by Molly Bloom
By now, I had figured out how to operate with confidence, or fake it till I made it.
“I’m going to be hosting ‘industry networking events,’” I explained to him. “There will be a lot of celebrities attending . . .” I paused for effect. Even at the ritziest addresses, the promise of certain high-placed attendees could always open doors. “So . . .”
I let the sentence hang.
“You understand the need for a certain level of privacy.”
“Of course,” he said. “Of course. Anything you need, Miss Bloom.”
“I’ll need a poker table delivered to the room on the day in question,” I said. “You know how boys are!”
I laughed lightly and he laughed along with me, telling me that yes, he knew.
“We can certainly accommodate any need you may have,” he assured me. “Let me give you my card. I’ve written my cell-phone number on it . . . Please don’t hesitate to call should you need anything else.”
He practically kissed me on the way out the door. And he wasn’t the only one: my meetings at the Four Seasons and the Beverly Hills Hotel went much the same way. I told their managers the same story I had offered at the Peninsula, and threw in that I would be using the best room they had on a weekly basis. I was starting to realize what Phillip had meant during our lesson. Bluff and perception are much more important than actual truth and circumstance.
At every hotel I visited, I was offered the same royal reception. It was amazing the impact that celebrity had on everyone in this town. I felt like I could have told the staff that I was having an arms-dealing, drug-trafficking, and prostitution event that marquee names would be attending and they would have nodded, cooed, and accommodated.
I left the last meeting on a cloud. With three luxury locations on call, I could move the game around at my leisure, which would have three great benefits: the game would be less of a target for anyone trying to infiltrate; I would control the location; and it would be more mysterious, which I believed was always a positive, especially with gambling . . . and men.
Everything was going my way. All I could think was, Let the games begin.
BEING ON MY OWN WITHOUT REARDON meant that I needed to make sure this thing was legal, for real.
The players said their lawyers had all told them that the game was in the clear, but that wasn’t sufficient to make me feel safe, or offer me any useful information specific to my role.
I needed my own lawyer.
Wendall Winklestein was a top criminal attorney who came highly recommended by several of the guys from the game. Wendall had a swanky office with expensive artwork on the walls. His taste was a visual testament to the fact that rich people often behaved badly.
I walked into his office and I felt him leering at me from behind his desk.
“So you’re the little poker princess.”
I frowned on the inside, but offered a weak laugh.
“I’ve been hosting poker games, yes,” I said. “I want to make sure that it’s legal.”
He switched gears from lecher to lawyer.
“Are you taking a rake?”
“No,” I said.
“How do you make money?”
“Tips.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Everyone wants to play in the game,” I explained. “On the first night my former boss told the players they needed to tip me to be invited back.”
Wendall laughed. “Smart.”
Then he got serious again.
“Here’s my biggest piece of advice,” he said. “Don’t break the law when you’re breaking the law.”
“What do you mean?”
“What you’re doing is in what we call a ‘gray area.’ It does not violate state or federal statutes, but it’s a bit undefined. You need to keep your nose clean. No drugs, no hookers, no booking sports bets or hiring muscle to collect debts, and Molly, pay your taxes.”
“I can handle that,” I said.
“If you want to hire me, I require a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer,” said Winklestein. The way he looked at me, I wondered if he might have some other form of payment in mind.
“How about cash?” I asked. I pulled an envelope out of my bag, having been prepared for this amount.
“Cash works.” He smiled lecherously.
I HELD MY FIRST GAME at the Peninsula hotel because my contact there had offered a sizeable discount on the room. The game was called for 8 P.M., but I requested early check-in so that I could make sure everything would be perfect.
Diego met me with the table, and the hotel manager greeted us with enthusiasm, calling for the bellman to help us put it in the service elevator and take it upstairs. Once the bellman had taken his tip and gone, Diego and I rearranged the furniture to make room for the centerpiece: the poker table with ten chairs and ten stacks of chips, and, of course, Tobey’s Shuffle Master. Diego left with promises to return an hour before the game started, and then I was alone in this amazing, gorgeous, palatial suite.
I raced around checking everything out. The bathroom was nearly as big as my whole apartment, and it had those amazing fluffy robes that you see in movies. The manager had left me a bottle of champagne and a fruit plate. I opened the bottle and poured myself a glass. Even the berries tasted better in a place like this. I raced to the bed. It was heaven. I didn’t realize a bed could be so comfortable. I threw myself into a pile of down pillows and giggled out loud.
The game wouldn’t start for another six hours, so I changed into my bikini and headed for the pool. The rooftop pool at the Peninsula had a beautiful view of the city. It was decorated from the cabanas to the heavenly lounge chairs in all white, with only the turquoise pool and bright blue sky as accents. I settled into a soft chaise; the sun was warm and a cool breeze blew from the west. One of the pool boys walked by, spritzed me with rose water, and handed me two slices of cucumber to put over my eyes. He asked me for my room number and came back in a couple minutes with a Bellini, compliments of the hotel manager. I sipped my Bellini in my private cabana, feeling like life couldn’t get any better. But if I wanted to hang on to all this, I had to stay sharp and work hard. I put down my drink and started fielding calls from the players.
IT WASN’T UNTIL I SAT DOWN to get ready that I returned to earth, and began to feel nervous about the game. I looked at my face, bare of makeup, free of pretense. Was I in over my head? Yes, since the day I drove into town, but that wasn’t going to stop me.
Tonight’s game was going to be a familiar group—Reardon, Steve Brill, Reardon’s partner Cam, Tobey, Houston Curtis, Bob Safai, Bruce Parker, and Nick Cassavetes. As usual, I had given Tobey a heads-up on the lineup, the courtesy he demanded and that saved me from his terrifying death glare if he came in and found an unknown at the table.
“Fine,” he had said. And that was when I sent the text to everyone else. Everybody I invited said yes.
I couldn’t wait to see their faces when they walked into this gorgeous room and saw what their game was going to look like from now on. Everything was designed to be amazing. I had even hired two professional masseuses to give shoulder rubs, something a few of the guys had mentioned wanting. I vetted the women to make sure they were licensed; you just never know in Hollywood, especially when there are rich and famous people involved. I even had my attorney draft NDAs for them to sign.
The biggest danger was getting too busy and forgetting to write down a buy-in. The guys were supposed to sign for their buy-ins, but sometimes they were so grumpy they refused, or thought it was bad luck to sign their initials. I insisted so that after the game no one could contest the accounting. Now that I was in charge, I was going to have to be more assertive. One mistake meant the books would be off at least five thousand maybe more and I would be responsible to make up any difference. Two mistakes were . . . I couldn’t even think about it.
In an effort to forestall any potential disasters, I had asked Diego to help me with the buy-ins and the books, and I had asked
my friend Melissa to help me out with managing the guys’ requests. She would be there to refill drinks and run out for the food order, which could cost thousands of dollars a night and was so extensive and detailed that obtaining it was almost a full-time job in itself.
THE SUITE WE HAD BEEN GIVEN was on one of the top floors, a stunning affair done in the whites, beiges, pale pinks, and golds of expensive furnishings. French doors opened to a wraparound patio. There was a table laden with fruit plates, cheese plates, charcuterie, and fine chocolates. A cool breeze was blowing in, freshening the room, which smelled of Dyptique candles and fresh-cut flowers. The two masseuses were on hand, Melissa had arrived on time, and Diego brought an additional dealer with him. There was music playing quietly. I was wearing a long white dress, lots of gold jewelry, and I had piled my long hair on top of my head.
The first to arrive was Houston Curtis (as always).
“Wow! This is great!” He walked out onto the patio to admire the view.
I joined him outside, and Melissa approached to offer him a drink.
“Can I get you anything? Water, tea, champagne?”
Houston, the man who always wanted diet raspberry Snapple (which I had chilling in the fridge), checked out his surroundings and upgraded his order.
“Champagne? Why not?”
I smiled.
“You like it? You think the other guys will like it?”
“Oh yeah! It’s classy. It’ll be nice to not be at Viper anymore. I mean, I loved the Viper. But this place just feels nice. It even smells good.”
Reardon showed up next.
“Roguish, player,” he said, wandering from room to room.
He checked his phone and shoved it in my face. The picture on the phone was of some young beautiful naked girls assuming a very flexible pose.
“Might need this room later,” he said, laughing and grabbing for the menu. “Mol, order me some caviar. Ossetra, with toast points and—”
“I got it, Reardon,” I said. “I know what you like.”
We were both laughing now.
The rest of the guys showed up, all of them with expressions of approval at the shift in atmosphere.
Tobey arrived last.
“Nice!” he commented.
I looked at him in surprise; a nicety from Tobey was like a hug from the Queen.
As the men settled themselves around the table and Diego started to deal the cards, I sat in a chair at the side, taking the scene in like I was watching a film that I had directed. They shuffled the chips in their hands, creating a chorus of clicks that had become as familiar to me as the sound of street traffic. The chips pooled around the players, and made their way into stacks of varying heights. I watched them play and chat, leaning back in those chairs while pretty girls rubbed their shoulders and they forgot about everything in their lives but what was happening in this room, and I knew that I had succeeded. The entire cast was hitting their marks. I watched Melissa ferry cocktails, watched Diego’s hands fly, watched Tobey watch the other players.
There was something about the rich atmosphere that drove the stakes higher. Barely three hours had passed before Bob Safai was down $300,000, a huge number for a game with a $5,000 buy-in. Steve Brill, somehow, was winning most of the money. I held my breath for a moment, but then I relaxed again, because Safai barely seemed to mind.
It was 4 A.M. before the last of them left, and as the door shut behind them, Diego high-fived me.
“Nice game. You did it. You won.”
“We won,” I said.
I counted the tips and divided the stacks. Ten thousand for each of us.
Chapter 15
The guys loved playing in the hotels. They loved the added amenities. Additionally, I trained my staff to say yes to everything unless is was illegal or demeaning. Instead of creating my own expensive backdrop, I took advantage of the fact that the premier hotels I had chosen had already thought of everything. They were already accustomed to the demands of the richest, most entitled guests (not saying that my guys were this, but the staff in a place like this was prepared for anything).
I started creating a poker kit, based on the requests I received most often. Single-malt scotch, caviar, champagne. You need a phone charger? Got it. You have a headache? Excedrin and a cold compress. Stomach hurts? Got that. You need travel reservations that can’t go through your company? I just need the details. You need me to book a room at the Four Seasons for next week? No problem, what kind of room? Your girl has been dying for the sold-out “it” bag? I’ll deduct it from your win and handle it. You need an acupuncturist, at the game, while you play—done. It was all yes all the time. I couldn’t ignore that yes had become my mantra. I shared a name with the very famous literary character from James Joyce’s epic novel Ulysses. Her final soliloquy is about saying yes to falling in love and surrendering to her husband. I was also falling in love. With a poker game.
THE UPGRADED LOCATION and the fact that every man was treated as if he were James Bond only made the game an even hotter ticket. I started making so much money that I barely knew what to do with it. I started to slowly upgrade my life. Reardon let me take over the lease on his S-class Mercedes. It was fast, sexy, silver, and sleek. I loved his car and I used to sit in the passenger seat as he dictated a hundred demands, cut everyone off on the road, and yelled at his cell phone. I used to try to block him out and imagine if this car were mine. It happened a lot sooner than I thought it would. He came over to my apartment to drop it off. He threw me the keys.
“Have fun with your new car, player,” he said, smiling like a proud father . . . or a mad scientist maybe.
His new assistant (he’d had five in the three months since we had returned from Miami) looked scared and uncertain behind the wheel of the car she had driven, following Reardon to my house.
“MOVE OVER, WHAT ARE YOU STUPID?” he yelled at the young blond girl. She looked terrified and crawled awkwardly over the gearshift. I looked at Reardon with a disappointed frown. And then I smiled warmly at her.
“If you are half as good as Molly was, I may give you a car, but I highly doubt that. You’ve got a tough act to follow.” I smiled on my face and in my heart. As flawed as Reardon was, I knew he loved me. He sped off in a cloud of dust, gravel, and insults.
“BLAIR!” I yelled. She came outside.
“Look at my new car!!” I said, jumping up and down. I had grown past the downplaying-everything phase.
“Wow! Are you serious? Let’s go for a ride!”
I got in and slid the seat as far forward as it would go, sat up tall, and tried to put the key into the ignition. It wouldn’t go in.
“Oh, my dad has a car like this. Put your foot on the brake and press that button. And lean your seat back a little. You look like you are driving for the first time.” She laughed.
I did as I was told and the V-12 engine let out a smooth guttural purr. I stepped on the gas and we both screamed as it shot us up the hill at an alarming speed.
I turned left on Sunset and put down the windows and turned on the radio. Everyone on the street looked at us. Apparently a nice car in L.A. meant a hell of a lot. I stepped on the gas again and my sleek Mercedes barreled forward so fast I was thrown back into my plush seat. Blair laughed. “It’s a lot of power for you. You sure you can handle it.”
I smiled and didn’t want to say what was in my mind because it was obnoxious. But power is what I wanted. I wanted more, I loved it. I floored the gas pedal. We were going ninety-five on Sunset.
I liked the thrill and the adrenaline rush that breaking the law gave me. I switched lanes and passed cars. I was drunk on the power under my foot. Suddenly I saw a cop behind me turning on his lights. I turned into the Beverly Hills Hotel with screeching wheels. The valets all knew me.
“Welcome back, Miss Bloom,” they said.
We had lunch by the pool, expecting to see a police officer the whole time, but he never came.
I HAD LIVED WITH BLAIR in the apartment
her parents had bought her for two years. It felt like a lifetime ago that we had met at some silly party, hiding in the bathroom from a scorned reality-TV star. Blair had a serious boyfriend now, and I was ready to leave the nest. I was ready for independence, an apartment of my own. My whole life I had lived with other people, and the prospect of a place of my own was really exciting. I found an apartment on the twentieth floor in a fancy building on Sunset. Every other time I had rented an apartment in the past had been a stressful situation of coming up with the money, asking my parents, trying to collect from my roommates, and always coming up short. I took one look at the view, the sexy marble-and-mirrored bathroom, and the ample bedroom, and I had to have it. The broker started adding up: first month, last, and security . . .
I turned to her and cut her off while she was pecking at her calculator.
“Tell the owner I’ll pay the first six months up front, in cash, for a discount.”
The older woman looked at me in surprise.
“Well then . . . all cash?”
“All cash.”
I had heard Reardon do this type of negotiating a hundred times, but I had never had the money or opportunity to do it myself.
I held my breath expecting the broker, Sharon, with her buttoned-up cardigan and French twist to scoff at me and call the police. But instead she said, “Give me a moment.” She returned with a smile and a less tight look on her face. “My client would be happy to work with you on the price,” she said. I negotiated a great deal, all by myself. And although the rent was five times more than I had ever paid, this apartment was all mine. I decorated it with beautiful furniture, gorgeously soft linens, lush rugs, and even art.
THE GAME SEEMED UNSTOPPABLE, each night more epic than the last. My phone never stopped ringing. Slowly but surely I stopped talking to all my old friends. I was changing; I could feel it. I loved being in those hotel rooms, I loved the sounds, the smells. I had become secretive; if anyone ever asked me what I did, I lied. I said I was an event planner.