by Molly Bloom
Ever since I had officially taken over the game, whenever Tobey called, I answered. In the beginning of my reign over the game, his attention was flattering. But as I acclimated to my new role, I had come to realize that the discussions that once made me feel smart and special were, for him, all about strategy. Like the trick with the Shuffle Master, the “generous” loaner that had probably netted him $40,000 in profit over the last couple of years.
His latest push was to increase the stakes. This particular lobby was in my best interest as well, because my tips were based on a percentage of the winnings. While the percentage varied from player to player, bigger wins generally equaled bigger tips. The game I had been running had a $10,000 buy-in, but Tobey wanted to increase it to $50,000. I knew we would lose some crucial players if we went with the increase, so I wanted to make sure we had replacements ready before we made the change. I put the word out, and got leads on some players who were huge gamblers. I was in pursuit of Rick Salomon, a sizable player, and Arthur Grossman, the ultimate whale. I had also heard that Ben Affleck used to play, and play huge. I asked Tobey about him a couple times and Tobey had promised to reach out.
Now here was the call, and I had to answer, even though it was the bottom of the ninth and the Dodgers were battling for a win in a crucial game.
I ran far back into the tunnel, but the noise was still deafening. I picked up the phone and prayed things wouldn’t be as loud on his end.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Molly,” said a voice that was familiar to me from a dozen films. “It’s Ben. Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all,” I lied.
“I hear you’ve got quite the game.”
“Yep. It’s a great game, tons of action. Best part is that most people don’t really know how to play.”
Ben laughed heartily.
“Sounds fun. What’s the buy-in?”
I paused. Fifty thousand was such a huge number, and I didn’t want to scare him away. Celebrities were such a huge draw.
“I have a couple different games,” I said. “The buy-in ranges from ten to fifty K.”
“Great,” he said. “I would probably be interested in the big game. The fifty K.”
Standing with my back against the wall, listening to the crowd roar in the distance, I watched people pass by in a blur.
He was interested in a big game. Tobey had been right. The field was changing now, and the stakes were getting higher. I felt a surge of adrenaline. I had spent two years watching the kind of numbers a guy could lose in the $10,000 buy-in: six figures, easy. This game would be five times bigger. I was starting to understand how this world worked, to get a feel for it. Gambling is compulsive, and gamblers continually want to raise the stakes. I could have played it safe, kept the buy-in at $10,000, but playing it safe wasn’t as much fun.
I returned to my seat. The Dodgers had miraculously clinched the win.
“Where were you?” Drew asked.
“Work stuff,” I said
“It couldn’t have waited?” he asked.
Although Drew knew about the game, it was hard to explain how it worked.
I could feel his disappointment but I stared straight ahead, hoping the moment would just pass. This was the first of many times when I would feel torn between my public life and my secret, underground one.
Chapter 18
Drew and I were going on a last-minute jaunt to Vegas, and I had promised him that for the next few days all of my attention would be on him. Realistically, however, there was no way I could go to Vegas without picking up a few leads, and this dimmed both my excitement about my upcoming romantic interlude and my potential networking possibilities.
The guys were playing twice a week now, on Tuesday and Thursday. That meant that I had Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday to hang out in Vegas, and Monday to come back and make sure that everything was copacetic for the week’s tables.
Drew was going to arrive in thirty minutes, and I was rushing around my apartment trying to pack. I had just finished collections and payments from last night’s game, and my housekeeper, who was staying with my dog, Lucy, for the weekend, was trying to help me get ready.
Drew called from downstairs just as I finished throwing dresses and jewelry and twenty grand in cash for a little gambling at the tables into my LV tote. “
“You ready, babe?” he said.
“Two seconds!” I yelled, grabbing for my passport.
“Real two seconds or two seconds times ten minutes?” he teased.
“Real two seconds,” I said. “Don’t worry, I won’t make Neil wait.”
THE PLAN WAS TO FLY with Neil Jenkins, Drew’s very wealthy, young, handsome friend; the kind of guy who only dated Victoria’s Secret models, Playmates, and actresses. The kind of guy who had his own plane. I really liked Neil. He was handsome, charming, and an expert at having the most fun possible.
We met Neil at the private airport, where he was waiting with his entourage, which included four of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. The girls all knew each other, and once we were on board, they sat in the back, congregating on the couch and eyeing me coldly. I had never understood the dynamic of girls automatically hating other girls. I took the lead.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Molly and you are the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. It’s seriously intimidating.”
They softened instantly, and midway through the forty-five-minute flight we were laughing and talking like we had known each other for a million years. Two darkly tinted Navigators were waiting at the airport to take us to the hotel, where we were ushered in via the VIP entrance. Our “room” was more like a mansion, with an astonishingly dramatic view of the city.
We stood together, looking out over the Strip, all of the hotels lit up like a Technicolor dream.
“I’m glad we’re here,” said Drew.
“Me too,” I said. We needed a trip like this. I told myself to forget about work; that for the next few days, it really would be all about me and Drew. I wasn’t here to work. I wasn’t going to work. I wasn’t even going to think about work.
Even though we were in Vegas, where gambling was king . . .
WHILE DREW WENT DOWN TO MEET NEIL, I got ready with my new girlfriends in the huge marble bathroom in their villa, which was even bigger than mine. Tiffany, Lauren, and Penelope made quite a trio. They were all Playmates, and when we walked into the casino I felt the power of this much beauty. Every single guy looked up from their tables to check us out.
It instantly dawned on me that this would be an incredibly effective way to recruit. My mind started racing. I liked these girls a lot, and we were having a great time, but I needed to figure out if I could trust them before I brought them into my world.
We found Neil and Drew in the high-stakes room at the blackjack table. The girls stood to the side.
“Can I play?” I asked Drew and Neil.
“Sure!” they exclaimed.
Neil introduced me to his casino host.
“Blake,” he said, “this is Molly. She runs the biggest poker games in L.A.”
Blake straightened up and shook my hand solemnly. He gave me his business card and a “players’ card,” which would track my gambling playtime so the casinos could reward me with comps.
Drew and I settled in at the blackjack table. He was an adept player and I allowed him to advise me when I was unsure whether to hit or stand. In an hour and a half, I had turned $5,000 into $15,000.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
I colored up, switching out the black hundred-dollar chips for a shorter stack of orange chips valued at one thousand each—and then went to talk to the host. I understood that he regularly “hosted” big gamblers like Neil, and his contacts could be very helpful to me.
I also knew that there was no such thing as favors, so I needed to incentivize him.
“Let’s have a drink, Blake,” I said.
“Sure,” he said.
I glanced over a
t Drew, who was still happily playing cards. He barely seemed to be aware that I had slipped away.
I sat down at the bar next to the host and looked him in the eye.
“I think we can help each other,” I said.
“How’s that?” he asked, motioning to the bartender.
We ordered and I continued: “Well, I could always use new players for my game . . . and I’ve been thinking of organizing trips to Vegas. I could deliver ten huge players who would all use you as a host.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” said Blake. The drinks arrived and he tilted his glass of Blue Label Johnnie Walker toward mine. “I think you just became my new best friend.”
WHEN THE BOYS TIRED OF THE TABLES, we went out to the clubs. Drew and I sat together in a banquette while the girls danced around on the floor with Neil, attracting the eyes of every man there, including Rick Salomon, one of the players I’d had my eye on for some time. Rick was the videographer, director, and costar of the infamous Paris Hilton sex tape, which he sold to Vivid for a rumored $7 million. He was also reputed to be a huge gambler. We had met a couple of times, and I hadn’t ever mentioned the game, but he knew who I was and I could tell he was a little wary (this wariness, I later realized, was full-blown paranoia). I sensed that I should wait for him to approach me.
The girls were slamming shots and dancing around provocatively—not only with each other but with the decorative but real naked girls who were covered only in gardenias—in a small bathtub on the stage. I saw Rick out of the corner of my eye, watching the spectacle.
“Hey, how’s the game?” he asked me, his eyes glued to my new friends and the seductive performance onstage.
I gave him a look that clearly said that the game was insane, but I didn’t speak. I wanted him to appreciate my commitment to discretion.
“Who plays?”
“I shouldn’t say. I’m sure you know most of them.”
He definitely did, he was a gambler, and this was the most iconic poker game in Los Angeles.
“Are they going to be there?” he asked, nodding toward my new friends.
“Yep,” I lied.
“I’ll call you when we get back to L.A. I’ll probably play next week,” he said.
He nodded at me again and walked away, while I smiled to myself at what could happen even when I was trying not to work. I had tripled my money at blackjack, and made a great connection with the host and with my new friends. I knew that all the Rick Salomons of the world were going to be easy prey.
I grabbed Drew’s hand.
“You done being a politician?” He laughed.
“Yes!” I exclaimed and kissed him.
I poured myself a glass of champagne and was suddenly deliriously happy. That feeling swells inside your chest like a helium balloon. I closed my eyes and told myself to savor this moment.
Chapter 19
As soon as we got back from Vegas, I called Blake, the host from the hotel.
“I’ve got gold for you,” he said. “I’m going to trust you that you’ll come through with the trip.”
“You have my word.”
“His name is Derek Frost. He’s young, rich, and a true degenerate. He’s difficult, but he loses ten to twenty million a year. You want his number.”
“What’s his line of credit with you? How is he about settling his debts?”
“Three million. He always wants discounts and concessions but he always pays. He’s a weird guy, though. Even though he is one of our biggest players, he prefers to fly Southwest, even though we would send any private plane he wanted.”
I shook my head. Gamblers often had a unique perspective on money. At the beginning I didn’t understand. I would shake my head in confusion as they complained about the price of the hotel room or the restaurants that catered the game, but had no problem betting six figures on a statistically dead hand. But I came to realize that every cent they bet represented an opportunity to make money, and even if the odds were against them, there was always a chance they could win.
I CALLED DEREK FROST, and we agreed to meet at a local coffee shop. When I arrived, the place was empty, which was strange for L.A. Nobody had office jobs here, and coffee shops were usually packed during the day.
I sat down outside in the sunshine and read through e-mails while I waited. After a few minutes, I looked up and saw a tall, darkly handsome man in—oh God—a police officer’s uniform walking toward me.
“Molly?” he asked.
What the hell was going on here? Did Blake set me up? Was I getting arrested? I fought the urge to run.
“Yes,” I said, nervous. “Are you Derek?”
I was trying to figure out if I could be committing any kind of crime by meeting a police officer for coffee in order to lure him to my “gray area” poker game.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m just a volunteer cop. In my spare time.”
“But that’s still a cop, right?”
“Don’t worry, we aren’t after little girls and their games.”
“You’re not what I expected,” I said.
“Likewise,” he said. “I thought you would be older and not so cute.”
I smiled, still totally thrown off and feeling like I needed to speak to my lawyer.
“Listen, if this were some attempt at a sting, would I show up here dressed in uniform?”
He had a point.
“Anyway,” he continued, “it’s a poker game, it’s not illegal.”
It was at moments like these that I realized I was walking a very fine line. In a truly legitimate line of work, one doesn’t have a heart attack if a potential client shows up in law enforcement attire.
We went inside, where I learned a little bit about Derek. He hated Hollywood and the “fake people,” and loved to gamble. He definitely wanted to play in the next game, and he definitely wanted to play in the big game.
“New players need to post,” I said. “I can’t extend any credit the first night. So anything you want to play with you have to bring, in cash.”
“What about casino chips?”
“I’ll take chips from Bellagio or Wynn,” I said. Those were the only chips the other guys would accept as payment. I supposed this had to do with the fact that Steve Wynn was conservative and his casinos were solid. His stock was steady and he was a hands-on operator. My big guns knew the chips from his shops were good.
“No problem,” he said.
“Oh, and Derek,” I said. “May I suggest wearing civilian clothes?”
He laughed.
“You got it.”
WITH THE ADDITION OF BEN, Derek, and Rick, I had more than enough players for the big game, and I started planning for the following Tuesday at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I asked for Bungalow number one because it was separate from the hotel, impressively appointed, and had a circular foyer that would be useful for keeping the food deliveries and room service separate from the game.
More celebrities and higher stakes meant that ensuring privacy was becoming more and more important. The higher the stakes, the greater the paranoia.
There were a lot of variables with this big game, and I was both nervous and excited. How would Rick mesh with the more civilized players? How much money would Derek bring? Would Ben like the game? I decided to drop Ben’s name in an effort to land Arthur Grossman.
I had been doing some checking around about Arthur, who was known for his love of women and his mysterious but ample fortune. I knew that Arthur had more than enough billions to cover his buy-in. I also knew that he loved celebrity, and that Ben Affleck was a perfect line to dangle.
Hey, Arthur, I’m doing a game for Ben and we would love it if you played, I texted him.
It wasn’t a total lie: I was doing a game, Ben was playing, and there were certainly a lot of players who would love it if Arthur played. Changing the phrasing around just made it seem a little more enticing.
Then I called Tobey.
“Yo,” he answered.
&nbs
p; “Hi, you should call Arthur. I told him Ben was playing. I also have that new guy, Derek, and Rick said he’s playing. If Arthur plays, this will be an insane lineup.”
“Okay, I’ll give him a jingle,” Tobey said.
I laughed. An evil genius with a fondness for words like “jingle” and “bummer” was an evil genius I could appreciate.
Twenty minutes later Tobey called me back.
“He’s in,” he said.
“Nice work, Hannibal.” I had taken to calling him Hannibal Lecter after a recent game. That evening, I watched as he talked a guy into folding a winning hand, also known as “folding the nuts” in poker terms.
“I swear on my mother’s life I have you beat,” he had said, convincingly and earnestly. “I wouldn’t lie to you, man.”
His opponent had gotten confused. I had watched him stare at the cards he was holding, knowing full well he had the winning hand but suddenly unsure after Tobey’s performance. Tobey was incredibly convincing, and so earnest that the guy eventually, although reluctantly, gave in.
To add insult to injury, Tobey then victoriously showed his bluff. To me, his actions were in really bad taste.
“See you Tuesday.”
Word was out now about the big game, and I had received a few calls from professional poker players practically begging me for a seat. Some offered me straight cash, and some a “free roll,” which means if they won I would get a percentage and if they lost I wouldn’t have any liability. I knew that letting pros into this game would be a surefire way to lose it. The pros would win all the money, and part of what made my game so special was the chemistry at the table and the fact that nobody there played poker for a living.
The final list for the big game was Tobey; Ben; my new whales, Derek Frost, Rick Salomon, and hopefully Arthur Grossman; Bob Safai; Houston Curtis; and some new faces—Bosko, a dapper gentleman in his sixties; Baxter, a finance whiz who loved to gamble; and Gabe Kaplan, who back in the day was the star of Welcome Back, Kotter. All the players except Tobey and Houston were huge action. The going-all-in, blind kind of action. And the initial buy-in was $50,000, which meant there would be half a million dollars on the table before the first cards were dealt. It was going to be a big night.