Mr Davies died in his sleep.
The routine of his daily chess game gone, Mr Smollett gazed, rheumy-eyed, beyond the chessboard, at the empty chair opposite.
The jukebox was quieter, the youngsters less rowdy. One of them put down his pool cue and strolled across to Mr Smollett’s table.
“I’m Terry,” he said. “Do you fancy a game of chess?”