Chapter 28: Wang Er-Ma’s "Card-Guessing Trick," I Bet You Have Three

Underworld Poker: From Fighting the Landlord to Six-Deck Runs, Volume 2, Chapter 28: Wang Er-Ma’s "Bluffing Technique": "I Bet You Have a 3!"

A faint, ghostly mist drifted over the card tables at the City God Temple, distorting the shadows cast on the stone table. Little Li crouched by the table, picking at sunflower seed shells wedged in the stone cracks. Having just been penalized with an "automatic turn skip," his ears turned redder than the jujubes in Meng Po’s soup when he heard the lesser ghosts in the back whispering, "Even the Poet Ghost team is more focused than he is." Wang Er-Ma patted the back of his head, not too hard. "Why the long face? Keep moping, and Old Zhao will see right through our hands."

"But I..." Little Li looked up, his eyes still rimmed with red. "I shouldn't have been reciting poetry with Liu Wenqing."

"Knowing you were wrong is enough," Wang Er-Ma said, pulling him up and stuffing a handful of pumpkin seeds into his hand. "Old Zhao’s team is up this round. Keep your mouth shut and watch the cards. If you can't remember them, just count how many times Old Zhao draws. He scratches his ears when he draws; that’s when he’s holding a tricky card."

Old Zhou leaned in, his cards pressed flat and neat, without a single curled corner. "Master Ma, Old Zhao’s team just won a round and they’re two points ahead. If we lose this one..." His voice trembled, his fingers turning white as he clutched his cards.

"We won't lose." Wang Er-Ma sat on the stone stool and glanced across the table. Old Zhao was huddled with his two teammates. He wore a black cloth jacket with frayed cuffs, yet he held his chest high, a cigarette dangling unlit from his mouth, looking for all the world like a pretentious old gambler. Seeing Wang Er-Ma watching him, Old Zhao curled his lip. "Old Man Wang, just saw your teammate competing in poetry with Liu Wenqing? A card game isn't a stage, you know. A glib tongue doesn't win games."

"Better than your blind card-counting," Wang Er-Ma retorted. "Who was it last time who played a diamond 3 as a club 3 and insisted, 'They're both black, close enough'?"

Old Zhao’s face stiffened. He took the cigarette out of his mouth. "That was... that was because four decks are too many, my eyes went blurry! This round, I’ll show you what a 'Gambling God's' foundation really looks like!"

The Judge tapped his "counting abacus"—a custom-made tool with "Hearts" and "Spades" carved into each bead. He calculated the number of participants for the round, then looked up, his bifocals sliding to the tip of his nose. "This round: Team Ma versus Team Zhao. Team Zhao leads."

Old Zhao cleared his throat, drew three cards, and slapped them on the table. "A pair of 5s and a single 4."

Old Zhou scrambled to sort his cards. After a long moment, he looked up. "Master Ma, I have a pair of 6s, I can beat that!"

"Don't rush." Wang Er-Ma held his hand down, eyes fixed on Old Zhao. Old Zhao was busy drawing cards, and true to form, his left hand scratched his ear, his fingertips rubbing his lobe before darting away. Wang Er-Ma suddenly smiled and called out to him, "Old Zhao, do you have a 3 in your hand?"

Old Zhao’s hand froze. He looked up at Wang Er-Ma. "What are you shouting about? Whether I have a 3 or not is none of your business."

"I bet you do." Wang Er-Ma slowly shelled a sunflower seed. "Not only do you have a 3, it’s a single 3. You scratched your ear when you drew, meaning you wanted to hide that single 3 in a pair, but were afraid we’d beat it, right?"

Old Zhao’s face drained of color, his hand instinctively retreating into his pile of cards. His teammates looked stunned, whispering, "Leader, do you really have a single 3?"

"Don't listen to his guessing!" Old Zhao stiffened his neck, though he dared not meet Wang Er-Ma’s eyes. "Just play your cards!"

Old Zhou was intimidated by the display and tugged on Wang Er-Ma’s sleeve. "Master Ma, how did you know he had a 3?"

"I guessed." Wang Er-Ma lowered his voice. "Last time he played against Liu Wenqing, he scratched his ear whenever he had a single card. I saw it twice."

Little Li caught on, crouching next to Wang Er-Ma and scribbling in his yellow paper notebook with a brush: "Ear scratching = single card. Got it, got it!"

As they whispered, Old Zhao’s teammate played a pair of 7s: "Pair of 7s, beating your 5s!"

"I have a pair of 8s!" Old Zhou hurriedly laid his cards on the table, arranging them perfectly for fear the Judge would find a fault.

Team Zhao had no 9s and had to let the cards pass. When it was Wang Er-Ma’s turn, he felt the deck and pulled out a single 10. Just as he was about to play it, he looked up and shouted to Old Zhao, "Hey, Old Zhao, stop clutching that single 3. Nobody’s going to beat it anyway; it’s just dead weight in your hand."

Old Zhao stood up abruptly. "Wang Er-Ma, are you sick in the head? I told you, I don't have a single 3!"

"If you don't have it, why are you so worked up?" Wang Er-Ma spread his hands. "Did I guess right?"

"I..." Old Zhao choked, then suddenly grabbed a card and slammed it onto the table. "Fine! Take it! So what if it’s a 3? I want to play this single 3!"

The card hit the table with a slap—it was indeed a Heart 3.

Old Zhou burst out laughing. "Master Ma, you really guessed it!"

Little Li cheered, adding a note to his notebook: "Master Wang is a divine calculator; he guessed the single Heart 3."

The teammate from Team Zhao turned green. He pulled Old Zhao back down. "Leader, why did you play the 3? We have no low single cards left! What if they trap our bottom cards later?"

"I..." Old Zhao glared at the Heart 3, panting with rage. "I was just provoked by him!"

The Judge tapped his abacus, pausing at the Heart 3. He looked up at Wang Er-Ma. "Can you truly see through the cards?"

"Hardly." Wang Er-Ma’s eyes crinkled into slits. "I just know Old Zhao well. I know his temper—the more you say he has something, the more he wants to prove he doesn't. One moment of impatience and he makes a mistake."

Old Zhao heard this and slammed his hand on the table. "Wang Er-Ma, you played me!"

"Who played you?" Wang Er-Ma raised an eyebrow. "You were the one who couldn't keep your cool. Besides, what’s the big deal about playing a 3? Maybe you’ll have a bomb later to win it back."

This silenced Old Zhao—he actually did have a bomb, four 10s, which he had wanted to save for the end. He snorted and turned his head away. "Just you wait!"

Over the next few rounds, Wang Er-Ma mastered the art of "bluffing." When Old Zhao played a pair of 10s, he shouted, "You definitely don't have a pair of Jacks; your hand was shaking when you played those 10s!" When Old Zhao played a single King, he guessed, "Your teammate must have an Ace, otherwise you wouldn't dare play a King." Some guesses were right, some were wrong, but every single time, he kept Old Zhao in a state of nervous agitation.

Once, when Old Zhao didn't scratch his ear but touched his chin, Wang Er-Ma shouted, "Hey, scratching your chin means you have a straight? I bet you have a 5-through-9 straight!"

Old Zhao’s hand shook so hard that two cards fell to the floor—a 6 and a 7. He scrambled to pick them up, his face flushed. "Stop talking nonsense! I don't have a straight!"

"Fine, fine, no need to shout." Wang Er-Ma played a single 2. "Playing a 2 to beat you."

Team Zhao didn't have the big Joker and had to let Wang Er-Ma continue. Old Zhou seized the opportunity to play a pair of Queens, and Little Li followed with three 9s and a pair of 2s. They were almost out of cards.

Old Zhao panicked, pulled out his four 10s, and slammed them onto the table. "Bomb! Taking your cards!"

"Oh, so you do have a bomb." Wang Er-Ma smiled. "Old Zhou, do we have any big bombs?"

Old Zhou quickly flipped his cards, revealing four Aces. "Yes! Four Aces! We can beat that!"

"Bomb him!"

Old Zhou placed the four Aces on the table. With a loud "slap," the stone table rocked. Although a four-of-a-kind bomb didn't have the wind-stirring power of a six-of-a-kind, it still carried a trace of ghostly energy. Black wisps of smoke rose from the table, coiling around the cards like tiny snakes. Old Zhao stared at the four Aces, his eyes wide. "How... how do you have such a big bomb?"

"You thought you were the only one?" Wang Er-Ma patted Old Zhou’s shoulder. "Old Zhou is brave enough to bomb now, and he doesn't just bomb—he bombs big."

Old Zhou blushed with pride and scratched his head. "Master Ma taught me well."

Team Zhao’s cards were mostly gone, leaving only two single cards, which were cleared by Old Zhou’s "three-with-one" play. They had no chance left to play. The Judge calculated on his abacus and looked up. "Team Ma wins the round, earning five points. They are now three points ahead of Team Zhao."

"We won!" Little Li jumped up, his notebook flying. "Master Ma, your bluffing technique is way more useful than my poetry!"

Old Zhou grinned, carefully putting his winnings into a cloth bag, counting them twice. "No need to worry about losing anymore."

Old Zhao slumped on the stone stool, clutching the two remaining cards, silent for a long while. Finally, he looked at Wang Er-Ma and sighed. "Old Man Wang, this isn't just playing cards. This is war. You’re playing with the mind."

"Isn't playing cards just a test of heart and spirit?" Wang Er-Ma handed him a handful of seeds. "Try these. Meng Po just roasted them. They’re the salty kind."

Old Zhao took the seeds, shelled one, and chewed thoughtfully before smiling. "Fine, I admit defeat. I used to think memorizing cards was the most important thing. Now I see your 'blind guessing and trash talk' is far more effective."

"You bet." Wang Er-Ma shelled a seed himself. "Playing in the neighborhood back in the human world was way more chaotic than this—people stealing cards, cheating, spilling wine on the table when they lost. I learned all this the hard way."

Meng Po brought over a bowl of sweet soup for everyone. "I told you Master Ma had a way. Little Li, learn from him and stop obsessing over your poetry."

Little Li nodded, face flushed, and picked up his notebook to add: "Bluffing beats memorizing, trash talk buries the foe; Master Ma’s tricks are truly grand, I’ll learn this style to go."

Old Zhao couldn't help but laugh. "The poem is crude, but it makes sense."

The ghostly mist in the card hall gradually dissipated. Sunlight filtered through the windows of the City God Temple, landing on the cards spread across the stone table, warm and bright. Wang Er-Ma sipped his sweet soup, watching Old Zhou count his winnings and Little Li revise his poem. He suddenly felt that the four-deck run wasn't so difficult after all—even if you couldn't remember the cards, being able to keep your opponent completely turned around was quite fun.

Old Zhao, still shelling seeds, suddenly looked up. "Old Man Wang, I'll play you again next round, but I won't fall for your tricks this time."

"Sure." Wang Er-Ma smiled. "Next time I’ll switch tactics. I won't guess your cards; I'll guess what you had for lunch."

Old Zhao froze, then laughed. "I had Underworld cabbage stewed with tofu for lunch. Did you guess that?"

"I did." Wang Er-Ma pointed to the corner of his mouth. "You’ve still got a piece of cabbage leaf stuck there."

Old Zhao hurriedly wiped his mouth, scrubbing it for a long time before realizing he’d been played again. In a fit of mock rage, he threw a shell at Wang Er-Ma, who laughed and dodged. Old Zhou and Little Li joined in, their laughter echoing through the hall, attracting the lesser ghosts crouching at the door, who peered through the frame: "What’s so funny? Did they win another round?"