Molly's Game

by Molly Bloom

  I decided to stay at the Four Seasons again. Of course, when I walked into the hotel, memories of Drew flooded my head. I remembered staring at the Manhattan skyline, being in love for the first time. So, in order to divert my attention, Tiffany and I went out to explore the city, hitting up the hottest clubs, restaurants, and bars. To strangers we looked like a couple of party girls, but actually we were on the hunt for contacts, information, and networks we could tap into.

  Everyone we talked to loved the idea of a poker game “run by hot girls,” and in two short days we had enough names to get started.

  The big game was scheduled for my final night in town, and I went alone. This time, I dressed the part of a CEO instead of a party girl. I wore a blazer over my black dress, and my glasses, which I hoped made me look older and more intellectual. I wanted to be taken seriously.

  I sat in the backseat for a moment after my cab pulled up outside the town house on Park Avenue, the home of one of the biggest guys on Wall Street and the location of the game. I knew this would be a daunting room. This game was full of larger-than-life, masters-of-the-finance-universe types who had been playing together for legendary amounts for a decade and a half. The guys in L.A. may have starred in or directed movies, but these were the guys who wrote the checks to fund those movies, and when they made moves the whole financial market followed.

  A MAN IN A TAILORED SUIT escorted me through a gorgeous foyer and down a small back stairway that led to a small, unfinished basement. This was not at all what I had expected. These were some of the world’s richest men, and they were playing the biggest game I had ever heard of. These were distinguished gentlemen dressed in custom suits, and they were playing on a makeshift table with cheap chips and mismatched chairs.

  Kenneth introduced me to the players. I had already been briefed. They gave me a smattering of polite but aloof greetings, and I settled back in my seat to watch.

  I already knew plenty about Kenneth himself. He was one of the most powerful men on Wall Street, and his connections and success were unprecedented. He had called me one evening to ask if I could get a reservation for three: for himself, Steve Jobs, and Bill Gates. He still wanted to impress the guys at the games and make sure that they ran perfectly. He knew I would make sure that happened.

  Easton Brandt, the host, was a self-made billionaire who owned a gigantic hedge fund that contained billions in assets. Next to Easton was Keith Finkle, a legend back in the days when trading on the floor could make or break careers. He had made an obscene amount of money and parlayed it into his own fund and numerous real-estate investments. Helly Nahmad sat to Keith’s left. A well-known playboy who dated actual supermodels, he ran around with Leonardo DiCaprio and his crew. Helly’s family owned the world’s largest collection of classical art, valued conservatively at $3 billion.

  In seat five was Illya. Rumor had it that Illya’s father, Vadim, ran the largest bookmaking operation in the world, taking bets from his closest oligarch friends in Russia. Illya was the prodigy son who had shown up in New York a couple years prior with a backpack of a million in cash and a cover story about his family’s steel business. He lost every dollar in poker, went back to the smaller stakes, built up his bankroll, and after a couple months completely dominated the game. Next to him was Igor, a short, fiery Russian who was allegedly staked by Vadim. And finally, there were the twins. Each of these identical brothers spent most of the game harassing the other, and it wasn’t a friendly banter. When either twin lost a big pot or suffered a bad hand, the other was genuinely delighted.

  I stayed quietly in my corner observing. Kenneth was in a $4 million hand with Illya. I silently added the stacks in my head.

  Jesus.

  I looked around to see if they had anyone working the game. There was an older English gentleman who appeared to be a butler, an older white-haired gentleman dealing the cards, and a dark-eyed kid in his early twenties, dressed in sagging pants with a hat pushed down over his eyes. He watched the game intently, and appeared to be in charge of the rebuys.

  I held my breath as the dealer dealt the “river,” or final card. Kenneth lost. I waited for him to explode, order the dealer to be fired, or ban me for life; the type of theatrics that often took place at my L.A. game. Instead he casually pushed his chips to Illya, barely pausing in his conversation with Easton Brandt.

  I stared in disbelief. This was a gentleman’s game, and at least on the surface, the civilized men at the table seemed completely unconcerned by the crashing economy that had the rest of the world on tilt.

  After I had spent enough time observing, I left to meet Tiffany, who was having drinks with some of the potential players we had met over the week.

  My mind was racing. I had just been given entry into the biggest home game in the world. For fifteen years the finance world had been whispering about this secret, magical game, and I knew the secret: it might have had the reputation of an Ivy League secret club, a Skull and Bones society, but it felt more like game night at the frat house, albeit with millions backing the chips. I knew that I could impress these men with aesthetic details and service, but if there was anything that I had learned from my life in L.A., it was that winning counted more than ambience. I needed to add serious value: new, easy-money players, interesting or hard-to-access people, like celebrities, professional athletes. Add impeccable math, and timely collections and payouts, plus beautiful girls and a beautiful setting. It could work.

  Chapter 26

  Kenneth called me the next day to say that the guys had agreed to give me a trial run.

  That was all I needed.

  “Make sure you bring the girls—oh, and get rid of Eugene. He’s Illya’s brother, but there’s no need for him,” Kenneth said in clipped tones.

  “Okay.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt about Eugene, the kid with the cap covering his face who was watching the rebuys. He seemed like a good guy, lost in his big brother’s shadow and just trying to be part of his world.

  But if that was what Kenneth and his friends wanted, that was what they would get.

  Plus, I had more important things to think about. I would be hosting my debut game in New York. I had one shot to prove myself. I flew back to L.A. to get ready.

  First, I had the L.A. Four Seasons make a call to its sister hotel in New York City and arrange the most beautiful room they had for me. Then I got in touch with each of the players’ assistants to learn which drinks, food, and cigars I needed to have on hand. Next, I needed to find the girls whom I could hire to staff the game, and most importantly I needed to find at least two new players who were either celebrities and or would bring a ton of action.

  Miraculously, I put all the pieces together. I invited Guy Laliberté, and he readily agreed to come. He had a passion for poker so great that even when he was losing he was cheerful. I also invited A-Rod. There was nothing like a legendary professional athlete to turn a bunch of tough, successful guys into starry-eyed little girls.

  WHEN WE LANDED AT JFK, the girls and I went straight to the hotel.

  We gasped aloud at the room, which was unbelievable. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided a 360-degree view of Manhattan. Each room in the 4,300-square-foot suite was more impressive than the next. A baby grand piano sat elegantly in the middle of the living room and sparkling chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot ceilings.

  I had barely put my bags down when my phone rang. It was a local pro I knew from L.A. He had made it a point to introduce himself several times. He badly wanted into my L.A. game. I was always polite but I would never have let him in.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You won’t be able to do games in New York City,” he told me, guessing my intentions accurately. “You should go home. New York is different.”

  Was that a threat? It certainly wasn’t friendly advice. I chose to ignore the implicit warning, because, as far as I was concerned, this guy was nothing more than a harmless opportunist.

  “Eddie runs shit he
re,” he continued.

  I also knew who Eddie Ting was. Eddie had grown up in the underground poker scene. He had started out as a player at one-dollar, two-dollar tables, and he was good enough that he had soon saved enough of a bankroll to start his own games. My take on it was that he was a shrewd businessman who seemed to care only about profit, and he would step on anyone to get ahead. Eddie had run a couple of underground multitable poker clubs back when they were both plentiful and extremely lucrative. Eventually, he became the king of New York poker.

  A couple years after I started the L.A. game, Eddie heard about the action and my take, and had tried to get in on it. He rented an apartment and attempted to break into the scene. He wasn’t successful and I had heard that he returned to New York with his tail in between his legs. It was very clear that Eddie was less than pleased that I had come here, and according to Illya, he was irate that I had a shot at the big game, one he had been trying to infiltrate for many years.

  “Thanks for the advice. Hope you’re doing well,” I said, and hung up.

  I made a mental note to reach out to Eddie and try to clear the air. The last thing I needed was enemies.

  THE GIRLS AND I TOOK SPECIAL PAINS getting ready before the game. We knew we were auditioning. Eugene arrived shortly before we started.

  “Whoaaa, nice room,” he said appreciatively, nodding his head at the view. He was wearing baggy sweatpants, a sweatshirt that said FUCK YOU, PAY ME, and smelled strongly of weed and cigarettes. I wasn’t sure if he was simply unaware of the fact that he should at least make an effort to look presentable, or if he just didn’t care.

  “Hi,” I said, and after the pleasantries were over, I told him that I would be doing the chips for this game.

  He looked at me with a dark stare.

  “Can I still watch?” He spoke plainly, no ass-kissing or awe.

  I scrunched my brows. I wanted this night to be perfect and I already knew my MVP, Kenneth, was irritated by his presence.

  “I guess,” I said. “Just don’t stand behind the players. It’s distracting.”

  He shot me a look but he nodded.

  By the time the first guy arrived, the girls and I were perfectly poised, with the most decadent hotel room in NYC as our venue. I had purchased a new, top-of-the-line table, with pristine, virgin green felt, mahogany rails with custom cup holders, and, of course, a custom hole for the Shuffle Master. One by one the players came in, men whose reality consisted of expected luxury, except when it was left to them to arrange: like their weekly poker games. The girls turned the charm up to ten. They laughed at jokes, marveled at stories, and accommodated every need, sometimes before the players even thought to ask. I had learned never to underestimate the power of making a man feel special and impressive, so I had done background research and memorized each player’s greatest accomplishments, and as the night went on I made sure to ask about them.

  They loved the table. The custom chips that were just the right weight and composition. The guys were basking in the attention. The room was on fire. It was so different from the first game I witnessed at Easton Brandt’s. It seemed like nothing could go wrong.

  Guy arrived, charismatic as usual, and regaling the guys with his incredible story of rags to riches, and they decided to start.

  The game kicked off aggressively, with Kenneth going all in first hand and Bernie, a recent addition to the game, Igor, and Illya calling. I sucked in my breath and watched the action.

  The first hand of the night was a million dollars.

  Meanwhile, someone asked me to turn on the television because Bush was giving his Speech to the Nation on the crumbling economy. It was September 2008, and as I refurbished Igor, Bernie, and Kenneth with another $250,000 each, I couldn’t ignore the irony of the speech as a backdrop to the biggest poker game I had ever run.

  BERNIE ASKED ME IF HE COULD BUY IN for $50,000. It was my understanding that the minimum buy-in and rebuy was $250,000, so I asked the table if anyone objected. As usual, whenever I asked the table to decide, as opposed to making the call myself, there was a passionate, contentious discussion. A-Rod showed up in the middle of the bickering and the table forgot about the petty squabble and became agreeable almost immediately. I gave Bernie his chips and attended to Alex, who decided to sit and watch for a bit.

  “What a game,” he said, looking at the chip stacks. Dinner had just arrived and I needed to watch the cardplaying.

  I nodded my head. “It’s pretty insane.”

  Luckily, my friend Katherine had just shown up, all six feet, Georgia drawl, tight leather catsuit of her. The men were mesmerized. She took over entertaining A-Rod and I walked back toward the table.

  Eugene tapped my shoulder.

  “Yo,” he said casually. “You didn’t write down the fifty for Bernie.”

  I shot him an annoyed look.

  “Yes, I did,” I said, indignant.

  He was rolling a joint and not even looking at me.

  “Nah, you didn’t.”

  I scowled at him. “It’s not my first time running a poker game,” I said.

  He met my glare with confidence, looking at me now with large black almond-shaped eyes.

  “Okay, whatever you say.”

  I grabbed the sheet and dramatically pointed at the box next to Bernie’s name.

  It was empty.

  My eyes opened wide.

  Eugene was right. He knew full well that if I succeeded tonight he would lose his job, and his one night to bond with his aloof brother.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That was really good of you.”

  I spent the rest of the game glued to the table. As the game neared its end, I grabbed Eugene’s arm.

  “Let me take you to breakfast,” I said. “I owe you that at least.”

  He shrugged and stepped out to smoke his neat joint.

  “The Parker Meridien has the best breakfast in the city,” he said when he came back.

  “Wherever you want,” I said.

  I MADE $50,000 THAT NIGHT, which would solve a lot of my problems, but more importantly it had been a great game. Everyone seemed happy.

  I was more surprised than anyone that I had made it work. As I walked out of the hotel, the sun was coming up. The city was still quiet. I hailed a cab and rode, beaming, to the Parker Meridien to meet Eugene. I was still astounded by his integrity. Without his help, my night would have turned out very differently.

  He showed up a few minutes after I ordered a coffee.

  “I just want to thank you again,” I said.

  “Are you going to thank me and then fire me?” he asked. He was smiling.

  “No, the job of handing out chips is yours as long as you want it. You’re welcome at any game I ever run.”

  We spent two hours at the restaurant. Beneath the street-punk facade, he was witty, clever, and intriguing. We talked about our families, relating to how lonely it was to be stuck in a sibling’s shadow. Not only was Illya a prodigy poker player and gambler, which in his family was the skill that held the most value, he had also been a world-class tennis player.

  Eugene told me a story that broke my heart and showed me where he fit into the family hierarchy. Over the previous summer, he had visited his brother in the Hamptons with his new pet kitten. Both Eugene and his pet had been bitten by a tick that carried Lyme disease, and had lain sick in bed together until the kitten died. With his family traveling for the summer and his brother rounding the games in Vegas, Eugene lay in bed, alone, forgotten. Half of his face became temporarily paralyzed and yet no one came to check on him. My heart hurt for him. His father didn’t believe he could be a successful gambler due to the fact that he was “emotional.” So Eugene dealt at a small game in Brooklyn and played with what he earned working the big game.

  “Come work for me,” I said. “You can deal my games. You’ll make much more money.”

  “Kenneth won’t let me.”

  “I’m starting other games. A lot of them.”

>   “I’m in,” Eugene said, and his dark eyes smiled at me from underneath his black hat.

  KENNETH CALLED ME THE NEXT DAY.

  “Most of the guys loved the game, but there are still a few who are hesitant. I suggested extending the trial period,” he told me.

  I was ecstatic. Given more time, I knew I could identify my critics and find a way to win them over.

  A new schedule emerged from the ashes. Every week, the girls and I would fly to New York on Tuesday morning, arriving late in the afternoon, host the game that evening, stay up all night, and trudge, sleepless, to the airport the next day. I was also running a small game in L.A. that didn’t pay as well as the one I had lost, but at least kept me attached to the scene. Over the weeks, Eugene and I became good friends, and he fed me important information. He told me that Keith Finkle was my most vocal critic. With awareness of what I had to overcome, I could plan accordingly.

  New players with big bankrolls and a loose playing style were crucial to my status in New York. My NY game had a monstrous buy-in and enormous blinds, and these guys played for stakes most people had never heard of. This basically meant that anyone I brought in had to come loaded and ready to learn.

  But I was on a mission. I had something to prove, and I would not let my adversaries see me fail.

  I ACTIVATED MY NETWORK, ran around town meeting with all of the wealthy friends and acquaintances I had ever met or known, and started spending more and more time in New York with my girls. I hired new recruits, brought some of my girls from L.A., and went out every night, cruising art-gallery openings, charity events, clubs, restaurants, happy hours.

  Sunny was my dealer. She came with me from L.A. Sunny was a blond-haired, blue-eyed, free-spirited beauty. She looked the part of the ingenue starlet but was much more interested in the poker tables and the DJ scene than in the silver screen. When she wasn’t dealing, she was playing or dancing. She would frequently disappear for days and someone would have to finally physically remove her from the ratty L.A. casinos.

  Lola was a sultry, dark-haired beauty who had grown up on Long Island, working and playing in local games. She was distractingly beautiful and a skilled player—a total secret weapon. When I needed to send a spy in to infiltrate a game, I could stake her. (Staking is the act of one person putting up cash for a poker player to play with, in hopes of the player winning. Any profits made are split on a predetermined percentage between the backer and the player.) And I knew that she would bring me new players and usually a nice profit.