The conversation had taken such a strange turn that the dealer had to struggle to keep up. But at least one thing was clear.
“We’ve got a pair of easy marks here, sir. Sitting ducks,” the dealer whispered into his earpiece in a voice that was inaudible to Balot and the Doctor—or rather, would have been inaudible if not for Balot’s powers. Balot understood that she and the Doctor were angels, the answer to all the dealer’s prayers, for he would be able to get what he wanted from them—his marks. Balot felt the last twinges of pity for this man disappear. If he saw her as no more than a pigeon to be plucked, she’d deliver the same back to him, with interest.
–Well played.
Oeufcoque’s words floated up on her hand, and she squeezed back at them as she placed her chips for the next hand. The Doctor placed his chips too. The dealer never did get around to setting that house maximum; he was trapped in a quagmire of his own making.
–This dealer already has one foot in the grave as far as this casino is concerned.
Oeufcoque was providing a commentary now.
–Not only that, it’s the foot in the grave bearing his weight at the moment. This dealer is no longer acting like an employee should. He’s taking this personally. He’s forgotten all his responsibilities and duties as an employee.
Indeed, the man in front of Balot, Marlowe John Fever, now had eyes for one thing and one thing only: to bring down Balot and the Doctor, even if it took all the chips in the casino to do it.
–Right, we’re going to divide our strategy into three parts.
Oeufcoque had the measure of the dealer now and dictated a new course of play. The bankroll was divided into three piles. The tactical grid on Balot’s left hand split into three distinct tables, each showing their own sets of figures.
–We’ll make tactical adjustments on a hand-by-hand basis.
The idea was to divide Balot’s chips into three piles and to treat each pile as if it belonged to a different player. The first would be the sacrificial victim to pave the way for the other two. The second would perform a supporting task, gradually building up something of a bankroll. The third was there to deal the knockout blow when the time was just right.
Balot also had to signal the Doctor’s moves too, so there were four lines of tactics in play at any given time.
Balot had her hands full. It was true that her newly expanded bankroll gave her some breathing space, but the sort of tactics she was now attempting were far beyond the reach of a normal human being. It was only because Oeufcoque was with her that she’d be able to perform the sort of complex calculations that were needed to pull it off—all without the dealer being able to see through her plan.
The game progressed, Balot winning steadily all the while. Just as they entered the final stages Oeufcoque gave another instruction.
–Time to give the dealer a bit of a jolt, I think. We can’t have him get too coolheaded.
For this was indeed what had been happening as the game had started to calm down again.
–What should I do?
The answer to Balot’s question was a tough one to swallow.
–You really think I should say something like that?
–I do. The time is ripe.
Having received her orders, Balot gauged her timing, and when the moment was right she tapped the Doctor’s arm.
“What is it?”
Balot left the slightest of pauses before unleashing the words that cut like a knife:
–I want to play at another table.
The Doctor’s mouth flew open. But if he was surprised, the dealer looked as if he’d seen a ghost—no, as if his whole world were about to collapse around him. This girl, this girl who knew nothing, was rejecting her own table? When she was on such a winning streak?
The Doctor protested, as if he were interceding for the dealer. “How come? You’re doing so well here! It’s time to press our advantage! Wasn’t it you yourself who said that we needed to be in it to win it?”
The Doctor, of course, understood Balot’s game perfectly. She had been worried for a moment that he might actually take her literally, thinking she was flaking, and that the Doctor really might get up to leave the table as she suggested. But he showed no sign of moving.
–Fine, be like that. I’ll just win some more chips at this table, then.
The dealer almost choked at the way Balot phrased this—so resentful!
The red marker appeared during the next hand. The dealer went bust, and the round was over.
The dealer hastily collected the cards. No longer could his hand movements be described as slick and smooth—his actions were those of a man scrambling to load a revolver. This is what I’m going to use to kill them, his fingertips seemed to say. Balot focused her attention on those fingertips.
While she did this, the Doctor engaged the dealer in conversation, playing the part of a punter eager to fill the time before the action could recommence.
And the manner in which the Doctor addressed him—“Marlowe” or even “Buddy,” he called the man, treating him as an equal, like a long-lost friend.
Just as he has ever since he sat down at the table, come to think of it.
Something clicked—and Balot realized exactly why the Doctor was doing this, why the Doctor had planned it from the start. It was to treat the dealer as an individual, to distinguish him from the casino. To strip away the dealer’s attachments, his sense of duty and responsibility toward his employers.
The shuffle was over soon enough, and the dealer handed the red marker to Balot.
Balot sensed the pile of cards and thrust the red marker toward the blind spot—the place that would cause the cards to flow with maximum advantage to the players and maximum disadvantage to the dealer. She did this without the dealer realizing what she was doing.
Balot placed the red marker on the pile of cards. Just like that. Not in them, on top of them. It was almost as if she were mocking the dealer, making fun of the whole process. In reality though, there was more to her actions than mere mockery.
The dealer’s hands wavered in midair. He did his best to pull the situation back, to proceed on to the cut as smoothly as possible. His actions may have looked convincing enough to the casual bystander, but in fact he missed his target spectacularly—by a wide margin. It was as if the gun that he had so carefully prepared and loaded—the weapon he had to protect him—had now fallen into enemy hands and was being turned against him.
–That was your judgment call, was it?
–Yup.
–You said the dealer was manipulating the order of the cards—this is related to that, is it?
–I just thought it was the best place for the marker. It’s made a lot of the smaller cards end up at the end of the pile.
–How many?
–Thirty cards. All sevens or lower.
Balot thought she felt Oeufcoque grinning inside her gloves.
–Very good. Now, let’s give our dealer friend another little jolt like before.
–What do you want me to say this time?
She was almost afraid to ask. And indeed Oeufcoque’s answer was that she should deliver a veritable death blow. His aim was so true. Ruthless.