Mardock Scramble

The dealer’s upcard was 8.

It was a delicate call, certainly. But the dealer answered without hesitation. “It depends on the circumstances, of course, but if you were playing by the book then the correct move would be to hit, sir.”

A first-class dealer was always ready to respond to such questions from the player. He would have all the possible combinations memorized, ready to reel them off pat. A dealer who didn’t know the 290-odd possibilities “by the book” wasn’t a first-class dealer.

“Having said that, it’s up to the player’s mood whether he wants to double down,” the dealer continued calmly.

Doubling down seemed to have become something of a signature tune for the monocled man.

“Of course, those who want to determine the flow of the game have to be prepared to pay the price.”

The monocled man nodded in agreement with the dealer’s words and boldly hit. A jack to his fifteen. Bust.

But the man now had his eyes closed; he seemed to take at face value the dealer’s suggestion that it was inevitable he had to pay the price and just shrugged his shoulders.

–It’s a double bind.

–A double bind?

–That’s what it’s called when you manage to implant an idea in your opponent’s mind, inducing them to act in a certain way. The way the dealer handled that then, by mentioning the doubling down—it made hitting become the default option for the player.

–But that was the right decision, wasn’t it?

–As a basic tactic, yes, it was the right move. But the basic tactics stop being of any use once you’re under the dealer’s spell. What he’s doing is conditioning the man’s mind, ridding him of the possibility of any move but hitting.

–Ridding him…?

–Doubling down—that’s quite a big call to make, not one you do lightly. By drawing focus to the difficult move and juxtaposing it with an easier one, the dealer is basically suggesting that the only really sensible move is the easier one—to hit. All other possibilities are forgotten. On top of that, the dealer appealed to the rather vague and ambiguous idea of the “player’s mood.” Caught between the rock and the hard place of the difficult decision and the ambiguous instruction, the player ends up choosing the “only” sensible option, which in fact is nothing of the sort. That’s what the double bind is.

–So what should the man have done?

–What he should or shouldn’t have done isn’t really the issue. What the man should have been focusing on—or rather, resigning himself to—was the fact that he had a losing hand. But now he only has eyes for victory. He’s convinced himself, or allowed himself to be duped into believing, that losing along the way is a necessary part, a price that he has to pay in order to achieve his ultimate goal. But it’s not. A losing hand is just a losing hand, nothing more, nothing less.

The monocled man and the fat lady played in the same way: the more cards they drew, the more they focused on their own hands, paying less and less attention to the dealer’s cards.

“Double down,” called the man, only a couple of hands later. He drew a 9 to his existing hand of thirteen and went bust.

The dealer’s upcard was a 6—playing by the book, the man should have stayed.

It was the beginning of the end for the monocled man. He might have been crumbling silently up to this point, but now he started crashing down with a roar. Perhaps he was playing with “scared money”—money he shouldn’t have been touching, money meant for living expenses or even to pay his hotel bill during his stay. Either way, he was now on the edge, in sharp contrast to the woman, who seemed to be enjoying herself in a far healthier manner, even as she frittered away her chips.

The man started doubling down on hands such as fifteen and sixteen, busting left, right, and center. He bet large amounts on single hands and then seemed largely oblivious even when the dealer had an ace as his upcard, recklessly doubling down regardless. The dealer started commenting on the man’s choices, bolstering up his recklessness, and the man clung to these crumbs of comfort.

In true Confucian style, the dealer said, “Doubling down is an extremely aggressive move. Some hands are suited more for attacking, others for defending.”

The dealer said, “Of all the players I’ve ever met, sir, may I say that an attacking style seems to suit you the best.”

The dealer said, “Do please take all the time you need to decide whether this is the place to press your advantage, sir.”

The dealer said, “Regrets at what might have been are the surest way to ruin your game. Do make sure you play as your heart tells you—that’s the best way to ensure you have no regrets. Going with your gut instinct is often best.”

The dealer had the monocled man by the snout, well and truly. The lady, too, seemed to be responding—she was slowly but surely increasing her bets. Oeufcoque, on the other hand, responded to each of the dealer’s precepts with increasingly disdainful commentary.

Thus:

–Attacking, defending. What does that even mean in the context of this game? Nothing—they’re completely ambiguous terms. As is the idea of hands “suiting” a particular style of play. All this sort of talk does is hook the player into going along with the dealer.

Then:

–“Do take all the time you need to decide”—that’s just a bind to force his hand. The only “choice” left in the man’s mind is to double down.

And:

–A bust is a bust, full stop. You can give it whatever name you like, call it “regrets” or what have you, but it’s not going to help you one bit. Even if the game does throw him up the odd high-paying blackjack, that’s not going to change the fact that overall the man is hemorrhaging money.

At each step Oeufcoque was warning Balot, but he was also teaching her the game. And in a far easier and more effective manner than any sort of long-winded plan concocted at the planning table.

The monocled man and the fat lady were now losing money hand over fist. Both were down well over thirty thousand dollars.

–What sort of person is this dealer?

–A bit of a prima donna. Good at his job, a real rainmaker. He knows the game inside out and he’s good with the customers. As far as the casino is concerned, he’s a real golden goose—and he knows it.

–I don’t like him.

–Fine. Just don’t let him know that you don’t like him.

–What do you want me to do?

–When you win, smile. When you lose, sulk.

She did just that for the next few hands, and the card shoe started running low.

The monocled man had switched to lower value bets, a hundred dollars a hand or even less.

–Looks like I win our little game. Oeufcoque’s voice was confident.

They entered the final game of the card shoe—they had hit the red card, signifying time to reshuffle at the end of the hand.

It was also the end of the road for the monocled man. He had hit on twelve, drawn a 10, gone bust, and run out of chips. The reason he had switched to lower bets was simply because he had started to run out of money. Now he had run out.

The shuffle for the next game started, and as it did the man stood up and collected the hat and coat that he had checked.

“Not a good game for me, was it?” he asked the dealer.

“Some days you need to pay the price in order to make sure your luck flows smoothly on other days,” the dealer replied, his face serious.