Molly's Game

by Molly Bloom

  For a full month, the game had gone off without a hitch. For four Tuesdays in a row, I had made thousands of dollars and listened to discussions on just about every pertinent topic from people in the know. The rich and famous were privy to information that regular people were not. I spent hours pondering the magnetism of the game, and the interaction between these men. Why did these guys, with their glamorous-seeming, full-to-the-brim lives, want to spend countless hours in a smelly basement watching random patterns emerging from a deck of fifty-two cards? They certainly weren’t there to make a living . . . well, maybe Houston Curtis was.

  After a month of listening and watching, I had a clue. For the most part, these were men who had risked it all to attain enormous success. Risked, past tense. Now they were coasting. They were safe. There was no jugular to their day-to-day lives. They could get any woman they desired, buy anything they wanted, make movies, live in mansions, acquire and disembowel huge corporations. They craved the adrenaline of the gamble: that was what kept them coming back. It was much more than just a game—it was escapism, adventure, fantasy.

  It had become an escape for me as well. A way to avoid “growing up,” which meant, at least to my father, succumbing to a life of thankless obligations. I decided that this game was the next level of my education. Everything that passed in front of my eyes was another lesson in economics, in psychology, in entrepreneurship, in the American dream.

  So when Reardon said “jump,” I jumped. That didn’t mean I was happy about it.

  “Is that all?” I said to Reardon with more than a hint of sarcasm. That day, he had just rattled off a week’s worth of tasks with the expectation that I could somehow complete them all before I headed to Tobey’s to deliver his winnings.

  “Just one more thing,” he said. “No more volunteering.”

  “Are you talking about the hospital?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What? Why?” I asked angrily. “It’s never affected my job.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t need you bringing germs back to the office. And you’re too poor to volunteer. When you’re rich you can volunteer as much as you want, but you’re poor and stupid and you need to spend your time getting smarter and figuring out how not to be poor.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I repeated, waiting for an inkling of compassion.

  “I’m dead serious. It’s volunteering or the poker game. Your choice.”

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  “You’re not making any sense,” I said. “You’re being insane.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “No game on Tuesday.”

  I stormed out of his office, my eyes watering as I thought about the smiles the kids at the hospital managed despite their situation. They deserved support and encouragement; they needed me and all the other volunteers. I needed them. I needed to feel like I wasn’t completely losing myself in this new world of flash and money. It was selfish, I knew, but the reality check I got at the hospital helped keep me grounded and real. Reardon was always trying to make me tougher, and smarter; he equated idealism with stupidity. He kept me around because I worked my ass off, and I was the only assistant he had ever had that didn’t quit after a week. He very rarely admitted it, but every once in a while he would tell me I had potential, that I could be smart. It was always followed quickly by an insult, of course. He was like an evil fairy godmother.

  My volunteering was one of the last remnants of my former identity. An identity, I reminded myself, which went pretty unnoticed. Then I thought about the game. I thought about the flash and the high stakes, and the thrill of eavesdropping on the conversations of some of the most rich and powerful men in the world.

  I had thought that I could be both idealistic and capitalistic, and one day I would be. But right now I was going to have to choose.

  My old self hated my new self, but I willed her to silence as I typed an e-mail to my supervisor at the hospital.

  After I sent it, blind-copying Reardon, I stormed into his office.

  “Happy?” I asked.

  He smiled like a Cheshire.

  “Someday . . .” he said, “someday, you’ll understand. Volunteering doesn’t solve your problems. Every lost stupid girl I know is saving puppies or babies instead of facing the reality of what the world is and how to survive in it.”

  “You’re evil,” I said. “You’re the devil incarnate.”

  He started laughing like a madman.

  “I’m seriously worried about your soul.”

  “You’re worried about my soul?” he asked, and laughed even harder. “Go worry about the soil reports for the new property, stupid.”

  Chapter 10

  The poker game had taken off in a big way. The game had quickly gained the reputation as the best game in Los Angeles. The formula of keeping pros out, inviting in celebrities and other interesting and important people, and even the mystique of playing in the private room at the Viper Room added up to one of the most coveted invitations in town. I had to turn down important people every week. Soon we needed to host two games a week, and I was the gatekeeper.

  The new faces at the table included:

  John Asher, who spent half the time lamenting about his divorce from Jenny McCarthy and the other half getting made fun of ruthlessly by the other guys.

  Irv Gotti (who was no relation to the Italian Gottis) who had started the record label Murder Inc and managed artists such as Ashanti and Nelly. He brought Nelly to a couple games.

  Nick Cassavetes, son of Gena Rowlands, who had recently directed The Notebook.

  A rich trust-fund kid named Bryan Zuriff, who gave off an air of being above it all.

  Chuck Pacheco, who was one of the main members of Tobey and Leo’s famed party crew.

  Leslie Alexander, the owner of the Houston Rockets, and the occasional NBA player.

  It was part of the fun each week to bring in a new face. It was kind of interesting to watch the dynamics. The new guy always felt awkward at first, and I tried my best to make him feel more comfortable. The regulars, especially Todd Phillips and Reardon, tried to make them feel uncomfortable. It was like watching a cliquish group of adolescent girls. If the guy started winning off the bat once he sat down, he was picked on even more. If he was losing or playing badly, the guys were much friendlier. If the new player was a celebrity or a billionaire, then all bets were off and he was treated like royalty.

  You can tell a lot about a man’s character by watching him win or lose money. Money is the great equalizer.

  Sometimes there was miscommunication, and Reardon would invite someone without telling me and we would have too many players. In that case I would have to disinvite a man, and that was not a fun job. They often took it personally, yelling at me or throwing their status around.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Good luck getting my tip next time.”

  “I hope you have a plan B, because I’m going to get you fired.”

  I heard all these things, and it was hard not to get upset. But I realized the next time they were able to play that all of the bravado had been meaningless, because the hugs, kisses, and tips returned as the guy practically skipped to the table, happy to be one of the cool kids again.

  And it wasn’t just that every cardplayer in Hollywood wanted to come to the game, everyone’s friends and their friends wanted to come to watch. I felt that a huge part of this enterprise depended on discretion, so I tried to discourage spectators when I could, but I couldn’t stop the guys bringing girlfriends along to show off in front of, or the occasional celebrity stopping by. Celebrities were always allowed, to be honest. Like when the Olsen twins showed up with a billionaire I was trying to land for the game. They were in, no questions asked.

  One night, Reardon sent me a text to go upstairs and bring his friends, who were waiting in the club, down for the game. I ran up as fast as I could—I didn’t want to miss a second of the game. I recognized Neil Jenki
ns, tall and handsome, he jet-setted around the United States in his family’s private jet. He was standing by the bar with a couple others, and I signaled for them to follow me.

  As a general rule, I steered clear of Reardon’s friends. They were generally all womanizers and I had heard way too many of their stories. I always pretended to be busy and not listening when these tales were tossed around, but I always took note. I didn’t ever want to be spoken of or treated like one of the many girls they wooed and discarded.

  I ushered the group downstairs and returned to my post behind Diego. I snuck a glance at Neil and his crew, noticing a guy I had never seen before. He was younger than the others and very cute. Our eyes met and I quickly looked away. After I made sure no one at the poker table needed anything, I asked Neil and his friends if they wanted drinks.

  “I’m Drew,” the cute new guy said.

  “I’m Molly,” I said with a friendly, but not too friendly, smile.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Just a beer,” he said.

  There was something immediately comfortable about him. He could have been a guy I grew up with in Colorado. He was dressed casually, drinking Bud Light to his friends’ Red Bulls and vodka. When I handed him his beer, our eyes caught again.

  I scolded myself. Now was not the time. These were not the guys. I needed to focus on my job. I busied myself as much as possible with the game, but the game was busy with itself—there wasn’t much for me to do. I sat down and pretended to work on my computer. Drew came over to talk to me.

  He had recently graduated from Columbia with a degree in astrophysics. He was smart and funny and seemed worlds away from the shallow nonsense that most of these guys were obsessed with. I found myself smiling and laughing easily with him.

  My phone buzzed and I glanced at it. It was Blair, demanding to know where I was.

  It was her birthday and I had told her I would try to get out of work early, but I knew even when I had said it that it wasn’t going to happen

  I texted back my apologies, my promises to make it up to her, saying how sorry I was that I was caught up in something . . . the normal lame excuses.

  She didn’t even respond.

  Phillip called me over, and then Bob needed my attention, and then Tobey wanted something, so I forgot about Blair and concentrated on the game. Meanwhile, I kept sneaking looks at Drew, wondering if I could make an exception to my rule about fraternizing with Reardon’s boys.

  When Reardon’s friends got up to leave, I overheard talk of a strip club. Drew stood up to join them, and then glanced back at me. I waved cordially, disappointed that my theory was clearly wrong: he was just like the rest of them after all.

  He came over to me.

  “Hey, mind if I stay for a while?”

  “Not at all,” still pretending to be busy so he wouldn’t see my big smile.

  AT 2 A.M., IT WAS JUST REARDON AND ME, counting the stacks. I tried to sound nonchalant when I said, “So, Drew seems nice and normal.”

  Reardon rolled his eyes at me.

  “He owns the Dodgers, stupid,” he said.

  “What do you mean he owns the Dodgers?”

  “His. Family. Bought. The. Dodgers.” Sometimes he liked to speak to me as if I were a two-year-old.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I didn’t mean that I liked him liked him . . . I just thought he was an improvement over your other friends.”

  There goes that notion, I thought, conscious of my current low position on the social ladder.

  Reardon gave me a knowing look.

  My face turned red.

  “Little Molly and Little McCourt,” Reardon teased. “Anyways, he’s dating Shannen Doherty.”

  Of course, he was dating one of the most notorious actresses in Hollywood.

  “I told you. I don’t care,” I lied, and my heart sank a little more.

  “Sure,” Reardon said.

  I concentrated on the money.

  By the time I cleaned up and got out of there, it was 4 A.M., and I had missed Blair’s birthday party completely. I felt terrible, but what choice did I have?

  I let myself in quietly, hoping to not have to face Blair. She was sitting in the living room with a bottle of wine. Her face was red and blotchy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, rushing over.

  “It’s Jason,” she said, starting to cry again. “We got in a fight and he left, and my best friend didn’t even show up to my party. This is the worst birthday ever.”

  She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She and Jason, her latest obsession, were constantly fighting and making up again.

  I felt absolutely terrible. I went to her and rubbed her back. “Let’s go to bed. It’s late and everything will be fine in the morning.”

  She sat up, her face caked with black mascara and dried tears.

  “Where were you?” she sniffled.

  “Working.” I sighed.

  “What? What type of work keeps you there till three A.M.?” she whined.

  “We have a lot going on,” I said, which technically was not a lie.

  “I feel so distant from you. It’s like I don’t even know you. We never used to keep secrets!” The hurt in her eyes broke my heart, but I didn’t know what to say. I knew I was putting the poker game before my friends and family, but Blair had her trust fund to fall back on. I had to make my own way.

  I couldn’t go back to my old life. I was done struggling to get by. I was done being a nobody.

  NO MATTER HOW EXHAUSTED I WAS the day after a game, people needed to be paid, and for that, other people needed to pay, and I was the collector. My first stop was Pierre Khalili. His luck the night before had never turned around, and he owed me a hefty six-figure sum.

  Most of the time I dreaded making these collections. I realized that it was somewhat emasculating for the guys, because collections meant defeat, and these were not the type of men whose egos took kindly to losing, especially in front of a woman. I started to realize that there was a finesse to these collections, and I had been working on a few techniques to soften the blow. For instance, if I said, “Well, good thing you are so rich and handsome,” with a look of admiration, most would smile smugly and hand me the substantial checks flippantly to prove my words were correct.

  I wasn’t worried about Pierre, though. He was a consummate gentleman. Raised in London, he hailed from one of the wealthiest families in Iran. He was cultured and sophisticated.

  My phone rang while I was driving to Pierre’s swanky Bel Air home. It was Blair, who had been sulking ever since her birthday.

  “Hey, Blair,” I said, hoping her bad mood was over.

  “Brian called to invite me to Patrick Whitesell’s Oscar after-party!!” she exclaimed. Brian was the actor she had dated before she started dating Jason. “Will you come? Please?”

  “When is it?”

  “Tonight,” she said. “You’ll come, right? You totally owe me, you missed my birthday.”

  Going to these parties was a mixed bag. They were glamorous, full of celebrities and fancy people, but they mostly made me feel inadequate and silly for being there. I usually ended up sitting in some corner with a glass of wine, wishing I was home.

  But she was right, I owed her.

  “You never come out anymore; you act all mysterious. I don’t know anything about you! Are you a double agent? Is the CIA listening?”

  I pulled up in front of Pierre’s large ivy-covered gates.

  “Of course, I’ll come with you, but I have to go.” I said trying to hurry off the phone.

  “Yayyy! Okay, I love you. See you tonight.”

  I hung up and pressed the call button.

  PIERRE’S BUTLER LED ME THROUGH the enormous house and into the backyard (more like back field it was so huge), where Pierre was sipping rosé and reading the paper.

  “Darling, you look even more gorgeous than the last time.”

  I smiled, happily. I was always a sucker for a compliment.


  He handed me an envelope, and by the weight I could tell it was all cash.

  “I put a little extra in there for you,” said the most gracious losing poker player in history.

  “Pierre, you seriously shouldn’t have,” I protested. I honestly felt bad when people lost.

  “I wanted to. You work hard and do a great job,” he said.

  “Would you like to meet me in Santa Barbara for a polo match this weekend? I’ll send a helicopter if you don’t want to drive.”

  I kept my gaze steady and tried to seem as if I received invitations like this all the time, but inside I was nearly bursting. I let myself imagine big hats, champagne, and what it would be like to ride in my own private helicopter. But then the voice of reason chimed in. It told me that getting involved with a player would not be wise. I liked Pierre as a friend, and clearly he was hitting on me. I couldn’t lead him on.

  “That sounds amazing, but I already have plans this weekend.”

  “Another time, then, darling. See you next week at the game?”

  “Yes, definitely.” I smiled, relieved he had been so gracious.

  Driving home, I couldn’t help but marvel at the way my life had changed in such a short time. I had been granted instant access to a world that I had never thought I would be a part of. I couldn’t afford one misstep though. I knew it could all be taken from me as fast as it had been given. I knew I needed to be very analytical when these sorts of offers came along; I needed to think about things in the long term, not the short term. I needed to maintain the delicate balance between enjoying the fantasy of the game without stepping too far into the players’ lives.

  In years past, whenever I needed guidance, I would turn to my parents. My mother was so centered and full of principles and compassion, and my father’s insights into human behavior often helped me navigate my way through unknown territory. But I hadn’t told my parents about the game. It felt odd to keep secrets from Blair, but it was even stranger not to be telling my parents the truth about my life. It was creating a new kind of distance, one that had never existed before.