by Molly Bloom
I smiled at him.
“I’ll look into it,” I murmured.
“Thanks,” he said.
IT WAS THE END OF THE SUMMER and Hillary and Obama were battling for the Democratic nomination. I wanted Hillary to win, but I didn’t believe she would. Meanwhile, Tobey was a staunch and passionate supporter of Obama, and he had bet substantial money on his candidate. These guys loved side action. I even saw them make a substantial bet on Kobayashi, the Japanese hot-dog-eating champion. It gave me an idea.
“I’ll take Hillary,” I said one evening, during a game.
I was sadly pretty sure that Hillary would lose, but I thought that if I let Tobey best me, I could regain my edge. I knew that he was powerful. He was an A-lister in Hollywood who knew how to leverage his celebrity, and since he seemed to only do movies for people who would agree to his over-the-top demands, he had a lot of time on his hands. And he had an incredibly obsessive mind. He was the last person in the world who I wanted to set up to take me down.
But if I let Tobey beat me, I hoped, maybe he would feel better about my tips. Especially if it was a very public “defeat.”
Tobey’s head snapped up and his eyes brightened.
“Realllly? How much?”
“I think Hillary is definitely going to win,” I lied.
“So you’re confident?”
“Very.” I had learned to bluff from the best (and worst) of them.
“So let’s bet ten thousand.”
“Okay,” I said evenly.
Diego looked at me like I was insane.
“What are you doing?” he mouthed.
Saving our jobs, I thought, grinning like I had the upper hand while I shrugged off the discomfort of putting $10,000 on a losing bet.
“Are you really going to take her money?” Bob asked, squinting at Tobey in distaste.
“YOU BET!” Tobey exclaimed.
DREW AND I HAD PLANNED A TRIP to Aspen for New Year’s. I was distracted the whole time, thinking about the shadow of current events that was looming over my good fortune. The only thing people seemed to discuss anymore was the ailing economy. I tried to ignore it but it was everywhere, and the general consensus was that things were going to get a lot worse.
Between Tobey’s disenchantment and the ominous threat of an economic crash, I couldn’t shake the uneasiness. I poured myself a glass of scotch and tried to relax.
“Tell us about the game, Molly. Who wins the most?”
I looked away from the horizon and toward the questioner, a guy named Paul, and smiled at him. It was no longer a secret that I ran the biggest poker game in the city, and though I maintained discretion about the important aspects, I had recently begun playing to the crowd whenever the role presented itself.
I dressed like a woman and looked like a woman, but I could speak the language of men fluently. They were intrigued by my game, by my lifestyle, and by the crew of girls that I employed. I now drove a Bentley, I split the cost of the private jets, I threw in for tables at the club. I had hired a personal assistant to do all my chores, I had a chef, and all the minutiae and mundane tasks had been removed from my daily life. So had my closest relationships. I hadn’t spoken to Blair or anyone from my past in ages. I never called them, and they had stopped calling me, one by one. My family knew I was running poker games, and they were aware I was making (and spending) a lot of money, but I tried to avoid the topic with them whenever possible. They disapproved of my career path. I decided I didn’t need them to approve.
Some girls have hearts and stars in their eyes. I had dollar signs. I handled the money, the recruitment of new players. I was perpetually on the lookout for new deals, new opportunities. I was the lifeblood of the game and it was mine. And because of my increased role, I had recently reduced Diego’s take from 50 to 25 percent. After all, I was the one risking everything, acting as the bank, and I was the one who found the players and kept them happy. Diego was just a dealer who showed up, did his job, and left. For me it was 24/7. Still, I felt a nagging sense of guilt.
Diego was understandably upset.
“The only thing that will fuck this up is greed,” he said, though he accepted his fate. His words echoed in my head now, and I felt the guilt rising.
Grow up, Molly, I told myself. This isn’t high school, it’s not a popularity contest. This is part of being a businesswoman. It’s just business, I thought. This phrase was a useful way to justify behaving with greed instead of compassion. I had been using it a lot lately.
But in my heart of hearts, I felt like I was losing myself.
I downed another glass of scotch. I didn’t want to look inside, didn’t want to think about who I was or who I had become. I wanted to enjoy the life that I had worked so hard to build.
We all drank, and I regaled my captive audience with tales from the table. I saw Drew out of the corner of my eye frowning at my display, but I pretended not to notice.
IT WAS NOW IMPOSSIBLE to keep my personal life and my poker life separate. I slept with both of my BlackBerries on my chest; one for poker and one for everything else. Many times, I would crawl out of Drew’s bed in the middle of the night to deal with an issue or collect. The players took precedence. My relationship suffered for it . . . but the rule was, if a gambler calls you at 4 A.M. and says they have cash or a check, you get up and go, because by four fifteen it could be gone. That was just how it was.
Gone were the nights Drew and I would share a bottle of wine, shut the little Italian restaurant down, and never run out of things to talk or laugh about. He too was facing issues that were stressing him; although he never spoke about it, I could feel a change. He seemed unhappy, unsatisfied. I felt a distance settle firmly between us.
When we finally ended our workweeks, instead of enjoying each other or luxuriating in much-needed sleep, Drew and I joined our friends for dinner at trendy restaurants and then went to the clubs, where we both got lost in the loud music and the endless flow of alcohol. My life had become all about the hustle and the party. Drew started going out more without me, especially on the nights I was working. Then he started taking “boys’ trips” without me. I knew what happened on those trips. I spent my life in poker rooms and I had gotten an education no woman wants. I trusted him, but I missed the days when he wanted me to come along.
IT WAS THE FIRST WEEK OF JUNE and Drew and I had planned to spend the summer at his beach house in Malibu again. I was hoping we could get back to the old us.
He had gone out in the city the night before. We were supposed to have dinner with his parents tonight. He was late and I was getting antsy. I went for a long walk on the beach, the sun was setting, and it was incredibly beautiful. Drew still wasn’t there when I got back.
I was starting to get worried, his phone was going straight to voice mail every time I called.
Just then I got a call from a strange number.
“Mollll,” Drew slurred.
“Where are you?”
His answer was jumbled. I heard laughing in the background.
“I’m gonna stay in the city,” he yelled above the noise. “Come.”
We both knew he didn’t mean it.
“It’s beautiful out here,” I tried, even though I knew it was a lost cause. “And we have dinner with your family planned. Want me to pick you up?”
I heard a shuffle and then the line went dead.
Tears of frustration filled my eyes. But the frustration quickly turned to pain, because as much as I didn’t want to face what I had known for a while, my relationship was over. I couldn’t pretend anymore. A reel of the past two and a half years ran behind my eyes. Drew was my first love. I thought about the beginning, when our relationship was sweet and innocent. When I thought that he could be the one.
I walked out onto the beach and sat at the water’s edge. I knew what I had to do. I knew it because it was right for both of us. He needed to be young and single, and I wasn’t really in a position to be anyone’s girlfriend because o
f my job. I hugged my knees to my chest and felt a pang of fear at the thought of losing him forever. I couldn’t imagine my life without him. Drew was more than my boyfriend—he had become my best friend and my family.
DREW FINALLY ARRIVED AT THE HOUSE late the next afternoon while I was lying on the beach. I didn’t even ask where he had been. I choked back my tears.
He walked outside and started to apologize.
I grabbed his hand.
“It’s okay, it’s just time. You need to be young and I need to focus on my work.” He turned his head and for a moment I thought I saw his eyes get wet. He wrapped his arms around me and I cried onto his chest. He held me, but I knew he agreed. We sat like that for a long time.
I put my hands over my eyes and sobbed. I didn’t know how to leave; I felt like the second I walked out the door, nothing would ever be the same. I would never kiss him again, or wake up with him next to me. After everything we shared, our life together would just end.
I walked into the house and started packing in the bedroom, shaking with sobs, silently begging him to stop me, to plead with me to stay. But he just waited in the living room.
I stood in front of him with my bags packed and I could tell by his eyes and his posture he was already gone. He didn’t even get up to hug me good-bye.
“I love you, I’ll always love you,” I choked, and I walked out of his life.
At home in my empty, quiet house, I got into bed and hugged Lucy. It was Saturday night and all my friends were out. It had been such a long time since I was home alone on a weekend.
In order to run the game I had learned how to be strong, brave, and to suppress my emotional side. I had learned to read the players and play my own tactical game.
But that night I was stripped of my armor; I was just a girl alone in a big city with a broken heart.
Walking away from Drew was the most mature, most difficult decision of my adult life. There was no trauma, no drama, no closure. It was just time. We had gotten as close as our lives and our dysfunction would permit.
Chapter 24
I buried myself in work. The game became the only thing that mattered, but I could feel the shadows creeping in. Diego was no longer my ally. Tobey seemed obsessed with the money I was making. The economy was officially spiraling out of control and I knew my players who made their money on Wall Street and real estate were being affected.
This culminated in a call from Arthur’s office. It was his assistant.
“Hi, Molly, it’s Virginia. Arthur wants to know if you mind if he has the game at his house this Tuesday.”
It wasn’t really a question.
“Sure, no problem, what time should I come over to set up?”
“Oh no, don’t worry. Arthur says you don’t have to work. He’ll just pay you.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“It’ll be like a paid vacation,” she said, with an awkward laugh.
“Okay,” I said brightly, covering up what I really felt, which was ice-cold fear.
This was bad, really bad. Maybe Arthur was being honest, and he just wanted to host for one night at his house. He had just finished construction on an $85 million mansion and maybe he just wanted to show it off. I had hosted plenty of games at other people’s houses. The big red flag was that he didn’t want me there. He was planning to use my staff, my buy-in sheets, my table, my Shuffle Master, and my dealer.
It was my game without me.
ON TUESDAY NIGHT, I tried to go out with my girlfriends, but every second ripped me apart. My game was happening, and I wasn’t there. It was a pointless exercise to try to have fun, and I was in no mood to be out, so I went home and waited.
Finally, at 2 A.M., my phone rang. It was Tobey.
“You’re fucked,” he said gleefully.
“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked, trying not to cry.
“Arthur wants to have the game at his house from now on.” He sounded a little gentler when he heard the emotion in my voice.
It was obvious that this excluded me.
“Every week?” I asked, assessing the damage.
“Yeah.”
I was silent for a moment, trying to swallow the lump in my throat and keep from crying.
“Thanks for the heads-up.” I attempted to sound casual, but the words caught in my throat and the tears were coming hard and fast.
“I’ll try to talk to him for you,” he said awkwardly.
“Thank you,” I sniffled, wanting to believe him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as if he had just realized that I was a real person with real feelings.
I hung up and forced myself to focus on finding a solution. I would just call Arthur and schedule a meeting. I would explain the whole situation. He seemed like a reasonable guy. There had to be some way to come to a compromise. I tried to fall asleep but my mind was racing.
I would just deal with this head-on, I thought, and speak to him like a human being. Explain what the game meant to me, how much I had risked and sacrificed, and explain to him the amount of work I regularly did in the background. He was a self-made businessman, an entrepreneur, surely he would understand.
His secretary answered my call. She took my name, and when she came back on the line, her voice was cold.
I waited all day and Arthur didn’t call back. I e-mailed him, no response. I e-mailed his assistant, no response.
Meanwhile, many of the guys called to apologize and explain.
“Mol, if Arthur wasn’t such a huge fish . . .”
“I mean he’s going to donate twenty million this year.”
“He’s such a donkey.”
No matter how good I was at my job, this game was about money and I couldn’t compete with a guy who lost millions at the table.
ARTHUR HOSTED THE GAME THAT WEEK, and the next, and pretty soon a month of Tuesdays had gone by in similar fashion. Each week I sent out my invitation text, and each week I received apologetic no’s. I battled the urge to stay in bed all day and cry. I needed a plan. I couldn’t passively wait for the tide to turn—I needed to turn it myself. I had a few options.
I could show up at Arthur’s and beg him to give me a job at the new game. I heard he had his accountant running the books and employed the latest model/actress he was pursuing to serve drinks. The whole thing made me sick. I knew the game would never be mine again.
I could try to build a new game in L.A.
Or I could go somewhere else.
L.A. was full of ghosts. Drew, the game, and the friends I had traded for my new life. But leaving was about more than walking away from a poker game: this event had been my identity, my proof that I was really, really good at something. I had built my identity and my future upon Reardon, Drew, and the Los Angeles Dodgers; now even the foundation was falling into itself. Sometimes a stupid fairy tale about pigs and building houses is more timeless than a living, breathing, tangible world that seemed forever and indestructible.
ONE OF THE WORST MISTAKES a poker player can make is not knowing when to fold. I had spent thousands of hours watching guys stay in hands too long, stay too late on nights when they were running so cold they couldn’t win a hand. I knew that most poker truths were applicable to real life, and although the thought of it crushed me, I knew it was time to walk away.
I grieved for a night or two and then I got angry—and anger felt better than sadness, more powerful. I could see Los Angeles clearly now . . . it was the kind of town where people came to prove themselves and their worth, dedicated to the pursuit of their own amazingness. Either you climbed to the top and then fought with all of your energy to hang on, looking at everyone around you with suspicion while accepting their fawning admiration, or you let the victors chew you up and spit you out, nourishing themselves on your weakness. This town was not made for permanence. It was designed for the quick flare of genius, the sputter and die when a new genius came along. That’s not how it was going to be with me.
Ever since
my trip east with the McCourts, I had dreamed of New York City. It was time to go.
Part Five
A CHIP AND A CHAIR
New York, 2009–May 2010
A Chip and a Chair (noun)
An expression that means that as long as you have a single chip and a seat at the table in a poker tournament, you can still come back.
Chapter 25
And so New York City it was. I thought about the magnitude of the place. About the mythical game that was five times the size of mine. The only shot I had at infiltrating was Kenneth Redding, the Wall Street tycoon who had bullied the hell out of even Tobey at the poker table. I had made sure to promptly collect his million and a half and have it wired to him before he turned his G-5 around and landed in the city. And later, when he crushed my game for another million, I paid him quickly—even though I had to cover some of it personally.
I picked up my phone and called him, and he answered on the first ring.
“Molllyyyyyy,” he cooed. “How are you? Are you running around in a bikini with your girlfriends?”
Yuck.
“Of course we are. In fact we’re at the pool right now talking about you.”
“About me? Oh, I love that. So, what can I do for you?”
“L.A. is getting boring, Kenneth,” I said. “We need a change of scenery.”
I FLEW TO NEW YORK to test out the waters with Tiffany, the model/playmate I had met on the trip to Vegas I took with Drew. She had become one of my closest friends, and she was street-smart in a way you couldn’t teach—but she was so beautiful that no one saw it coming behind those big blue eyes.
According to Kenneth, the big game in New York didn’t happen very often because it was such a pain to organize. When I suggested taking over the “burden” of organizing, he said that personally, he would love this, but the other guys might not be on board. I asked if I could come to the game and meet them to try to win them over. Kenneth agreed.