by Molly Bloom
I stepped into the marble lobby and felt transported. I had never seen such dramatic elegance. We were led around the corner to the check-in area, where the manager was waiting to greet the McCourts personally.
The room I was sharing with Drew turned out to be a whole suite on the fortieth floor. I walked over to the window. We were literally in the sky. New York City had a terrifying beauty. I couldn’t wait to experience it.
That night, we all went to Milos for a family dinner with Tommy Lasorda, and then Drew, one of his little brothers, and I went out to a club. Drew knew the promoters there, so we were shown the full VIP treatment. We stayed out way too late, which barely left time for a nap before we woke up early for a marathon day of sporting events. First we headed to the stadium for the Mets-Dodgers game, where we nursed our hangovers with Bloody Marys and watched the crowds roar from our box seats. Then we got back in the SUVs and drove to Flushing Meadows for the finals of the U.S. Open. Our seats were on the court. We were so close that I could actually see the sweat flying off Andy Roddick’s face. After a quick change at the Four Seasons, we met for dinner at Il Mulino, and then went to a different club to meet different friends. New York moved at a pace and on a scale that I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, and that fascinated me.
The night of Drew’s actual birthday I ordered a cake and champagne to be sent to the room. He blew out his candles, assuring me that he’d made a wish. I poured champagne for us and sat on his lap. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, and that he was my best friend. I wanted to talk about our future, ask him what he wanted out of life, but such discussions just weren’t Drew’s style. He was so closed and guarded about his feelings. Our relationship depended on a certain amount of disconnection. But that night, I felt everything we didn’t say.
Chapter 21
I returned from New York refreshed and inspired. My first order of business was to pay a debt I owed Blake, the Vegas host, which was holding up my end of the bargain for introducing me to Derek. I needed to bring my guys to his town for a weekend.
The second order of business was to organize a tournament. This was something my players had mentioned a couple times. It seemed a good way to recruit more guys to the table.
After several conversations with Blake, I realized that setting up a game in Vegas was going to be a bit challenging. First, I had to find a weekend that worked for at least eight of the players. Among those players had to be guys who would hit the tables too—blackjack, roulette, or baccarat players. This was Blake’s requirement. The casino only makes real money on games where it’s the players against the house. In poker, the players play each other and the house takes a minimal fee (the rake). Then I had to establish lines of credit for all of the players before the casino would send the plane. All the guys wanted to negotiate comps (the perks and freebies granted by the casino) and discounts on potential losses before they would take out a line of credit. Being the middleman for all of this was a big job. In fact, it was a nightmare.
Next I had to make sure I had plenty of beautiful girls who could come along on the trip. Most of my friends were playmates who were used to getting paid up front for appearances. I tried to explain to them that the tips they would receive on this trip would exceed their day rate, but despite this, they wanted guarantees. Then I had to try to explain to each guy why he couldn’t have the biggest villa and why some of them were going to have to (gasp) share one of the three-bedroom, five-thousand-square-foot villas with each other. Then I had to actually plan the game, get a table delivered, transport the chips and Shuffle Master, and coordinate dinners and nights out at clubs.
The tournament itself was even more complicated.
Tournaments are very different from cash games, mostly because there is a finite amount of chips. The buy-in was to be $50,000 with one add-on, which was an option to rebuy. I was hoping to have four tables of eight players, and $3.2 million in the prize pool; with cash tables set up for the guys who “busted out” of the tournament (ran out of money).
For my first tournament, I needed a space that would be private and high end, but visible enough that other wealthy clients would be able to see what was going on. I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity to recruit, both in terms of filling the table and flaunting the game I had filled with the rich and fabulous.
I also made a little trip to the Commerce Casino outside of L.A., and let a couple of the floormen know that if they sent any players my way for the tournament, I would compensate them generously.
Buzz about the tournament, the Vegas trip with playmates, and Brad Ruderman, who continued to lose six and seven figures every game, spread as I had hoped. Fast and furious. So when Jamie Gold contacted me, I wasn’t surprised. But I still laid on the charm.
I set up a meeting with him at one of the pool cabanas at the Four Seasons. I invited the playmates. I had done my research on Jamie. He had just won the World Series of Poker Main Event; his $12 million win was the largest sum in the history of the tournament. Usually, I wouldn’t have considered allowing a World Series champion into the game, but Jamie was an anomaly.
I had spent the night before our meeting watching the footage of the game. It was clear that Jamie was no pro; he was simply running hot and playing fearlessly. I had seen it in my own game—a player getting so hot he couldn’t lose no matter how terribly he actually played his cards.
There were three things I liked about Jamie: his freshly minted bankroll, his reckless style of play, and what I anticipated would be an enormously inflated ego and a fever to prove he wasn’t a one-hit wonder. New money and a nobody at a table of somebodies? He would chase this streak for as long as his bankroll would allow.
JAMIE WAS PALE AND THIN and wore thick glasses. I watched him walk across the pool from behind my shades, not acknowledging him until he was standing in front of me, blocking the sun.
“Molly?” he said,
“Jamie! Hi! I recognize you from television,” I said, stroking his ego. I would have never said that to a true celebrity, but I knew it would make Jamie want to live up to my implied perception.
I introduced my friends to him, and it was clear that he was appreciating the scene he was witnessing immensely.
“Sit,” I insisted, throwing on a cover-up and signaling to the waiter to bring Jamie a glass of champagne.
I complimented him for his performance at the World Series and then launched into an explanation of my regular game.
“The buy-in is fifty K. But guys get deep pretty quickly. And really, the sky’s the limit in terms of how high the blinds can get.”
“No problem. The bigger the better,” Jamie said.
I smiled.
“I don’t generally allow pros,” I told him.
“Oh, I’m not a pro,” he said. “I have a talent management company, and I’m a producer . . .”
He droned on about his supposed career endeavors, which I figured probably weren’t that profitable since, if what I’d heard was true, he had borrowed the $10,000 to buy in to the World Series.
“Well, plenty of your peers play in the game,” I said, and proceeded to list the celebs and notable mentions who sat at my table. “I’m not sure if I have a seat this week, but I’ll work you in. I can’t extend any credit the first game, so if you could post—”
“No problem at all,” gushed Jamie. As if on cue, the girls got up to go to the restroom. I watched Jamie watch them.
We were sitting there laughing and talking when Derek Frost appeared, looking surly. Derek walked up to the cabana and handed me a huge check to cover the previous week’s losses.
“I never win,” he grumped. “If I don’t win this week, I’m quitting and I’m not going to Vegas.”
My Vegas trip was planned for the upcoming weekend, and if Derek bailed, it would dramatically impact the game. My Vegas contact wanted Derek there. I needed him too.
I introduced the men, but Derek already knew who Jamie was. The two began to talk shop until the gi
rls returned; Derek’s eyes lit up at the sight of them and he seemed to forget about the big check, Jamie Gold, and his bad luck.
Tobey called then, and I excused myself to answer the phone.
“I gave Kenneth Redding your number,” he said. “He’s going to be in Los Angeles and he wants to play.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s huge action. Great for the game. He runs a massive hedge fund in New York. He plays in the New York game.”
“The New York game?”
“Yes, it’s a monster. And they play a mixed game.” A “mixed” game meant not just Texas Hold’em, which was the style of poker at my games, but other styles like stud.
“How much?”
“Two-hundred-and-fifty-K buy-in.”
I raised my brows. That was five times bigger than my game.
“I’ll look for his call,” I said. My mind was racing. What if I could expand this thing? What if I could start a game in New York City? I needed to impress Kenneth.
THERE WAS A TON OF BUZZ about that week’s game. Kenneth had a reputation as a huge gambler, and Jamie and Derek quickly signed on to play. The rest of the playing field had been selected carefully, and the only conservative players were, as usual, Tobey and Houston.
I even got a call from Joe Fucinello, an old-school gambler who used to play with Larry Flynt and fifty-year poker veteran Doyle Brunson. Joe told great stories about these legendary figures. Apparently, Flynt liked to play cards so much that he came to his own game right after surgery, on a hospital bed with an IV stuck in his arm. He had his personal nurse play his hands for him.
“Hey, Molly,” grumbled Joe. “I heard Kenneth is playing, you have a seat tonight?”
“I don’t, I’m so sorry.” It was a mere two hours before the game was set to start.
Joe started yelling.
“Well, you better fucking find one. Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re going to deny me a seat? I don’t think you know who you are dealing with.”
Joe was a little guy, but he was scary. He hung out in high-level circles, but he had a street edge and allegedly, a checkered past. He was also great to have at a table. So I thought fast.
“Joe, calm down. Just show up. We’ll rotate if we have to.”
“All right,” he said, calming down immediately. “Four Seasons?”
“Yep, room 1204, seven P.M.”
“See you then,” he said, almost sheepishly.
I WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE NERVOUS when a new player debuted, and tonight I had three—Jamie Gold, Kenneth Redding, and Joe Fucinello. Jamie Gold, as I had expected, seemed like he was on a mission to prove that he belonged in the billionaire boys’ club, and he was proving it by playing like he had the same bottomless bankroll as his opponents.
Joe Fucinello, Derek Frost, and Kenneth Redding were playing in the same style. They were going head-to-head, all in, every other second. By 10 P.M., both Derek and Jamie were already in for half a million. The action was unlike any I had ever seen. It was being driven by my new recruits, and I realized that the stakes would never be high enough for these guys. They would keep pushing the envelope, trying to feel that adrenaline. Win or lose. All they wanted was to feel alive.
My phone rang. As if the night wasn’t amazing enough, on the line was a friend who was out with A-Rod and looking for a game. I invited them over, but I didn’t let anyone know. It would be cool, I thought, to have A-Rod just casually show up.
I was right. When A-Rod appeared, tall, handsome, and very polite, the heads jerked up from the table. Men, no matter what age, ilk, or net worth, idolize a professional athlete. As they recognized him, they turned into excitable little boys. And as A-Rod took in the glamorous, well-appointed poker game I was running, a game that happened to have millions of dollars in chips on the table, the posturing started.
“If I win over three hundred K in this next orbit,” Derek announced suddenly, “I’ll give Bird five K, and twenty K to Polar Bear.” Bird, one of my masseuses, was a struggling single mom. Polar Bear was the second dealer that Diego brought along. Now that the games were lasting longer and longer, the players wanted a dealer change because they thought Diego was bad luck.
Polar Bear didn’t have two pennies to rub together, let alone twenty grand, and his eyes lit up. Unfortunately, Derek had his clock cleaned by Kenneth.
Kenneth was running all over the table, Joe was in for a million, and Jamie was about to be in for $850,000. Tobey was asking for a list of every vegan dessert in the city. And I was overextended, over my head, and loving every second of it.
Alex Rodriguez was watching it all, and having a great time.
“You’re awesome, and your game is awesome,” he said, on his way out. “You should come to Miami!”
“Call me,” I said.
I had wanted to be more attentive to this incredibly famous baseball star, which would be a huge draw, but the game had spoken for itself.
And I was distracted by Derek, who loved to whine. He was texting me about his terrible, terrible luck, and how nothing good ever happened to him, how he had a permanent black cloud over his head. Except that his company netted him about $20 million a year. He loved getting passionately heated and launching into an hour-long diatribe about this injustice or that one, loved it so much I was starting to think that he liked to lose.
By the time the night was over, Kenneth had won a huge number, which was actually bad for my game. Since I had started keeping books, I had realized I had created an almost perfect balance. Despite the extraordinarily large results, the money essentially changed hands throughout the year. Most people were even or close to even. The exceptions were Tobey, Houston, Diego, and me. We were all big winners. And Brad was a loser.
But here was Kenneth taking $1.4 million out of my game and bringing it back to New York City. The only good thing about his winning was that he loved my game. I had made a good impression indeed. I had to make sure to keep in touch with him, I told myself. I was intrigued by this mythical New York City game. I wanted to know more.
Meanwhile, the game at hand beckoned. Joe was yelling at me again, this time for inviting Kenneth. I chose not to remind Joe that I had invited Kenneth, but not him; that he had in fact aggressively invited himself. When you know you’re about to collect a million dollars from a losing player, you check your ego at the door.
I didn’t want to ask Derek if he was still coming on the Vegas trip, because it would have been unwise and insensitive. In fact I knew I couldn’t ask him at all: he would have to let me know. When it comes to games or love, men hate being chased. The problem was that the whole trip was based around Derek and the casino’s lust for him. To Blake and his house, Derek was the ultimate whale, and I needed to deliver him. The plane, the villa . . . all the amenities I had secured were contingent on Derek showing up.
IF VEGAS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN, I only had a few days to get a million things done. I wasn’t sleeping, and I was running on adrenaline and fumes. I just needed everything to be easy for a second because suddenly nothing was.
I walked into the bank and sat down at my personal banker’s desk, placing a stack of cash there for deposit as usual. I smiled at her. She did not smile back.
“Did you get our correspondence?” She sounded uncomfortable.
“No, I haven’t had time to go through my mail. Why?”
“I’m very sorry, Molly, but we can’t allow you to bank here anymore.” Her British accent was crisp.
“Why? What do you mean?” I stammered.
“It’s your business.” Even with the English lilt firmly in place, her tone was flat.
“I’m an event planner, I pay my taxes, I’m incorporated. What could possibly be the problem?” My heart was in my stomach.
She paused, and then in a low whisper she said, “They know about the poker.”
At that moment the bank manager walked over, and my anxiety level shot even higher.
“Miss Bloom, may I have a word?”
>
“I’m kind of in a hurry,” I said, wanting to get out of there as fast as possible. I was half expecting a SWAT team to storm the bank.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, firmly communicating that it was more of a required chat than an optional one.
I followed him into his office.
“I am sorry, Miss Bloom, but we need to close out the accounts and you need to empty out your safety deposit box.” He enunciated his words carefully.
“I don’t understand.”
“We just don’t want your kind of business.”
Jesus, I was running a poker game, not a brothel.
“I’m going to close your account and cut you a check. Please go clear the contents of your safety deposit box. Now.”
In just minutes, I had gone from shocked to scared to humiliated.
I dutifully walked downstairs and emptied the cash in my box into my handbag. I tried to shove the rubber-banded stacks far into my purse to conceal them, but there was a lot of money and I couldn’t close the bag all the way, so I draped my jacket over my purse and returned upstairs, where it felt like the whole bank was staring at me.
The bank manager handed me a check and walked me to the door.
“We won’t be seeing you here again, Miss Bloom, is that understood?”
I nodded and walked quickly to my car.
THE INCIDENT AT THE BANK FRIGHTENED ME, but when I spoke to my attorney, he wasn’t the least bit concerned. Nevertheless, the fact that my job was far enough in the gray that I could be blacklisted at a bank was not lost on me.
Meanwhile, I was on pins and needles about whether or not Derek Frost was going to show for my Vegas trip. I left him alone, but I dispatched the girls to express to him how much they wanted to “hang with him” this weekend. I had to behave like it didn’t matter if Derek came or not. If he felt he was being pursued, he would make things much more difficult for me. Because let’s face it, if Vegas wants you that badly, they’re betting on you losing a lot of money.