by Ubukata, Tow
Oeufcoque seemed to sense Balot’s self-reproach and jumped in to explain the logic behind this move.
–If we stay on any number between twelve and sixteen when the dealer has an upcard of seven or higher, we stand a 75 percent chance of losing. Conversely, when we have a total of seventeen or over and the dealer has an upcard of between two and six, we’re better off staying—the odds are overwhelmingly in our favor.
–Seven up. Seventeen or higher for the player, seven or higher for the dealer.
Again the lessons that Balot had been taught came flooding back.
–Exactly right. Whereas the worst sort of hand for us is a fifteen or sixteen, when we can expect to lose. Here, hitting reduces our chance of losing from 75 percent to 63 percent. Better to move than not.
Balot obeyed and hit, drawing her third card.
Unfortunately it was a king. Well and truly bust.
The dealer’s next card turned out to be a jack, also worth ten. Total seventeen. Whatever Balot had done she would have lost. Better to have gone out fighting and taken the chance to improve the odds, even if she happened to have been unsuccessful this time.
Blackjack was a losers’ game. It was simply impossible to win all the time. The key was not to expect to win every hand but to play the odds so that you created conditions that were as favorable as possible.
To win, a player needed great staying power—the force of mind to keep on going down that long and winding road.
The next hand was a case in point. Balot’s hand was a 10 and 5—and a fifteen was fully expected to lose.
The dealer’s upcard was a queen. Not the time to stay, then. There was the option of surrendering, but now wasn’t the right time to start retreating and playing defensively. The bankroll was still nice and thick, and even the first mini-bank was still intact, so it was no time to roll over and play dead.
–Hit.
The dealer glanced at Balot again. He dealt her a 4.
–Stay.
It was Balot’s reflexes that spoke now. Her new total was nineteen. The dealer drew his card. An 8.
Balot and the monocled man were the only winners.
For a brief moment, Balot felt that she had accomplished something tangible, however slight. She exhaled, deeply.
02
–I think the time is ripe for you to start paying some attention to your surroundings.
Oeufcoque said this, attuned as he was to the subtleties of her feelings, in response to Balot’s increasing interest in the players all around her. He was now allowing Balot to progress, to do something that he had previously forbidden.
–Thanks. It’s just that I really want to know how other people are playing. She started to explain herself, why she was getting so impatient, but Oeufcoque cut her off.
–No need to apologize. It really is most impressive how quick you are at picking up on all this. It’s on the early side to do so, but I really think you are ready to move on to the third stage.
No sooner had the words floated up on Balot’s hand and registered with her than they disappeared, replaced by a new set of tables. There was now roughly six times as much information displayed as there had been before. Specifically tables showing the collated tactics of everyone at the table up to this point, including the dealer. And the results: how many hands won, how many lost.
The monocled man was in the lead, with the old man and the Doctor not too far behind. The lady and Balot seemed to be losing hands in equal measure.
Also shown was the regularity with which the dealer bust, roughly one in five times.
The statistics that most interested Balot were those relating to the monocled man. He was on a winning streak, and an impressive one at that. He was riding the crest of the wave of victory. The question was whether this was due to the man’s skill or his luck.
The cards were dealt. Balot received a jack and 2.
The monocled man, on the other hand, had a 4 and 6—a total of ten.
“Double down,” said the man. The dealer’s upcard was 4. The man’s move was entirely consistent with what was showing on Oeufcoque’s table. The man added his chips to the pile and drew a 9. Total nineteen. When you called “double down,” you were permitted to draw only one additional card—so this was about as good as it got, as far as the monocled man was concerned.
The game progressed, and Balot stayed on her hand.
The dealer’s hidden card was a 7. He drew another card, a 5—total seventeen.
Balot lost, as did all the other players except for the monocled man.
They moved to the next hand. The monocled man she was watching had an 8 and a 6.
“Double down.”
For a moment Balot thought that she had heard wrong. But the man was placing another pile of chips on the table.
The dealer’s upcard was a 3. According to Oeufcoque’s tactical grid, he should be staying rather than drawing. The card that the man drew, however, was a 7.
Twenty-one.
The player’s face broke out into a satisfied grin. He’d now be looking at a major payout, as long as the dealer didn’t get a blackjack himself.
The monocled man had his wish granted when the dealer bust and lost. All the players—including Balot—were winners that round, but the monocled man won more than the rest of them and was obviously delighted by this fact.
Then in the next hand the man hit on sixteen and won, and the game was brought to a close. During the shuffle the topic of conversation among the players was, rather inevitably, the monocled man’s winning streak.
–The man on the far right is pretty amazing.
–Oh, the dealer has his eye on him.
–Because he’s winning too much?
–Being allowed to win, more like.
Balot didn’t immediately get what Oeufcoque meant.
–Doesn’t the dealer have his eye on him because he’s winning too much?
–No, he’s swallowed the dealer’s bait hook, line, and sinker. He just happens to be winning now, that’s all.
Right at that moment Balot noticed something about the man.
–He seems to be in pain?
The monocled man had the roughest breathing patterns of everyone at the table—by far.
–Good spot.
Encouraged by Oeufcoque’s words, Balot probed further, trying to get to the heart of the matter.
–Is it related to his breathing patterns?
–It is.
–But the man’s winning most of his hands, isn’t he?
–There’s more to this game than the number of hands you win. This statement struck an odd chord with Balot. Then she realized that she was thinking about an important aspect of the game from all the wrong angles.
–Can you tell me how much money everyone has bet so far? How much they’ve lost too?
–Roger that.
No sooner had he spoken than the existing tables on Balot’s hands were joined by detailed records of wins and losses to date for each player—P&Ls for each individual player at the table, as it were.
The most surprising statistic was the running total of the monocled man; in absolute terms he was considerably in the red. The old man was doing the best, closely followed by the Doctor. Balot had lost fairly heavily at first but was now keeping her losses down to about half the rate she was losing at the start. The monocled man and the lady were both roughly on a par with each other; that is to say, they were both losing considerably more than they were winning.
It was almost as if the more hands the monocled man won, the more he ended up losing overall.
–I never would have guessed that the man was losing so much money!
–Nobody would have—that’s kind of the idea.
–And is that because of the dealer?
What other explanation could there be? Somehow, the dealer was managing to beguile the man’s senses, causing him to lose track of his numbers.
–Well, it’s partly because of the way blackjack wo
rks, of course, and the man’s personality only exacerbates this. But the dealer has a hand in it too—I can smell something deliberate about the way he’s stringing the man along.
–Deliberate? In what way?
–In a most ingenious and subtle way…
The shuffle had finished, and now it was the old man’s turn to stick the transparent red marker into the stack of cards. The cards were cut, and the monocled man greedily thrust his chips forward. Five hundred dollars’ worth. Judging by the size of his bet the man ought to have had a total bankroll of close to a million—but he almost certainly had nothing of the sort.
The first cards were dealt. Balot paid close attention to the timing.
Sure enough, the cards were released the instant the monocled man was out of breath. He took a light gulp as the first card landed.
The man’s card was a 9. The cards were then dealt to the other players in turn; Balot had a 7 in front of her.
The dealer’s upcard was a 4. The players’ second cards were dealt in sharp succession, stabbing like a knife. The man was dealt a 6, and it made him choke on the air in his throat.
The instant after Balot’s second card was dealt, she heard the man’s voice: “Double down.” Before she could stop herself she glanced at the man’s cards to double-check what he had. A total of fifteen.
A losing hand, according to all logic. Judging by the way the other players were all watching the hand like hawks, Balot wasn’t the only one interested in the outcome of the draw.
It was an 8. Total twenty-three, and bust. The man’s face crumpled.
Suddenly Balot realized she ought to think about her own cards. A 7 and jack. A hand to stay.
Somehow her cards were making less of an impression on her than they had been. Not that she was doing anything wrong because of this; it was a straightforward choice, her cards dictating the obvious optimal move. Still, there was no doubt she was being distracted by the monocled man and his cards—sucked into his game, as it were.
–Why am I so compelled to watch this man? Is that because of the dealer too?
She really only asked this question in order to distance herself, to try and refocus her mind. But:
–That’s right. You’re half under the dealer’s spell too.
Balot squirmed inside when she heard these words.
–The dealer’s ultimate aim is to throw you all off balance, so that you end up acting in ways that you wouldn’t normally. That’s why he’s paying such close attention to all your breathing rhythms and picking his moment so precisely.
–Breathing rhythms?
–The basis of his techniques. Breath manual, it’s called—aiming for that moment when people are at their most vulnerable, just in between breaths. The dealer is playing all sorts of tricks by applying these techniques.
–Such as?
–Well, there are a number of important points to this game. One of these is the dealer’s upcard. As players, that’s really the first thing we should be paying attention to. But it’s very easy to get sucked in when we see our own cards—they tend to make much more of an impression on us as players.
–Even though the man is concentrating so hard on the game?
–You can’t really call that concentrating. Absorbed, maybe, but it’s not the same thing.
Oeufcoque was coming across as somewhat harsh now, and Balot straightened her posture in response. Oeufcoque continued.
–You could say that one of the dealer’s tricks is to manipulate the players’ impressions of the game. He senses how the players feel, latches on to this, and gradually shifts their perceptions so that they lose their grip on how their game is actually going. It’s a clever trick, and one that you fell for too.
–Who, me?
–The man at the end is completely under the dealer’s spell. Whether or not the other players start copying the man’s style of play, at the very least his game is likely to leave a lasting impression. The seeds of influence are planted, and all the dealer has to do now is cultivate them, make them grow.
–How?
–Why don’t you and I play a little game?
Balot’s eyes widened. In another world, it had become Balot’s turn at blackjack.
–Stay.
The dealer then proceeded to reveal his hidden card. A 7. Total eleven.
He drew once more, bringing his total to eighteen.
Balot’s chips were taken in by the house again, but the focus of her interest had shifted elsewhere.
–What sort of game?
–From now on a player will leave the table at every new shuffle. Let’s try and guess which one.
–Leave the table? How can you know a thing like that?
–There’s less than an hour to go before this dealer moves on. He’s worked hard to bring the punters here under his spell and doesn’t want another dealer taking over and reaping the benefit.
Oeufcoque spoke as if the dealer was a big game hunter on the trail of his trophy beasts.
–But what about if someone else comes and joins the table?
–Unlikely at this point. Certainly the dealer isn’t expecting it.
–Why not?
–Since we arrived at this table the dealer stopped looking out at his surroundings. He’s been deliberately cultivating the impression that this is a close-knit table of friends all playing together—a closed shop to outsiders.
Balot didn’t ask him how he knew all this. As far as she was concerned her hands were cocooned in a pair of magic gloves, founts of infinite knowledge and wisdom. Balot just sat there, deeply impressed.
–Why only one at a time, though?
–Everyone breathes differently, with different rhythms. If the dealer wants to be certain, that’s what happens. This dealer intends to pluck the players at his table one by one, thoroughly emptying their pockets.
She hadn’t really noticed until now, but Balot’s two cards had come. Jack and king, total twenty. She didn’t need to look at the upcard to know what her move would be. Balot more or less ignored her own cards and turned her attention to the other players instead.
–The woman.
That was Balot’s guess. The monocled man might have been losing heavily, but she didn’t think he was the type to give up that easily. The old man was playing steadily and going nowhere in a hurry. If he did move, it would be on the lady’s orders, to accompany her, probably. And if anyone was going to be the first to leave it would probably be that fat lady; she was betting extravagantly, losing heavily. Even if she wanted to stay on, it wouldn’t be too long before she ran out of chips, surely?
–Fine. So if the woman is the one to stand at the next shuffle, you win.
–Why, who do you think it’ll be?
It was Balot’s turn. The dealer was smiling at her, patiently waiting for her to call. It was a gentle smile, inviting. Doing her best to fight it, she calmly called out her intention to stay.
The result of the hand was that Balot was the only winner. The monocled man, red-faced, called a waiter over and snatched a glass of gin off his tray, gulping it down to try and cool off in the face of the heat of the battle.
–The man on the right.
Balot was a little surprised at Oeufcoque’s answer—the monocled man seemed so into the game after all.
–Anyhow, let’s enjoy the game as it unfolds and pray that no one else joins the table.
Balot felt somewhat placated and placed her chips in front of her. Everyone’s chips were now down, and the cards were dealt. Balot barely paid attention to her own cards anymore, focusing instead on the piles of chips in front of the monocled man and the fat lady respectively.
The man bet a minimum of five hundred dollars on every hand, doubling down whenever the opportunity presented itself.
The woman’s bets fluctuated randomly between around three hundred and a thousand dollars at a time.
Neither showed the slightest inclination of wanting to leave their seats. As long as their bankrolls
were intact, wild horses couldn’t drag them away.
The next interesting development came at around ten hands after the shuffle. The monocled man had a seventeen in front of him and boldly charged on, hitting. The card he drew was a 4. Total twenty-one—the monocled man was the only winner.
“A prudent decision, if I may be so bold as to say so, sir,” the dealer said, without missing a beat, as he placed the cards in the discard pile. As he did so he placed the 4—the card that had brought the man’s hand up to the elusive winning total—on the side, as if he were admiring something precious. Balot felt something akin to an electric shock down her spine and rubbed the back of her neck in a reflex action as she snarced Oeufcoque.
–Did the dealer say that on purpose? To manipulate him? Not just out of politeness?
–Hmm…politeness is, in itself, a form of manipulation, of course. But you’re right, that was somewhat over the top…
–The dealer was talking as if the man in the monocle was something special. What a kiss-ass!
–Well, some people like having their asses kissed, as you put it. And it opens up a chink in their armor. This dealer’s got it all worked out—which words he needs to use with which person in order to lay them bare. So that they enjoy themselves even as they’re losing, being bled dry of their last dollar.
Balot’s nose wrinkled as if she smelled something burning. To enjoy yourself even as you’re losing. This was all that a lot of people wanted, she supposed. Amusement was king. To head in with a cool head and a steady hand—this was the sort of player the casino really didn’t want.
The festive, elegant atmosphere, the service nonpareil, the elegant courtesy—strip that away and all that remained was the house edge that shaved away at the customers’ chips, gently but surely. That was why it was called the edge after all; it was as deadly and as certain as the sharpest of knives.
It was then that it occurred to Balot that she really could lose her bankroll here.
What would happen if she had to start all over? What about the trial? And would she really end up a suspect of crimes against the Commonwealth? Could she go back to an existence where all that was left was to endure, day in, day out? Her skin crawled at the thought.