Molly's Game

by Molly Bloom

  “Is it too much?” I asked

  “No way, you look hot, mama.

  “Speaking of tips, what do you want to do about that?”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “Tips,” he said. “The guys tip me throughout the game. I saw that they gave you some cash at the end. You’re always gonna make more when there’s chips involved. We can split if you want. Fifty-fifty.”

  I thought about this carefully. I had seen the guys throwing the chips into the center after winning a hand. So logic told me that ten guys tipping over the course of many hours probably translated to a lot of money, However, Reardon had made it clear that tipping me was the way to get invited back.

  “Let’s see what happens tonight and decide after the game.” I wanted to see how much he made.

  “Okay,” he said, smiling.

  Reardon walked in just then.

  “Whoaaa,” he said, laughing. “You kind of look like a piece of ass.” That was as close to a compliment as I would ever get from him.

  I squinted at him disapprovingly.

  He looked at the food spread.

  “Big-time!” he announced, and he tore into a sandwich. Translation: I had done well with my food selection. The truth was, I learned all of it from Reardon, who loved the best of the best, like caviar when he was hungover. I had come a long way since he had thrown Pink Dot bagels at me. All the food runs he sent me on, all of the cheese plates he ordered for the office, had impacted my awareness of the finer things.

  Houston ambled in and gave me a warm hug.

  I had his diet raspberry Snapple ready.

  Bruce Parker was next, with Todd Phillips close behind him. He and Todd were laughing as they entered.

  “What are you sickos laughing about?” Reardon said, fist-bumping. Reardon was a germophobe who opted to fist-bump instead of shake hands for sanitary reasons. Of course, his fear of germs seemed to fly out the window when it came to his sexual exploits.

  “Parker just got a handy in the parking lot,” Phillips explained.

  “She was cute and only wanted five hundred, I figured it would be good luck.” Bruce laughed.

  “Roguish.” Reardon nodded in approval.

  Just then they noticed me trying to disappear into the corner.

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” Todd said.

  “Molly’s heard it all, she works for me.” Reardon brushed off the apologies while I nodded and forced an easy smile.

  “How does your boyfriend feel about you wearing that dress and hanging out with a bunch of scumbags like us?” Todd asked.

  “I don’t have a . . .” I began, but they had lost interest in me—Tobey and Leo had just walked in. The guys became a little shy, and awkward, except, of course, for Reardon, who fist-bumped Leo with a gruff, “What’s happening, player?”

  While the guys clustered around Leo, Tobey went over to Diego and handed him his Shuffle Master. The Shuffle Master is a $17,000 machine that is supposed to deliver a fair, random shuffle every time and increases the speed and accuracy of each game. Last week, Tobey had told the guys he wouldn’t play without it.

  The next player to arrive was Bob Safai. Last week I had watched Diego deal him what the others referred to as a “bad beat.” This meant that even though Bob had a much stronger hand, he still lost. I watched as Bob had thrown his cards angrily at Diego.

  Statistically, Diego had explained to me later, Bob should have taken the round. It was a “two-outer,” which meant that there were only two cards in the deck that could make his opponent the winner. When Tobey hit it, Bob had gone berserk. He had given Diego a nasty look and said something about stacking the deck for Tobey. Incidents like that made me grateful that Tobey had brought a machine to shuffle this time, and that I wasn’t dealing the games.

  “Hi, honey,” Bob said now as I took his coat. I saw his eyes flick around the room; even he got a little giddy when he saw that Leo was there.

  Phillip Whitford walked in with his friend Mark Wideman. Mark was friends with Pete Sampras, who allegedly played high-stakes poker too. Wideman was a good player, but he had said he would try to bring Sampras, which would be a great draw for the game.

  When he saw me, Whitford let out a low whistle and kissed my hand.

  I blushed and looked at the floor, enjoying every surreal moment of being the only girl among such handsome, accomplished men.

  And then above the buzz of voices came Reardon’s ringing voice.

  “Let’s play!!”

  THEY SETTLED INTO THEIR SEATS, and the air filled with the smooth sounds of my Frank Sinatra playlist, the whirring of the Shuffle Master, the shuffling of chips, and the happy playful banter of the players.

  Once the game was well under way, it was hard to keep up. Guys were reloading their chips in rapid fire and everyone was betting all their chips at once, which Phillip told me during a rare pause was called “going all in.” Even though I was a novice at poker, I was captivated. The game felt frenzied and exciting. And I wasn’t the only one who felt the energy. Diego was dealing hands at lightning speed. The guys were also making side bets on the color of the flop (the first three communal cards dealt by Diego), and they even started wagering on sports.

  I sat in the corner, always watching. Occasionally I would refill drinks. The guys were so focused on the game they almost forgot I was there, except for Phillip, who kept text-messaging me with poker insights. I typed furiously on my laptop, documenting everything I was learning.

  Meanwhile, Bob was giving sound bites on the real-estate market, Wideman was talking about Sampras, Tobey was analyzing poker hands with Houston, Reardon was trying to get everyone on tilt by insulting them, Phillips was dropping one-liners, Leo had his headphones on to help him focus. Bruce talked for a while about the girl who had given him a $500 hand job, and then moved on to how he had made his money, beginning with his start as a weed dealer in Hollywood.

  When it was time for dinner, I ordered Mr. Chow’s. The guys weren’t thrilled about the idea of stopping the game to eat, and I made a mental note to get side tables and, in the future, let them eat their food at the poker table. During dinner I heard Bruce ask Phillip where he should take a girl to dinner (not the hand-job girl, I presumed).

  “I know the perfect place.” I spoke up. “Madeo. Really romantic and the food is amazing.”

  “Great suggestion,” he said.

  “Want me to make a reservation for you?” I asked.

  Thanks to all the reservations I had made for Reardon and the crew, I now knew the maître d’s at all the top restaurants.

  “That would be great.” Bruce smiled.

  “Bruce, text me when you want the reservation, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Molly. You’re the best.” Over the last week I had been thinking of ways to insert myself into the players’ lives, as I wanted to increase the chances that I wouldn’t be replaced. I knew how much Reardon liked me to handle minutiae for him, so I had set a goal to try it with the guys at the table. I knew it had to seem natural, though, not forced. I felt it had gone perfectly well with Bruce. Later in the game I got a text from Houston, asking if I could get him and a friend into a certain Hollywood club. I knew all the promoters and doormen there, so I took care of that too.

  THE GAME RESUMED AFTER DINNER at full speed. I sat in the corner watching Diego’s hands fly around the table pushing chips and flipping cards—it was impossibly hard to keep up with. Suddenly the noise dimmed and Mark Wideman stood up. He walked around the table with his hands in his pockets.

  There was a giant stack of chips in the center. My eyes traced the perimeter of the table to see who still had cards.

  Tobey.

  Tobey just sat there eating the vegan snack he had brought from home. His round eyes were fixed on Mark.

  Mark deliberated while the rest of us held our breath. I had no idea what was happening, but I could feel the suspense.

  “Call!” he announced.

  Tob
ey looked at him in shock.

  “Call?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Mark said. “Do I have you?”

  I tried to add the chips up in my head, but there were so many and they were everywhere.

  “You got me,” Tobey said, and pushed his cards to Diego.

  Tobey smiled at Mark. “Nice hand, man.”

  And then he looked directly at me, his eyes fixed in a hard stare.

  “Who is this guy?” Tobey texted me.

  Mark Wideman. He’s an attorney.

  “I see,” was all he wrote back.

  I had a sinking sensation that I was now in trouble.

  The game picked up again and I held my breath whenever Reardon was in a hand and now Tobey too. I knew Reardon well enough to be certain that the thrill of the game wouldn’t last long if he lost every time. Clearly I had to keep Tobey happy too. At the end of the night, they both came out ahead, but every second leading up to the last hand of the game was so full of anticipation that by the end of the night I was completely emotionally exhausted. But I loved every minute of it. The game lasted until 3 A.M.

  As the guys filed out, I helped them with their coats and valet tickets, air-kissed and/or hugged good-bye, and was handsomely rewarded by each of them with cash or chips. I was immensely appreciative; I felt like it was so much more than I deserved. The biggest tippers were Phillip, Houston, and Bruce, who gave me especially large sums, but I made sure to thank each of them with the same amount of enthusiasm. Tobey, despite being the biggest winner, gave me the smallest tip.

  Once they were gone, Diego and I sat down at the table. We combined our tips and then counted it out: $15,000. Seventy-five hundred each.

  I looked at him in shock.

  “Is this normal?”

  “No.” He chuckled happily. “I’ve never seen a game like this.”

  “Diego,” I whispered. “Seventy-five hundred dollars! Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “Just keep wearing those dresses,” he teased.

  I went behind the bar and poured us each a glass of champagne.

  “This deserves a toast,” I said. “To a fifty-fifty split as friends, and allies!”

  “I like that,” he said.

  Even if our tips didn’t always come to the same amount, it was nice to have a partner.

  We drank our champagne in happy silence. Diego lived many freeways from Beverly Hills and had spent his career in inglorious casinos dealing bad beats to guys whose whole life could be ruined by the wrong card. He was in wonderland just as much as, or even more than, I was.

  “I hope it lasts forever.” I said, after a few minutes had gone by.

  “Nothing is forever, especially in gambling,” he said knowingly.

  I forced Diego’s words out of my memory. Instead, I heard my mom’s voice in my head from every night when she tucked me into bed. “You can do anything you want, honey, anything you put your mind to.” This may not have been what she envisioned, but it was what I wanted more than anything and I would do everything in my power to make it last.

  Chapter 9

  The follow-up to the games was always the same: Organize the players. Pay anyone who had won. Collect from anyone who had lost.

  At first, the money part stressed me out. I felt bad asking the losers for money, and it took a lot of time to drive all over the city chasing and paying. But I soon came to realize that those one-on-one meet-ups were great opportunities to really get to know the men at the table.

  On this particular Wednesday, I was scheduled to see Tobey and Phillip.

  I went to Tobey’s first. I was getting used to dropping by there: Tobey won every week.

  I drove slowly up the steep drive, buzzed the security bell, and announced myself. “It’s Molly, dropping off a check.”

  The long tone indicated that I had clearance. The gates opened slowly and I drove in. At the end of the driveway was Tobey’s palatial house.

  He was already at the door when I got there.

  “Heyyyy, how are ya?”

  “Hey,” I said, handing him the heavy and awkward Shuffle Master. “Thanks for letting us use this for the game.”

  “No problem,” he said, taking the machine. “I wanted to chat with you about something.”

  “What’s up?”

  His eyes squinted for a moment. “I think I’m going to start charging rent for the Shuffle Master.”

  I looked past him to the expansive foyer of his mansion in the hills. You could see straight through to the ocean.

  I laughed. Surely he was joking. He couldn’t possibly be serious about charging rent for a machine he insisted that we use, from the guys whose money he was taking every week.

  But he was as serious as death, and I quickly stopped laughing.

  “Okay,” I squeaked. “Um, how much?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  I smiled to conceal my surprise.

  “I’m sure that will be fine. No problem,” I said. I knew I should ask Reardon first, but I wanted it to seem like I was a decision maker. I would figure the Reardon piece out later.

  “Greeaaat,” he said. “Thanks, Molly. And there’s one other thing. I’d like to know who’s playing every week. If there’s going to be someone new, I would definitely like to know who it is. In advance.” His words came out slowly, sounding soft on the outside, but with a sharp-edged threat at the center. I figured this was probably about the hand he lost to Mark Wideman.

  “No problem,” I repeated, wanting out of there before I promised him my firstborn and my soul.

  “All righty, talk to you later,” he said, and waved a cheerful good-bye.

  I shook my head as I drove away. I would never understand rich people.

  PHILLIP WAS WAITING FOR ME at his favorite cigar club, which was discreetly tucked away in a two-story building in Beverly Hills. The elevator opened and I saw a lux mahogany foyer and behind it a smartly decorated lounge full of cigar-smoking men. I self-consciously checked around me for a sign that read NO WOMEN ALLOWED, but the maître d’ smiled and led me to Phillip, who was sitting alone at the bar and sipping scotch.

  He had a deck of cards in his hands, and he offered me a crooked smile.

  “Just can’t stay away from the cards.”

  “Actually, these are for you. I’m going to give you a poker lesson.”

  I blushed. Somehow I had hoped that the guys hadn’t realized how little I knew about poker.

  “How do you know I’m not a secret pro just hanging around to learn your tells?” I asked. Thanks to a Google search, I had learned a little poker vocab—tells are subtle changes in behavior that give clues to a poker player’s hand.

  He laughed appreciatively.

  We moved to a table in the corner and I slipped him the envelope with his check inside. He took it, passed it close to his face, and then gave me a look.

  “My poker winnings don’t usually smell like flowers. Nice touch.”

  “I spilled perfume in my bag,” I said lamely, embarrassed again.

  His face went serious, and he shuffled the cards. Two for me, two for himself.

  “These are known as pocket cards. Don’t let anyone see them.”

  Poker is not so much about the cards you are dealt, but how you play the hand. You can win with a bad hand if you are able to read your opponent and understand what message your actions send, things like betting style or facial expressions.

  He discarded one card he called the “burn card” and then laid three cards faceup in the middle of the table.

  “Now, don’t fall in love with a pretty hand, because when the flop comes, your pretty hand can become downright ugly. Poker is a game of odds, simple math, and being able to read people. If you are going to bluff, you have to believe it yourself. Keep in mind, the other players are looking for information from you. Facial expressions, body language, the amount and the way you bet. When you have what you believe to be the best hand, which is called the ‘nuts,’ you can either try to k
eep your opponents playing by betting in a way that strings them along, or bet aggressively and take the pot. And if you are going to go all in, make sure you have thought it through. Make sure you have the nuts, or that your opponent thinks you have them beat.

  “But,” he continued, “outplaying your opponent doesn’t always work. Even the best players in the world have nights when they run bad. Recognize those nights and be disciplined with your downside, or the amount of money you allow yourself to lose. Know when to leave the table.”

  We tried a couple hands faceup as Phillip rattled out the calculations or odds of each of my starting hands and how they changed throughout the hand. After the flop (the first three cards), there was a turn (the next card), and finally a river (your last card). “I think I got it,” I said.

  The first few hands I played exactly the way he taught me. But after a while I got bored and I stopped folding even my bad hands.

  He looked at me, disappointed.

  “I don’t think I’d make a good poker player. I’m too excited to see what comes next, even if I have a bad hand.”

  He laughed. “Don’t forget, poker is much more than a game. It’s a strategy for life. If you’re going to be a risk taker, make sure you’re taking calculated risks.”

  I nodded my head, taking it all in.

  I drove to the office still thinking about the poker lesson. It seemed a lot more like a life lesson. I walked into the office, and before I could say hello, Reardon was rattling off an extensive list of things that HAD to be done ASAP.

  “Pick up and sort the mail, pay the bills. And you have to unpack the boxes in the office. And I need more black shirts. And don’t forget to file the docs and organize all the operating agreements, and you need to go to City National and drop off those forms, and . . .”

  I nodded furiously, making notes as Reardon rattled off his lengthy list of demands. Since the game had started, he had substantially increased my workload. I started getting orders from him at 7 A.M. and sometimes it took until midnight to carry them all out. Except on game days, I was usually in the office or at his house, doing anything that needed doing. He knew he had ultimate leverage with me, and thus I indentured myself as Reardon’s full-time slave in exchange for the right to be his part-time poker hostess.