Mardock Scramble

–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.

–Who are you and what have you done with Oeufcoque?

–What have I done with…

–Oeufcoque. Half-baked, wishy-washy. That’s what you’re supposed to be, it’s what your name means, isn’t it? And yet here you are!

–Hmph, you mean I’m going too far instead of not far enough for once? Maybe you’re right. But needs must—this is a case where the ends justify the means.

The mouse doth protest too much, Balot thought to herself.

She giggled inside, then squeezed her glove to show that it was okay, she was with him. Then she did as he had suggested.

–Hey, Uncle?

She waited until the dealer was just about to finish exhaling and was at his most defenseless before continuing with her killer blow.

–I’m bored here. Won’t you take me someplace where there are some nice men around?

She was no longer rejecting the place. This was a personal rejection: she found the dealer unappealing. The dealer’s expression didn’t change. Instead, he stopped breathing. As if he’d had his breath sucked out of him. Indeed, for all practical intents and purposes Marlowe was now dead as a dealer; no longer was he the invincible master of the gaming table. He was a private individual, and a snubbed one at that.

The Doctor tried awkwardly to persuade Balot to stay. “Let’s just try and enjoy the game, no? Look, you are winning, after all. If you give up now you’re turning your back on the rainbow that could lead to the pot of gold.”

Then he turned to the dealer and shrugged apologetically.

It was the dealer’s turn to speak. “I do apologize most sincerely for any way in which you find me lacking, my lady…” It was a small miracle that he could still muster up the self-restraint necessary to maintain his composure and keep smiling.

Then the dealer removed his earpiece with his hand and crushed it beneath the table. He was out of radio contact with the rest of the casino. But Balot had managed to catch the last transmission that the dealer had received.

It was from the floor manager, a frantic order to let another dealer take his place.

?

Outwardly calm but seething with rage and shame on the inside, the dealer was now losing hand over fist without even noticing that he was doing so.

–Just as well that he’s usually such an accomplished dealer. The casino really is on the defensive—they don’t know how to play this one.

Oeufcoque too had noticed that the dealer had rid himself of his earpiece.

Despite this fact, and somewhat surprisingly, the casino had yet to send along a replacement.

–They must be finding it hard to decide whether this dealer has lost the plot or whether he still might be able to pull it back for them. They should have checked us out by now.

–Do they still think we’re suckers? Easy marks who just happen to be on a lucky streak?

–They must. The one person in the whole casino who should be able to identify us accurately is Shell-Septinos. He’s supposed to be the owner here…

Balot shrugged inwardly.

–He’s probably forgotten all about us, right? With that operation that sucks out his