Mardock Scramble

by Ubukata, Tow

  Balot could no longer see the cowboy as anything other than the mechanic.

  How are the Doctor and Oeufcoque planning on beating him? she wondered.

  The next hand commenced. We’ll get him this time, she hoped.

  Balot was dealt 6

  and 3

  . The dealer’s button was in front of the Doctor now.

  Balot made her blind bet without a moment’s delay. Yet again the potbelly folded in the first round. The cowboy raised, and everyone else called, and the first round was over.

  The flop was dealt to the center of the table and turned over one by one.

  10

  , 5

  , and 4

  .

  It was hard for Balot to contain her excitement. She now had six-five-four-three, and all she needed was a two or a seven to make her straight—or she could use the 5

  to aim for a flush.

  –Fold.

  The instruction came just as she was about to bet. Unbelievable. Oeufcoque’s order directly contradicted every natural impulse Balot felt. She closed her eyes and placed her cards down on the table.

  –Why?

  She spoke directly to Oeufcoque now. Folding at this point meant that all she could do for the rest of the hand was watch the other players as the hand progressed.

  –I’ve worked it all out.

  This was Oeufcoque’s answer.

  –You’ve worked out who the mechanic is?

  –I’ve worked out everything.

  Balot frowned.

  –You mean that the man who’s winning is the mechanic? she asked, as if to say I’ve worked that much out for myself.

  But Oeufcoque’s answer couldn’t have been more different.

  –The man to the far right and the man on the end at the left are partners in crime.

  Balot was amazed. He was talking about the suit and the potbelly.

  As they talked, snarcing to each other, play had progressed to the third round.

  The turn card was J

  . Balot and the potbelly were out, so it was between the other four now.

  –Looks like clubs are a lucky suit for you.

  Not that Balot was remotely interested. It was Oeufcoque who’d squashed her two chances for a flush, after all.

  –More importantly, won’t you tell me how you know? Why do you say those two are the mechanics?

  –I can tell by their odor and their actions.

  –Even though they’re losing?

  –There’s not much mileage in winning from the outset. The best way to make money is to let someone start winning, hook him, then take it all back and more. That’s what these three seem to think anyway.

  –Three?

  –The dealer is in on the action too.

  Before she could stop herself, Balot had glanced at the dealer. He was just in the process of dealing the river card for the last round. It was A

  . She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved; the card meant that she would have had neither a straight nor a flush.

  –So the cowboy isn’t a mechanic?

  –No. He’s a rabbit in the headlights, just waiting to be mowed down. You just watch—he’s about to start losing heavily.

  Oeufcoque’s blunt words seemed to put Balot in a slightly better mood, and she asked him another question.

  –How can you tell when people are cheating?

  –I’ll show you, but you have to act nonchalant. The suit is going to win this hand.

  Balot looked at the suit. He had a poker face on—the term could have been coined for him.

  The old gentleman raised, and the suit called and re-raised. The cowboy went red in the face and called, and the Doctor looked toward Balot as he called too.

  “So, do you think you’re starting to get the hang of it? The important thing is to get used to the ambience.” The Doctor spoke to her as if he were some sort of great authority, and everyone else around the table listened.

  Balot, though, was the only one who understood the subtext—what he really meant by this.

  –Yes, I think I’m starting to get it. What about you, Uncle? I hope you win this hand!

  She was growing into her role.

  –The pile of chips are ordered in such a way to show what numbers he has.

  Oeufcoque explained. He was referring to the first pile of chips that the suit had used in order to call. And, indeed, the numerals on the chips ran parallel to the white lines on the table.

  –The man on the far left is holding a chip between the middle finger and ring finger of his left hand.

  The potbelly was indeed doing that.

  –The man in the suit is the designated winner of this hand—he has three aces. The Doctor has two pairs, fives over fours. The cowboy next to the Doctor has three jacks. And the old man next to you has two pairs, tens over fours.

  –How can you possibly know all this?

  It was hard to believe. Reading emotions through odor was one thing, but surely there was no way he could accurately work out what every card was?

  –The man on the far left is exchanging information with the dealer and the man wearing the suit. I just picked up on that. As for the rest, I just observed for a while, and I can tell how certain people start to smell when they get dealt a certain hand.

  Balot found herself growing more and more impressed as Oeufcoque’s words appeared on her hand.

  –The man on the left is broadcasting who has what pairs in relation to the community cards. He’s using the position of the chip in his right hand to show the others the strongest hand among us marks. The shape and posture of his left hand is showing them what the other people have, and whether the dealer is able to deal the man in the suit a stronger hand or not. The man in the suit placed his chips the way he did to signal for the river card to be an ace.

  –They can manipulate the cards that are dealt too?

  –They have certain cards concealed in the card shoe. Marked cards. The sort you can identify by touch—a funny shaped corner, or one card slightly bigger than the others. They don’t need to mark every single one; as long as they have a couple of high cards such as aces and kings, and know which suit is which, they have an overwhelming advantage.

  Balot noticed that the dealer’s hands did indeed brush against the cards in the card shoe now and then. The move was disguised so that it looked entirely natural, but she could see that he was definitely feeling the shape of the cards.

  –The sneaks!

  –Looks like the mechanics are about to win.

  The old gentleman folded, and the Doctor folded too.

  The cowboy raised and raised again, through gritted teeth that ground together so noisily that Balot thought they might crumble to bits. She almost felt sorry for him, the sitting duck that the mechanics were preparing to pluck and roast.

  The betting was finally over, and the cowboy revealed his hand with vigor. Three jacks. Just as Oeufcoque had predicted.

  The cowboy’s manner seemed to suggest that it was a close call but he felt he had a good chance of victory.

  But that was what good cheating was all about—making the mark feel he has a chance when in reality he has none.

  The suit revealed his hand. The cowboy recoiled.

  Three aces. It was just like the previous hand, except the shoe was now on the other foot.

  Balot watched the chips flow over to the suit, and at last she realized what was happening. You needed bait to catch a sucker, and what better bait than another sucker? They let the cowboy win at first, then just as he started getting into the mood they would take it all back from him and then some, all the while keeping alive the flame of false hope that he might still have a chance.

  The suit won the next hand too. After that the old gentleman won, then the cowboy, then back to the suit.

  As far as Balot and the Doctor were concerned, money was only flowing one way. They gave a convincing impression of a pair who were delighted just to be there and happy to
pay for the privilege of being allowed to participate.

  The mechanics weren’t slow to recognize this. In other words, they made sure that Balot and the Doctor had good cards, or at least good enough to dangle a glimmer of false hope before them before pulling it away at the last minute—until the next hand.

  The second round of betting had just begun when Oeufcoque suddenly asked Balot a question.

  –Do you think you could snarc one of the overhead cameras?

  –Probably, yes.

  –Try shifting the camera that’s watching over your hand.

  Balot did so. She sensed the security cameras on the ceiling without so much as a glance in their direction.

  There were three cameras pointed at the table. Not that they were particularly paying attention to it at the present time—they were simply three of the many that scanned the room, and they happened to monitor Balot’s table.

  Balot snarced the three cameras ever so slightly, causing them to shift just a few millimeters. The security systems on the cameras themselves were fairly easy to crack—after all, it wasn’t as though the customers were likely to climb up to the ceiling and adjust them individually. Balot did adjust them, so that there was now a small blind spot that happened to be just about where she was sitting.

  Balot’s cards at the time were K

  and 8

  .

  The flop was 10

  , 6

  and J

  .

  –See if you can tune into everyone’s breathing patterns.

  Balot obeyed, honing in on the breathing rhythms of everyone at the table, including the dealer. They breathed in, then out. In again, then out again.

  There wasn’t a single one of them who could survive without breathing, after all.

  The cowboy’s breathing was the roughest. His breaths were centered around the area from his chest to his shoulders. The old gentleman’s exhalations came from below his belly. The dealer, the other mechanics, and the Doctor all breathed from the area between their chest and their belly.

  Their breathing changed as the game progressed, and in particular all of them began breathing heavily when it came time to call.

  –Aim to call your hand at the precise moment everyone has fully exhaled.

  Balot followed Oeufcoque’s orders obediently, and she fell into a new pattern of play, almost without meaning to.

  –Try and relax, go with the flow.

  The moment Oeufcoque said this, Balot’s right hand moved suddenly, of its own accord. This was the instant that everyone at the table had just finished exhaling. Balot found that she had exchanged one of her cards with one of the Doctor’s cards that he had just laid down on the table after folding in the first round.

  –You see, the instant between exhaling and starting a new breath is the moment a person’s guard is at its lowest.

  Balot’s cards were now K

  and Q

  . Nobody had noticed.

  –Looks like clubs really are your lucky suit.

  Oeufcoque’s words were simultaneously an observation and a prediction.

  The third round of betting began. The Doctor and the potbelly had both already folded, so it was now a four-horse race. The turn card was J

  . This made a pair with the jack in the flop, so anyone who had three of a kind on another number would automatically end up with a near-unbeatable full house. The hand now came down to a battle of wits as each attempted to guess whether the other players were nearly there, already there, or just bluffing.

  The old gentleman raised, and the suit called. The cowboy called and raised again.

  –Raise to the limit.

  Balot entered her money to call, then raised a further $120. The calls went round the table, the cowboy raising and Balot re-raising. By the end, the pot contained over two thousand dollars.

  The calls finished, and with them the third round of betting.

  Balot couldn’t stop her chest from throbbing.

  The dealer put his hand to the card shoe.

  The fact that his eyes glanced at the hand signals of the man on the far left didn’t escape Balot.

  The river card was flipped over.

  A

  .

  Incredible—and for a moment, Balot really couldn’t believe it.

  –That’s what I thought—I figured our chances were about one in four for this one, Oeufcoque whispered to Balot as she continued to raise the stakes throughout the round.

  –It’s a peculiarly human characteristic to be biased toward a certain suit or number, to give off a particular smell whenever confronted with it. The man on the far right gives off relief whenever a spade is dealt, for example. The others, too, give off distinctive odors whenever they see a certain suit. It seems that clubs aren’t very popular at this table.

  –Is that why so many are coming to me? I’m getting everyone’s leftovers?

  –I suppose you could call it the inevitable surplus, yes. But, you know, this is what many people would call luck, or destiny.

  Oeufcoque was as wishy-washy as ever.

  The old gentleman folded. Just the suit and the cowboy left to beat.

  They both raised to the end, as did Balot.

  The cowboy was the first to show his hand.

  6

  and J

  . Full house. The gloating grin that covered his entire face contrasted sharply with the curt smile of the suit.

  The suit then opened his hands to reveal his hand: A

  and A

  . A full house, aces over jacks. Virtually unbeatable. To do so would require a now-impossible full house of aces over kings or queens, an incredibly rare four of a kind, or an even rarer straight flush or a royal straight flush. And four of a kind was also impossible at this point in the hand, the cowboy having played the third jack. All that was left was the infinitesimally small chance of a straight flush or a royal straight flush.

  So everyone was confident that the suit would now win.

  The cowboy gritted his teeth, rolled his eyes, and watched as the suit leaned over to claim his chips.

  –I do believe I’ve won, Balot said aloud. Nobody quite seemed to understand her at first. A second later, the old gentleman sitting next to her let out a loud cry. All eyes were now on Balot, and all were silent.

  K

  and Q

  .

  The suit, the potbelly, and the dealer were all horrified.

  The king and queen of clubs, joined by the jack, ten, and ace.

  The hand so rare that it could, for all intents and purposes, be discounted for normal playing purposes. The odds against it were roughly 65,000 to one. A royal straight flush.

  –I have won, haven’t I?

  Balot appeared uncomfortable under everyone’s gaze. She looked as if she were worried that she might have gotten it wrong and was visibly relieved when the dealer nodded in affirmation.

  Suddenly there was a burst of excitement all around. Passersby were stopping to gawk at Balot’s hand.

  Balot started raking in the mountain of chips—over three thousand dollars total—when the dealer added a number of thousand-dollar chips to the pile, along with some sort of certificate. It seemed that the house provided a special prize to anyone who made a royal straight flush. On top of the bonus cash was a free night in the suite of the casino’s sister hotel, a number of tokens to exchange for prizes at reception, and instructions on how to arrange for the commemorative photograph at the table.

  The dealer seemed calm and composed enough, but Oeufcoque had different ideas.

  –He smells of anger and fear.

  The table had originally been selected by the Doctor after he had carefully scrutinized the casino records. He chose it because its patterns diverged slightly from the house average. Not quite enough to draw the suspicion of the house—yet—but any further deviations from the norm would be likely to result in a lot of interest in the dealer’s actions.

  And it wasn’t only the winners
who caused the averages to go askew.

  When a plan to swindle marks goes bad, it can go really bad—and that was when the most extreme outcomes emerged.

  –They’ll probably start to get serious about now. And that’s when we go in for the kill. Cheaters have it tough in legal casinos, in a very different way from illegal ones.

  Balot felt Oeufcoque’s explanation in the palm of her hand.

  –Legal casinos consider cheats to be the worst hazard there is—they’re bad for business, and they interfere with the family-friendly image that the casinos try so hard to cultivate. A cheat who is caught faces immediate expulsion, a permanent ban from all casinos, and he’ll never be able to work in the gaming industry ever again. He won’t even be allowed to own shares in a casino or take a backroom role. He’ll be out, thoroughly and with absolute finality.

  This was why the dealer and the other mechanics now had to try and bring the table back toward average. Their livelihoods, if not their lives, were at stake. If you pricked them, would they not bleed? The answer was: most definitely.

  –I’m sure the mechanics have been moving from table to table, using their same tricks every time. But if we can wrong-foot just one of them—well, catch one, catch all.

  The dealer’s actions and his shifty, sharp eye movements seemed to confirm Oeufcoque’s every word.

  The dealer dealt the next hand, and as Balot picked up her cards she noticed a number of things looking toward her that hadn’t been there a minute ago. More overhead cameras, responding incredibly quickly to recent developments at the table.

  The cameras were focused in on all the people at the table except for Balot.

  The casino, after all, could draw on their records to note how much Balot had lost at the table up to this point. A duty manager was far more likely to conclude that a cheating maneuver from someone else had somehow backfired, rather than assume that Balot had anything to do with the cheating herself.