Molly's Game

by Molly Bloom

  “Sorry, Barnaby, I know you know what you’re doing, I’m just so nervous. I want everything to be perfect.”

  He put his arm around me.

  “Don’t worry, angel, everything will be better than perfect.”

  I smiled gratefully. “I hope you’re right.”

  AT 6:45 P.M. I STOOD by the front door and waited. I fidgeted with my dress. I started to feel insecure about how to greet the players. I knew their names, but did that mean that I should introduce myself?

  Stop it, I said in my head. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down by imagining myself as I wanted to be.

  “Molly Bloom, you are wearing the dress of your dreams, you are confident and fearless and you will be perfect.” None of this was true, of course, but I wanted it to be. I opened my eyes, lifted my chin, and relaxed my shoulders. It was showtime.

  The first person to arrive was Todd Phillips, the writer and director of Old School and the Hangover franchise.

  “Hello,” I said, warmly reaching out my hand. “I’m Molly Bloom.” I gave him a genuine smile.

  “Hi, gorgeous, I’m Todd Phillips, nice to meet you in person.

  “Do I give the buy-in to you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, eyeing the giant stack of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

  He ordered a Diet Coke. I went behind the bar and set the enormous amount of money down.

  After I served him his drink, I started counting the stack. It was $10,000 all right. I put it in the cash register with Todd’s name on it. I felt cool, edgy, and dangerous counting that much money. The others started to arrive.

  Bruce Parker introduced himself and handed me his buy-in as well. I knew from my research that he had been a founding partner of one of the most prestigious golf companies in the world. Bob Safai was a real-estate magnate, and Phillip Whitford came from a long line of European aristocrats. His mother was a glamorous supermodel and his father was one of the most famous playboys in Manhattan. Reardon came blasting in with his typical “oh yeah!” greeting. The rumpled Houston Curtis showed up next, followed by Tobey and Leo. I straightened my shoulders and smiled as naturally as I could. They are just people, I told myself as butterflies flew manically around in my stomach. I introduced myself, took their buy-ins, and asked for their drink order. When I shook Leo’s hand and he gave me a crooked smile from under his hat, my heart raced a little faster. Tobey was cute too, and he seemed very friendly. I didn’t have any back story on Houston Curtis except that he was somehow involved in the movie business. He had kind eyes, but there was something different about him. He didn’t seem to belong with this crowd. Steve Brill and Dylan Sellers, two more major Hollywood directors showed up next.

  The energy in the room was palpable. It felt less like the basement of the Viper Room was a sports arena.

  Reardon finished ripping into a sandwich and shouted to no one in particular, but everyone in general, “Let’s play.”

  I WATCHED, FASCINATED. It was all incredibly surreal. I was standing in the corner of the Viper Room counting ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS IN CASH! I was in the company of movie stars, important directors, and powerful business tycoons. I felt like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole.

  Diego fanned out ten cards and each player drew for their seat. There seemed to be a lot of weight being given to this action.

  When everyone was seated, Diego began dealing the cards. I figured this was a good time to offer the players more drinks. I plastered on my brightest smile and went around the table offering drinks or snacks. Strangely, I wasn’t getting the warmest reception.

  Phillip Whitford grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear, “Don’t talk to a guy if he’s in a hand. Most of them can’t think and play at the same time.”

  I thanked him graciously, and made a mental note.

  With the exception of a few drink orders, no one spoke to me during the game at all, and I had time to watch closely. The ten men seated around the table were speaking openly. The movie stars and directors spoke about Hollywood, Reardon and Bob Safai analyzed the real-estate market. Phillips and Brill harassed each other constantly in hilarious fashion. Of course, there was talk about the game itself too. I felt like a fly on the wall in a top-secret, masters-of-the-universe club.

  At the end of the night, as Diego counted each player’s chips, Reardon said, “Make sure you tip Molly if you want to be invited to the next game.” He winked at me.

  As the players filed out, they thanked me, some kissed my cheek, but they all pressed bills into my hand. I smiled warmly and thanked them in return, trying not to let my hands shake.

  When they were all gone, I sat down in a daze, and with trembling hands I counted $3,000.

  But even better than the money was the knowledge that I now knew why I had come to L.A. I knew why I had withstood Reardon’s temper tantrums, his constant insults, the degrading cocktail-waitress uniforms, the sleazy, ass-grabby guys.

  I wanted a big life, a grand adventure, and no one was going to hand it to me. I wasn’t born with a way to get it, like my brothers. I was waiting for my opportunity, and somehow I knew it would come. Again I thought of Lewis Carroll’s Alice saying, “I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.” I understood the profound simplicity of that statement—because after tonight I knew I could never, ever go back.

  Part Two

  HOLLYWOODING

  Los Angeles, 2005–2006

  Hollywooding (verb)

  To act in an exaggerated way in a poker hand, as a means of creating deception.

  Chapter 7

  I woke in the cool, dark morning before the sun and before my alarm, luxuriating in my sheets and letting my thoughts roll over the events of the night before. What a strange new world I had stumbled upon.

  By the time I had finished cleaning up at the Viper, it was nearly 2 A.M. I had locked the doors behind me and run to my car with my purse tucked protectively under my arm. I drove home singing songs at the top of my lungs.

  Blair was still out when I got home. I ran a hot shower, trying to calm myself down, but when I crawled into bed, I was still amped. I started making lists in my head of all of the things I could do with my tip money. Pay next month’s rent. Buy some new clothes, pay my credit-card bill. I might even have enough to save a little.

  I finally fell asleep.

  When I climbed out of bed I immediately checked my sock drawer. The stack of hundred-dollar bills was right where I had left it.

  I went to the kitchen to make coffee. According to the clock, it was barely 6 A.M., but the news was too good to hold in. I had to tell Blair. I had to tell somebody, or I was going to explode. She’d had a late night, so I knew I better have some coffee in hand.

  “Why are you so happy?” she grumped, accepting the mug with her eyes half closed. I was about to burst out with the whole crazy, unbelievable story when the caffeine kicked in and reality sharpened into focus. Even though she was my best friend, and we told each other everything, I couldn’t tell her this. It was my secret to carry, not hers. If she slipped up and told someone and it got back to any of the players, I would lose their trust.

  I decided then and there not to tell anyone, not even my family, about the game. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my place in that room. “No special reason,” I said, attempting to dim my enthusiasm. “It’s just a beautiful day and I don’t want you to miss it.”

  “Can’t handle you right now. Shut my door.” She groaned, and rolled over.

  “Sorry,” I said, stepping into the hall.

  I GOT TO THE OFFICE early that morning, as I wanted to prove that the game wouldn’t impact my performance. I spent an hour cleaning and organizing Reardon’s desk and sorting files.

  When I finished catching up on my work, I checked my phone. Seven new messages! My heart lurched. Usually that meant Reardon was raging about something. Not today, though. Today my in-box was full
of messages from the players, asking me when the next game was, or commenting on how much fun they’d had. They also wanted to secure their seat for next week. I did a little happy dance.

  Reardon didn’t make an appearance until ten.

  “Hi!” I said brightly, handing him his coffee and the mail.

  “Someone looks happy,” he said, with a wink.

  I relaxed a bit; thank God, he was in a good mood.

  “How much did you make?”

  “Three thousand!” I whispered, still in disbelief.

  He laughed. “Told you this would be good for you, stupid.”

  I beamed.

  “Everyone loved it,” he said. “They won’t shut the fuck up. They’ve been calling me all morning.”

  I tried not to look too eager.

  “We will have the game every Tuesday.”

  My face lit up and I couldn’t control the huge smile spreading across my face.

  “Don’t let it fuck up your work,” he cautioned.

  Then he looked at my feet.

  “And go buy some new shoes, those are fucking disgusting.”

  FOR OUR SECOND GAME, Reardon stipulated that all the players bring $10,000 for their initial buy-in and a check for any additional losses they might incur. Over the course of the week, as he fielded calls from people who had heard about the game and wanted to play, I listened carefully. I then created a spreadsheet for all the current and potential poker players.

  I wanted to figure out how to be irreplaceable. I still had a lot . . . well, everything to learn about the game, but I knew a few things about human behavior from my time at the restaurants and watching my dad work. I knew that men, especially men of the social class and status of the card-players, wanted to feel comfortable and attended to. I upgraded the supermarket cheese plate to a swankier version from a Beverly Hills cheese store. I had memorized each player’s favorite drink, favorite snacks, and their favorite dish from the high-end restaurant we usually ordered from. Those little details were sure to go a long way.

  When Reardon gave me the finalized list of players I was to invite for the second game, there were nine of them, most repeats from the first game, and I set out to learn all I could about every one of them.

  1.Bob Safai, the real-estate magnate. He was confident and he could be charming or terrifying depending on whether he was winning or losing. I had seen him berate the dealers and various opponents last week. He had been very nice to me, but I got the feeling this was someone you wanted to have on your good side.

  2.Todd Phillips, the writer/director whose latest movie, The Hangover, had by now made its mark in the boy humor hall of fame.

  3.Phillip Whitford, the aristocrat, was handsome, well mannered, reeked of old money, and was arguably the best player at the table. He was the one who had given me the pointer about not speaking to a guy if he was in the hand, and had offered me encouraging warm smiles. I felt like he was an ally.

  4.Tobey Maguire was married to Jen Meyer, daughter of the CEO of Universal. Despite his small stature, he was a huge movie star, and according to the guys, he was the second-best player in the game.

  5.Leonardo DiCaprio, maybe the most recognizable movie star in the world. Not only was he devastatingly handsome, he was incredibly talented. He had a strange style at the table, though; it was almost as if he wasn’t trying to win or lose. He folded most hands and listened to music on huge headphones.

  6.Houston Curtis was the one that didn’t belong. Houston had grown up without wealth or privilege. He was a producer of lowbrow reality content, such as Best of Backyard Wrestling videos. His claim to fame was that he had learned how to play cards when he was a little boy, and came to Hollywood without a dime. He seemed to be good friends with Tobey.

  7.Bruce Parker was in his ’fifties. I heard him say he got his start by dealing weed. He had eventually leveraged his understanding of business to climb the executive ladder at one of the oldest and most successful golf companies. He allegedly made billions in sales and helped take the company public.

  8.Reardon, who I already knew more about than I had ever needed to know.

  9.Mark Wideman, whom I hadn’t yet met, was a friend of Phillip’s and would be new to the table this week.

  This time, writing the text to the group was easier. I knew who they were and what to expect. I hit send, and just like last time, the guys responded immediately with “I’m in” and “Who’s playing?”

  I waited anxiously for Tuesday, and it couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter 8

  Over the weekend I drove my beat-up Jeep Grand Cherokee to Barneys. I self-consciously handed the valet my keys, super aware that my car didn’t exactly fit in with the sleek and shiny Mercedes, BMWs, Ferraris, and Bentleys.

  Once inside, I forgot about my insecurities and I beelined for the shoe department. I looked around at the immaculate displays. For the first time in my life I could afford to buy whatever I chose. I was like a kid in a candy store.

  “What can I help you with?” an immaculately dressed salesman asked, looking disapprovingly at the worn-out flip-flops I was wearing.

  “I’m just looking,” I said, ignoring his snobbery.

  “May I pull some styles for you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said cheerfully. After trying on ten pairs, I settled on a classic Louboutin black pump. “Are you this good at finding dresses too?” I asked him.

  “Come with me,” he said warmly, as I shelled out the thousand in cash to pay for the shoes. He was nicer to me now that I was spending money.

  “Let me introduce you to my friend on the fourth floor,” he said.

  Her name was Caroline. Walking along with her, I felt like how my car must have felt in the lot with all of those fancier versions of what a car could be. I was incredibly aware of my own sloppy appearance. Barney’s was filled with perfectly put-together women who looked like they had never had a bad hair day in their lives. I was in jean shorts, flip-flops, and a sweatshirt, my hair was in a messy ponytail, and I had on a Denver Broncos hat, but the worst was my glaringly obvious fake Prada purse that I had bought from a vendor in downtown L.A.

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for a dress that makes me look nothing like myself.” I laughed. She laughed too.

  “Is this for work? Date? An audition?”

  “With these prices, hopefully all of the above.”

  “I’m going to pull some options, so have a seat.” She motioned toward the large plush dressing room.

  “While I’m doing that, take off the hat, put your hair in a bun, and put on the new shoes.”

  I did as I was told.

  She returned with several gorgeous dresses.

  “Show me each one,” she said.

  I wiggled into a structured black Dolce & Gabbana. It was like a magic trick—it lifted my boobs, sucked in my waist, and accentuated my butt.

  I walked out of the dressing room.

  “Where did this body come from?” Caroline asked appreciatively, leading me to a three-way mirror. The dress created an optical illusion dress that made me look not only elegant, but sexy.

  How could I say no, even to the price tag? This dress had transformed me as much as Valerie’s makeup application.

  “So there’s your sexy, now let’s get a classic, and you’re well on your way to leaving the old you behind.”

  I smiled happily.

  I tried on a navy-blue Valentino that hugged my body in the right places without being too provocative.

  We finished the look with a strand of Chanel pearls.

  “You sure are good at your job,” I said admiringly.

  She smiled. “Just give me your credit card and you will be on your way.”

  “Oh,” I said, pulling out my wad of hundreds. “I have cash.”

  Caroline’s face fell. I was sad. I could tell she thought I was a call girl.

  “I’ll be back with the total.” Her voice was still friend
ly, just a little cooler. I was changing back into my clothes when she let herself into the dressing room.

  “I’m not supposed to do this, it could get me fired. But I like you and I’ve seen this town destroy young girls.”

  “I promise you, Caroline, I am not an escort or anything like that. I just had a really good run at a poker game. And that’s the truth.”

  She smiled. “That’s very cool, and much better than the answer I feared.

  “Here is my card, you call me anytime you need anything.”

  I smiled back. “Thanks for being honest, even at the risk of getting in trouble.”

  I walked out of Barneys with my new outfits, beaming from ear to ear.

  FINALLY TUESDAY CAME, and Reardon actually let me leave work at a reasonable hour this time, so I drove home to change into my new outfit.

  I was driving when my phone rang; it was one of my bosses from the club world. I was still picking up shifts when I could.

  “Hey, T.J. What’s up?”

  “I need you to work tonight,” he said. He sounded impatient. Everyone who works in the nightclub industry is always grumpy during the daytime hours.

  “I can’t,” I said. This was the first time I had ever told him no.

  “I guess you don’t value your job,” he said, his tone sharp. “There are a million girls in this town that would kill for it.”

  I thought about the money I had made last week working the game, more money in one night than I might take home in a month at the club, and I sucked in my breath and said, “Well, why don’t you call one of them, because I quit.”

  He paused, shocked. I politely thanked him for the opportunity and hung up.

  I knew I was being reckless. There was no guarantee this card game would last, but I was going to try to push it as far as I could. And it felt damn good to quit that thankless, demeaning cocktail job.

  I SHOWED UP IN MY NEW DRESS AND SHOES. I had chosen the sexier one.

  “Whoa, look at you,” Diego said, taking the bags of liquor from me. “Your tips are gonna be gooood tonight.”