No Hearts At Stake

03ǀ Lab Rat

I cursed inwardly when, upon flipping the card, I saw the gleaming four that my boss needed to win the hand. A wave of incredulous celebration spread among the other gamblers. But Boswell remained calm, as if he had known from the beginning that the card was there, waiting for him, even though it was impossible.

“Twenty-one. The player wins,” I said in a kind and mechanical tone, but then Boswell smiled to the side, satisfied, though without looking at me. He hadn't done it until I spoke. He was provoking me, that was obvious, and it annoyed me.

But it didn't make me angry just because he had won, but because the desire to see him lose burned with passion inside me. And, above all, because I wanted to wipe that smug little smile off his face, even though, deep down, being honest with myself, that silent arrogance gave me a pang in my stomach. For the first time since I met him, I felt attracted to him, even though I had long admitted that the guy was handsome. That was the first time I found him sexy, and I hated him a little more for it.

I saw him take his chips and add a couple more to bet them in the next round. He raised the bet. The guy was quite a daredevil, but he appreciated encouraging the others, because they all raised their bets. To my left, a middle-aged man with a collector's Rolex and a glass of whiskey bet the same amount of chips. He received a 14 and, after thinking for a moment, asked for another card. An eight.

“Twenty-two. Dealer wins.”

"Damn it!" he muttered with a marked Scottish accent.

Next to him, a woman whose stunning body was covered in red and who kept rubbing against the old man's arm with a red dress bet more cautiously. She received a 15 and decided to stay.

I thought humorously that the woman was a coward. I would have asked for another card. Boswell, on the other hand, kept playing as if he had nothing to lose, as if he had never been told that there was a possibility the card he needed wouldn't come up. But to my utter bewilderment and fuel for my anger, every time he asked for a card, he got it. Every time he bet big, he won.

Fucking lucky i***t, I thought as I saw him smile once more. It was the first time I saw him happy, although it couldn't be said that he was ecstatic. His smile was barely a curve on his face with a short, dark, and perfectly groomed beard.

I was watching him closely, trying to understand what he was doing, because he had to be doing something, but after a while, I understood. Of course, it wasn't luck, it was calculation, and a very precise one. Boswell kept a mental count of the cards that had been played and those that remained in the deck. He knew when to take risks and when to stop. He was a damn good card counter, and a very good one. How did they let a guy like that manage a casino?

After a fourth victory for my boss. The elderly Scotsman stood up and made the woman in the red dress, who had lost every hand, stand up as well. His displeasure was evident, although he bid farewell politely. A textbook sore loser, nothing out of the ordinary, I dealt with subjects like him every night, but then, just as he was starting to walk away, I heard it... we all heard it as he spoke to his companion:

“I recognize a cheating gypsy when I see one.”

All the players tensed up at the comment. I couldn't help but get a bit defensive. Technically, keeping track of the cards wasn't illegal, and considering the four decks in the card shoe, what Boswell was doing was more of an admirable mathematical skill than cheating; yes, I was hoping he would lose, but I admitted the guy was brilliant. I considered myself good and got a bit lost when there were more than two decks in play.

However, in response to the old man's comment, Boswell merely smiled and took a sip from his glass. And in response to my inactivity, he made a slight gesture of impatience, as if to say: what are you waiting for?, and for a second that pulled him out of his role as an ordinary gambler and put him back in the role of boss, but I quickly took command again. Two more rounds were played. Another gambler left the table and two more arrived, but my boss kept winning. Gradually, I started keeping pace with his count until I could also predict, though not as accurately, the cards he would draw. He was too good, but then he made a mistake.

He drew a seventeen and, true to his reckless strategy, asked for another card, but he had already drawn many low cards, and it had been two rounds since he shuffled. The odds were overwhelmingly against him.

I took out the letter with the absolute certainty that I could finally say the words I had longed to say.

My pulse quickened with satisfaction. I didn't bother to hide upon seeing the eight.

“Twenty-five. Dealer wins.”

I could hardly contain my smile as I leaned down to drag his pieces. For the first time all night, his expression changed. But he didn't show frustration, no. It was something else. Something that made me feel that, in a way, even though he had lost more than half of his capital, he got exactly what he wanted.

He took another sip from his glass without taking his eyes off me, as if he knew I was enjoying his defeat to the fullest and that he liked it, so I wondered: What was Vanko Boswell really doing at my table? He had never done it. In fact, I had never seen him playing. So… Why that night? Why right at my table? Why exactly on the day when he made me know that he knew who I really was?

Faced with that wave of thoughts, my spirits dropped a little. I no longer felt victorious; instead, I began to feel like a mouse in a laboratory maze, doing exactly what the scientists wanted from me, and just like the rats, I had no idea what my boss wanted.

Relieved, I saw that Ernest, one of my colleagues, was approaching the table. The man appeared displeased to see our boss at the table, but he remained silent, and I, following protocol, took a step back.

“New dealer, gentlemen. It was a pleasure to accompany you tonight,” I said before walking away and moving to the next table.

From there, I could only catch a glimpse of his profile, almost nothing, although I didn't try too hard either. But even though I tried, I couldn't stop thinking about him. The intrigue of what the man was up to with me that day wouldn't leave me at peace, and a bunch of images about being abandoned in a lonely port started flooding my mind and quickly became an epidemic.

A couple of hours later, taking advantage of my half-hour break, I found myself walking on the promenade deck. Most of the passengers were already asleep, and those who weren't were in the casino. The solitude, the dim light, and the sound of the sea under that open and completely darkened sky conveyed a peace that seemed to recharge my energy. It was an unusual day, so I appreciated the moment of tranquility, but it didn't last long, unfortunately.

The sound of footsteps made me jump back. I turned on my heels, and then I saw him. Judging by the look on his face, he was very happy to find me there, and that meant I was in serious trouble.