Molly's Game

by Molly Bloom

  My gut told me Derek would show, and if he didn’t, I had nine other very big gamblers in tow and Blake, the casino host, would just have to deal with it. I knew that Blake had only shared Derek’s contact info so that I could do the legwork for him and get him to play at the casino. I was beginning to understand angles.

  Blake called while I was packing to say that the plane was waiting for us at the private hangar at LAX.

  My doorman called up to inform me that the car was downstairs.

  I bit my lip. Still no Derek.

  I jumped in the car, where the girls were waiting in all of their tousled goddess glory.

  “Vegasssss!” they squealed, and hugged me hello.

  “Has anyone spoken to Derek?” I asked.

  They hadn’t. We drove onto the tarmac and boarded the plane, where a relaxed-looking Derek was sitting, waiting for us.

  I gave him an enthusiastic hug, and held on a little too long.

  “I better win this weekend,” he said as I buckled in. “Or I seriously quit.”

  I nodded earnestly. No matter how many times these guys swore they were done, they always came back.

  VEGAS WAS PERFECT. The villa was magnificent, like the temple of a Roman god. The girls had a great time. The players had an even better time. The game went off well, the guys put in plenty of play at the tables, and no one, including Derek Frost, lost too much.

  I had to literally peel them off the tables in order to make it to the plane back to Los Angeles.

  Still, no matter how smoothly things went, I was fretting down to the very last minute. Not even when we were back on the plane, on the runway, could I relax. Vegas had been a huge success, but now I had the tournament to worry about. As I looked around at the happy, sleepy people surrounding me on the leather seats, I thought about all of the behind-the-scenes work I’d had to do to make their fun look effortless. While everyone around me dozed, I gazed out the window and calculated all the things that I would have to do in the coming days.

  There was a game on Tuesday, a tournament on Wednesday, and another game on Thursday. I had a lot of logistics to manage, and not enough time to do all the things I needed to do. It didn’t matter. The rest of my life was going to have to wait. Including my boyfriend, who was getting tired of feeling like he was less important than the game. My family and old friends, who didn’t understand why I never called them back anymore. Reardon and the guys, who had watched me become this new person. And my dog, who would be faithful no matter what.

  Chapter 22

  I had never staged a tournament before, but Diego had, and he was a hugely valuable resource. There were just so many things to think about, and it all had to go right in order for the day to be a success. All of the guys seemed excited; Houston Curtis showed up to play, even though his wife’s birthday party was being held that evening and I knew that he had been planning the bash for quite some time.

  The players counted their wins in hands and chips. I counted mine in players. The turnout was amazing; even Arthur Grossman showed up. He eyed the girls unabashedly, and pulled me aside to whisper-ask who they were.

  “Oh, friends of mine,” I explained, and he watched them for a few more minutes before he went over to chat with Tobey.

  Arthur busted out of the tournament quickly, and as soon as he sat down at the cash game, I saw some of the guys who were still in the tournament scrambling to lose all their chips so that they could join him at the cash game. They understood that the real upside would come from playing Arthur in a no-limit game, not a tournament with a set amount of chips. Arthur called me over in between hands.

  “I’m going to start playing on a weekly basis,” he said. “Please let me know when the games will be.”

  “You got it,” I said, as if nothing major had just happened. Arthur had dropped in and out. Now I would have him at the table week after week. He was the dream recruit: a guy who had an endless bankroll, an endless ego, and, as far as I could tell, extremely limited skills

  A FEW HOURS INTO THE TOURNAMENT, the only person who wasn’t having fun was Tobey. I had let him craft the structure of the tournament to accommodate his playing style, and he had pushed as hard as he could for it, but sometimes you just can’t win, no matter how good you are. Sometimes you just get unlucky. Tobey had hit a losing streak, which for him meant he had lost at two hands. He looked sullen, a sure sign that he was about to start complaining.

  He had taken to criticizing me about everything under the sun, especially how much I was making in my role. As my influence had increased, and my tips, so had his harping.

  I didn’t like this. Tobey was powerful and tactical. There was a tiny nagging voice in the back of my head that was telling me that Tobey being unhappy spelled trouble for me, but I tried to stay focused. The games were good. No, they were great. They were becoming legendary, and I told myself as long as I kept them at this level, my role was safe, no matter how much he whined. To make matters worse, Houston Curtis was losing as well. The party he had planned for his wife’s birthday started at nine.

  Nine P.M. came and went, and then ten.

  “Houston,” I whispered in his ear. “You have to go. You have the party.”

  “Not now, Molly,” he said, eyes on the cards.

  By early morning, ten hours into playing, Tobey and Houston were both stuck for half a million. I hoped Houston would cut his losses and go home; he had already missed his wife’s birthday and he had certainly won enough over the last couple years to be able to absorb a $500,000 loss. But the two who never lost were battling it out, and neither showed any sign of quitting anytime soon.

  Rick Salomon and Andrew Sasson were there too, both immensely enjoying the unlikely scenario of Tobey and Houston down $1 million at 5 A.M. Andrew was a feisty Brit who had started out working doors at clubs, and had used his knowledge, relationships, and mouth to create his own club in Vegas and was now in negotiations to sell his company for $80 million. I liked him, even though he was cantankerous and miserable. He respected my hustle, and always, or almost always, treated me with respect and kindness. He also wasn’t afraid to offend or insult anyone, even the celebrities, which was a refreshing attribute in this town.

  I also liked Rick. He was crass and he embraced his nickname, “Scum,” but he was honest and fair.

  Rick and Andrew were living it up, talking shit to Houston and Tobey. Tobey was smiling, but I could see in his eyes that he was not happy.

  “All in,” Tobey said suddenly.

  “Call,” said Houston.

  I looked at Houston. His eyes were wild. The normal discipline was gone. He was out of control. I knew that he could not truly afford to gamble with these guys . . . usually Houston played good poker, which meant skill, psychology, and statistics, all very different from footloose gambling.

  Diego turned over the cards.

  Tobey had him crushed from the beginning. Houston had gone all in with nothing.

  My radar kicked into gear. Houston was one of the only players who didn’t have an endless bankroll. I hadn’t worried because in the beginning he’d been staked by Tobey, and he won on such a consistent basis. But after winning a couple million, he had bought himself out from Tobey. He had made enough money to play on his own and he wanted to realize all his wins and not just a portion.

  Tobey had made a ton of money off Houston in the last couple years. It was pretty safe to assume that Tobey wasn’t thrilled about it when Houston bought him out.

  Now Tobey had just gotten even, and Houston was down a million.

  Andrew and Rick were laughing like hyenas. There was a ton of animosity toward Houston in the game, because the guys resented that he was making a fortune off them.

  Tobey stood up, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Well, thanks, good buddy,” he said, smacking a devastated Houston on the back.

  “You’re leaving, bro?” Houston asked incredulously. “I just got you even and you’re leaving?”

  “Yep
,” said Tobey, without a trace of apology in his voice. “Thanks, though.”

  He smiled and plopped his chips in front of me.

  “Phew,” he said, with a look that meant I should be as relieved as he was.

  I smiled back.

  “Nice,” I said, even though in the end Houston had virtually handed Tobey the win.

  I hated myself for being so disloyal. I had been rooting hard for Houston. But I knew my job security depended largely on Tobey’s wins.

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling like we were partners.

  “Seriously? You’re leaving?” Houston asked, sounding plaintive.

  “I’m tired,” Tobey said, looking delighted.

  His eyes were wide open and alert and I didn’t believe him for a second, but it was his right to go. He had met his usual four-and-a-half-hour play limit, and exceeded it by five and a half hours. I knew he wanted to book the win, and while, in my opinion, it may have not been ethical to get up directly after that hand, it was certainly allowed.

  Tobey seemed gleeful as he practically skipped out the door.

  HOUSTON WAS OUT OF CHIPS, and Rick and Andrew were having the time of their lives.

  Houston approached.

  “Give me five hundred K,” he said.

  “Come talk to me.” I motioned him over to a quiet corner.

  Making my decision wasn’t easy. Houston was down a million in this particular game, but he had won millions from these guys over the last couple years. Rick and Andrew would resent me if I didn’t extend credit, since Houston’s millions had come from their pockets. The Houston I had come to know as a player could certainly take these guys and get back to even, but this game’s Houston I didn’t believe in.

  “Houston, call it. You aren’t playing well. You’re tilted the fuck out. I’ve never seen you play so badly. You played a dead hand for half a million!”

  “I know, it was stupid,” he said. “I had a read. I’m not usually wrong. I’m good for it, Mol! I’ve always tipped you twenty percent. You know I’m good for it.”

  Every cell in my body told me not to do it, but I didn’t know how I could say no. According to the playbooks, he had won more than enough to justify any debt to me.

  “Five hundred K and that’s it,” I said. At the end of the day, I had caught a lot of flak for allowing Houston to play and consistently win. I knew I wouldn’t lose him as a player if he lost; I also knew it wasn’t fair to the other guys not to give them the chance to win back some of their money from him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I can do it. I swear, these guys are donkeys.”

  “Just don’t be stupid.”

  I WALKED OUT WITH HOUSTON and counted out $500,000 in chips. I had twenty messages from a “too tired” Tobey, and a couple from Bob Safai, who’d left around 2 A.M. but now wanted to buy back in. I knew these guys smelled blood and wanted to be a part of the feeding frenzy.

  Rick and Andrew cheered when Houston sat back down.

  Diego and I exchanged glances. None of this was good.

  It didn’t take long for Houston to lose his stack. His play hadn’t changed and I realized that if he had been sitting there with $10 million, he would have lost it all.

  He walked over to me, dejected, downtrodden, and asking me for more chips.

  “Not today, Houston, go home. Go be with your wife.”

  He had missed her birthday completely. I watched him walk out and I wanted to cry for him. I had a heavy feeling of guilt. I thought I could mine the good parts of gambling and elude the dark, but I was wrong.

  OVER THE COMING WEEKS, Houston confessed to me that he had borrowed the money to cover his losses from Tobey, at terrible terms. According to Houston, the deal was this: Tobey would take all of Houston’s wins, none of his losses, to the tune of 50 percent for a year. No poker player can beat that juice, but Houston said he agreed. He could have procured much better options. There were plenty of people who would have staked him for better terms . . . hell, he could have gotten money on the street for better terms. But I think he realized, like I had, that staying in Tobey’s good graces was essential to staying in the game. If what Houston told me was true, Tobey owned Houston now, and they must have both known it. Houston constantly looked stressed. He owned 100 percent of his downside and was only realizing 50 percent of his wins, and he was the only one at the table who was playing for his mortgage.

  “I’m going to make ten million this year on poker!” Tobey once exclaimed, not knowing that I knew that Houston had told me about the alleged arrangement they had.

  For a short time Tobey seemed to forgot about his disenchantment with my escalating income. He was back to pushing for even more games, and back to acting like my best buddy.

  For the moment my position was safe, but Houston was on a downward spiral and I was certain it wouldn’t end well.

  Chapter 23

  We were at another insane game, and I was watching Guy Laliberté convince another player to fold a winning hand. Guy was a huge gambler, aggressive and ruthless at a table. He had started his life as a scrappy street performer, literally doing tricks for his dinner, until he had the idea to start a circus-themed live performance and now his little company, Cirque du Soleil, made him a billion dollars a year. This other player was a nice East Coast guy who had made a bunch of money trading stocks. He was a real gentleman and seemed out of his element with the antics of the L.A. game.

  Tobey was losing again, so, of course, he was back to disapproving of me, my tips, and the game in general. Now he was in for $250,000, down to his last $50,000, and trying to dig his way out. Jamie Gold was once again playing like it was his last day on earth, and Tobey knew his best shot of getting out of the hole was Jamie.

  Jamie and Tobey were all in and I wasn’t sure which one I was rooting for. Jamie had almost lost his bankroll from his World Series win, and once he did, I wouldn’t be able to let him play anymore. I liked Jamie, he was kind and generous. Tobey was the worst tipper, the biggest winner, and the absolute worst loser, but I had to worry about my job security if he lost. I held my breath and watched Diego turn over the cards. Tobey won.

  Predictably, Tobey stood up immediately after the hand that made him whole. “Well, that’s it for me.” He came over to me and set his stacks on my clipboard.

  “Whew, you’re lucky I won that hand,” he said, crinkling his eyes and using his usual half-kidding/half-serious/you-guess-which tone.

  I nodded.

  “You have to cut Jamie off, you know.”

  “I know,” I said, counting his chips.

  He held a thousand-dollar chip in his hand. He flipped it over a couple times in his fingers.

  “This is yours,” he said, holding it out to me.

  “Thanks, Tobey,” I said, reaching my hand out.

  He yanked the chip back at the last second.

  “If . . .” he said. “If you do something to earn these thousand dollars.” His voice was loud enough that some of the guys looked up to see what was happening.

  I laughed, trying not to show my nerves.

  “What do I want you to do?” he said, as if he were pondering.

  The whole table was watching us now.

  “I know!” he said. “Get up on that desk and bark like a seal.”

  I looked at him. His face was lit up like it was Christmas Eve.

  “Bark like a seal who wants a fish,” he said.

  I laughed again, stalling, hoping he would play the joke out by himself and leave.

  “I’m not kidding. What’s wrong? You’re too rich now? You won’t bark for a thousand dollars? Wowwww . . . you must be really rich.”

  My face was burning. The room was silent.

  “C’mon,” he said, holding the chip above my head. “BARK.”

  “No,” I said quietly

  “NO?” he asked.

  “Tobey,” I said. “I’m not going to bark like a seal. Keep your chip.”

  My face was on fire. I knew he would
be angry, especially because he had now engaged the whole audience, and I wasn’t playing his game. I was embarrassed, but I was also angry. After all I had done to accommodate this guy, I was also shocked. I made sure I ran every detail of every game by him, changed the stakes for him, structured tournaments around him, had memorized every ingredient in every vegan dish in town for him. He had won millions and millions of dollars at my table and I had catered to his every need along the way—and now he seemed to want to humiliate me.

  He kept pushing it, his voice growing louder and louder. The other guys were starting to look uncomfortable.

  “No,” I said, again, willing him to drop it.

  He gave me an icy look, dropped the chip on the table, and tried to laugh it off, but he was visibly angry.

  When he left, the room was buzzing.

  “What was that?”

  “So weird.”

  “Glad you didn’t do it, Molly.”

  I knew it was more than a childish tantrum. It had been a challenge because Tobey wanted to show that he was the alpha. I knew I hadn’t made the most strategic decision by refusing to submit, but I also needed to retain the respect of the other players.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THE GAME BEGAN, I realized that it could end. So, in all likelihood, did Tobey. He had anticipated everything except the dip in the economy and how much money Diego and I were making, and our take-home seemed to be eating him up.

  He began bringing up how much I was making even more frequently, not even trying to hide his dissatisfaction.

  “I think the game needs restructuring,” he said one night.

  “How so?”

  “Well, you make too much and it takes too long to get paid.”

  I raised my eyebrows. In what other universe do you show up, play a game, win a MILLION DOLLARS, and get the check within a week? The only reason this game was still running was that I had searched far and wide to recruit new blood and maintain relationships so that Tobey could take their money. Now he had the balls to suggest that I figure out a way to cap my own salary.