Short Story: Brother Quid, Part II

(Scroll down main page for Part I.)  The ferry eased into the jaws of its landing slip. Once tied to shore, it disgorged its foot passengers. They surged up the car ramp to waiting friends, relatives, or emptiness. Friday Harbor is as far west as one can go in the USA, the end of the line. Only Canada remained and the ferry doesn’t go there in winter.

Quid was easy to spot. He stood out like a pimple, especially with the prison haircut. We bear-hugged at the top of the ramp. He is ten years my junior but more worldlier in terms of wine, women, and song. 

I take him to dinner at Downriggers, the only place open. After one beer, his first in at least a year, he jumps straight to the point. “I wanna learn how to win money at blackjack, lots of money.” Quid did not indulge in subtleties. “I’ve had enough of the odd-jobs bullshit.” He still had a Louisville twang in his voice, like a banjo.

“I already gave you the book on betting I co-authored after my stint at MIT.”

“I read it. Twice. But I need more help. I ain’t no whiz kid.” He looked down at the dinner remnants and I could no longer see the anchor tattoo on his Adam’s apple. I know it moves when he swallows.

Quid wants an easy route to understanding and beating casino-rules blackjack, an easy route to getting mildly rich. I had already explained, pre-jail time, that casinos were savvy about betting systems these days and it took a lot of patience to beat a casino in any significant way.

The next day he helped me with cottage chores. We ate a sandwich-and-soup lunch on my wooden boat, Spirit. He asked me to loan him $1,000 to buy a pickup. I said, I would even though it was about all the cash I had. I told him he could stay in my cottage for a few days—as long as he wanted to, really. The place is winterized. But he preferred to get moving. “This place is dead,” was his observation. "And I gotta get some sunshine. I'm going to Southern California." I invited him to visit me at home in Reno; he said he’d be there by the end of January. I left the next morning by floatplane to Seattle; then on to Reno on Southwest Air.

Quid arrived on schedule. I took him on a tour of my geology lab at UNR and out to a nightclub show. But at the end of the day, all he really wanted to do was play and learn blackjack.

I doubted he could, or would, ever discipline himself to memorize the maze of mathematical rules involved to beat a house at its own game. Even more I doubted he would be able to stop playing while he was ahead and able to exit a casino before he lost it all. And there was always the risk of the casino cops spotting him as a system player and tossing him out onto the street for “cheating,” as they termed. Regardless, I told him I would give him some training, starting tomorrow.

I did, and for four evenings straight after that—about three hours a day. Quid picked up the betting fundamentals. Next I gave him hints on how to conduct himself at the table so as to not draw attention. He had to come across as an amateur. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch for him.
Copyright © 2013 by Steven C. Brandt