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?
