The shuffle was done thoroughly, so it took a surprisingly long time. Plenty of people took advantage of this lull in the action to cool off, maybe take a step back from the action, and new players would take their places. Or they would take a drink, or engage in friendly banter with the other players, or engage the dealer in conversation about their legendary exploits or the hand that got away. Rumors, scurrilous stories, tales of bankruptcy and ruin were all the currency in such situations.
With the demeanor of one who was used to utilizing the shuffle break effectively, the Doctor turned to the dealer. “Looks like we’re welcome here,” he said. “Deal us in, Marlowe.”
The dealer’s eyes snapped up to the Doctor. His all-seeing eyes were now focused on one point, as if he were trying to work something out.
“Have we met before, sir?” the dealer asked him, friendly, apologetic that he seemed to have forgotten. But behind the mask there was a trace of wariness. There were plenty of professional gamblers who worked out the individual habits of dealers and tried to exploit them.
The Doctor showed no sign of picking up on this, though. Instead, he said the dealer’s full name out loud, as if he was reminding himself, “Marlowe John Fever.”
The dealer nodded. The other punters looked at him, almost as if it had only just occurred to them for the first time that the dealer might have a name.
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met face-to-face before, Marlowe. But your reputation precedes you, sir! You come highly recommended by this girl’s father, who happens to be a poker buddy of mine.”
The Doctor named an obscure gene therapy patent company, indicating that he was a director there, and continued. “Your table is supposed to be the safest place to play a peaceful and enjoyable game. I wanted to see for myself. The conversation flows easily around you, they say, and your sharp eyes don’t permit any sort of card counting.”
At this point the monocled man ran his hands through his hair.
But the Doctor had no more to say on this front. Instead: “I’ve taken my beloved niece under my wing for the day. I want her to experience a nice, clean game. And look, as I thought, isn’t he nice and handsome? Quite a dish, eh?” He turned to Balot for the last bit, but he was obviously teasing the dealer just as much for the benefit of the other players.
It would take more than that to ruffle the feathers of the dealer known as Marlowe, though. “Well, if there’s any part of the game that you’re unsure about then feel free to ask away, miss,” he told Balot coolly.
When Balot replied, the others at the table turned to look at her in surprise. Everyone except the dealer, who asked her, calmly as ever, “Your throat?”
“Yes, a car accident. Don’t worry, though, she can speak loud and clear using that thing. You won’t have any trouble understanding her,” said the Doctor.
The dealer nodded, and then, for the first time, stopped shuffling the cards.
“Do you know the hand signals for this game?”
In lieu of an answer, Balot lifted her left hand.
Palm down, hand waved from side to side.
She tapped the table with her index finger.
Both index fingers, pulled apart from each other.
She mimed placing a chip on the designated cross on the green cloth that covered the table.
The dealer smiled kindly. It was a smile to reassure the other players. If it came down to it, she could play even if her voice didn’t work. She was glad that he didn’t make a big deal of her disability. It was only natural as far as the casino was concerned, of course; they wanted to make their customers feel as comfortable as possible. For a moment, though, Balot felt that maybe this man was as wonderful as the Doctor had made out.
As the dealer calmly went back to shuffling the cards, Balot suddenly felt some words from Oeufcoque appear in her left hand.
Balot was brought back down to earth with a jolt, taking her eyes off the dealer. She couldn’t afford to develop feelings for the man that was, for all practical purposes, her opponent—she had let down her guard, and it wouldn’t do. Gathering her wits about her, she tugged on the Doctor’s sleeve in a manner that she hoped came across as endearing.
She had—finally—gotten used to calling him that.
She asked the question in the most casual tone she could muster. The Doctor looked surprised, or rather the Doctor
“How on earth did a refined young lady such as you hear about such a thing?”
