by Molly Bloom
This player currently owed the game around a million and he was basically telling me that he wouldn’t be paying $250,000. I called Illya, who, of course, said the guy was wrong.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the couch, exhausted in a way I had never been before. Sleepless and emotionally drained as I was, the weight of the responsibilities that rested solely on my shoulders were starting to feel physically crushing. To make matters worse, I had to go talk to Glen.
He answered the door and I paused, not knowing what kind of mood he would be in.
He hugged me close.
“I’m sorry, baby, I was out of line. You can have it all, the game, all of it.”
I wanted to believe him, but I didn’t. I was too tired to fight and I allowed myself to collapse into his arms. I longed for Eugene’s goodness, the purity of his love.
I convinced myself I was helping Eugene, but I was helping myself and I felt guilt weighing heavily on my chest. I hadn’t helped him, I ruined him.
Glen and I went to dinner that night and we both drank too much wine. He grabbed my hands as if he were going to propose to me.
“What’s the number?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s the amount of money that would make you leave poker? I’ll write the check. I’ll invest in anything you do.”
He took out his checkbook. His eyes were crazy.
“What is it? I’ll write it right now!”
“Why? So you can own me?” I was suddenly furious. Glen was so used to being able to use his money to control situations. And now he was trying to use it to control me.
“There’s no number, Glen. I can’t be bought.”
THINGS WITH GLEN GOT WORSE AND WORSE. He became more controlling, and I pulled away. The more I pulled back, the more I felt him trying to control me, and with the only effective means he had: the game.
According to my records, he never paid me the $210,000 he lost the night we’d first fought. He began withholding more money that I believe he owed when he lost at other games, telling me I was a bad girlfriend when I tried to collect.
When I finally checked into a hotel under an alias and wrote him a good-bye e-mail, he was devastated. He called me, my friends, my assistants. He came to the Plaza and demanded to know which room I was in. He lost his composure completely.
Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.
THE NEXT DAY, I e-mailed Kenneth Redding about the big game. He responded immediately.
We’re playing tonight at Eddie’s.
I thought you were doing it together.
I felt the blood rush to my face. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I knew instantly what was happening. Glen must have gone to Eddie and forced him to choose a side. And Eddie, who I had believed was my friend, was actually no one’s friend. He was a businessman, and he saw his chance to cut me out and gain Glen as an asset.
I felt the rage exploding out of me. I picked up a glass and threw it hard at the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces.
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WERE HELL. Eddie had the big game, Glen was running my Monday-night game at his house, and I could barely get one game off a week. Neither Glen nor Eddie would return my calls. According to my records, they both owed me a lot of money.
If you’re going to steal from me or go back on your word, at least have the courage to look me in the face.
My mind was reeling. I wouldn’t just lie down and accept this fate. I wasn’t going to run scared the way I had done in Los Angeles. Plus, this time I didn’t have anywhere to go.
I started concocting schemes to get my game back. I had information that could ruin both of them. Of course I did. I knew everyone’s secrets. I hosted their nights of transgressions. But they could ruin me right back. We were all exposed in some way. Some of us were breaking serious laws. And so I took the high road.
I had more contacts. I had other games. But the novelty of New York was wearing off.
Part Six
COLD DECK
New York, June 2010–2011
Cold Deck (noun)
A deck that has been intentionally rigged (“stacked”) such that the player cannot win.
Chapter 29
Summer was here again, and the long cold winter, both actual and metaphorical, gave way to hope and hedonism. I rented another mansion in the Hamptons, and the girls and I geared up for parties, polo, and, of course, games.
I had rebuilt my roster, and I was making money again, but I wasn’t enjoying it much. I was tired. Tired of being taken advantage of. It seemed that unless I was willing to stoop to their level, I couldn’t compete with people who had no honor. I had to constantly watch my back, and it felt like everyone I met was trying to steal my games, and all my “friends” were on my payroll or players in the game. I was growing weary of the weight and the loneliness.
I spent July in Ibiza and Saint-Tropez doing what I had always done: recruiting, politicking, and playing. One night in Ibiza, I collected $50,000 from various people who owed me money; they all just handed me stacks of cash. But the passion and fervor were missing. Instead of dancing on the tables with the rest of them, I sat at a banquette and watched the swirl of half-naked girls, sweaty guys, drugs, alcohol, and false pretenses.
I left the club and walked back to my hotel by myself. The sun was coming up and my friends would be out for several more hours. I just couldn’t shake the empty feeling.
As cavalier as I had become about toting stacks of bills in my purse, there were times when the amounts of money I had to ferry around town were way more than fifty grand, and at those times, I took security measures.
I had one driver who I employed specifically for those times.
I arranged to have Silas pick me up because I needed to go downtown to pick up some big money. Silas treated the New York City streets like the setting of his own personal video game, and he could get me from my apartment on the Upper West Side to the Financial District in less than ten minutes.
I stepped into the blacked-out Escalade and pulled out my computer.
“Hi, Molly,” Silas said.
“Hey,” I said, looking at my spreadsheets.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I said, distracted by the extreme disparity of what was owed to me versus what I owed. My exposure was enormous and the anxiety of collecting my own money every week was getting to me. Silas wasn’t usually this talkative, which was part of why I liked him. I never told him what I did for a living, and although I was sure he knew, he never asked.
“Hey,” Silas continued, his Italian accent turning the words into a puddle of sound that I had to wade through to really understand him. “I have some friends who live in Jersey. They run big hedge-fund games . . . they want to meet you.”
I looked up from my laptop. The most important part of this job was feeding the game new blood, and while it felt a bit intrusive for Silas to try to get involved, useful tips had come from weirder places.
“Okay,” I said. “Give your friend my number, Silas. Thank you.”
I smiled at him in the rearview and put my headphones on so I could finish my number crunching uninterrupted for the next six minutes of the ride.
I forgot all about the conversation with Silas until he called me about it, a few hours later.
“I spoke to my friends and they want to meet,” he said in his thick accent.
It wasn’t strange to me that Silas was acting as a middleman. Everybody always wanted a piece, and if he brokered the deal, he would get one.
“Your friends can meet me at the Four Seasons,” I told him. “I’ll be there on Friday.”
I had already set a meeting there with an art dealer who wanted to start a small weekly game for some dealers, artists, and gallery owners, so this wouldn’t waste too much of my time if it turned out to be nothing.
I WAS SITTING IN THE CORNER finishing my iced tea when Silas’s “friends” showed up. I noticed them right away. They were two huge
men, standing in the bar area, glancing around in confusion. They looked like they had just walked off the set of Goodfellas, complete with the shiny suits and the gold chains.
My eyes widened. This was definitely not what I expected and not a meeting I ever wanted to take. However, they had spotted me and were ambling toward me. I stood up to greet them, and they towered over me.
“Uh, are you Molly?” one said, looking confused. I was used to this. Most new players were surprised when I turned out to be a young, petite woman, dressed professionally in an Armani suit and pearls.
“Hi,” I said politely, as if nothing was amiss. I motioned to the waiter, who gave my companions a very haughty once-over.
“What would you like to drink?” I asked.
They sat down in the sleek leather chairs, their body language revealing that they felt as out of place as they looked.
“Ah, yeah . . . I’ll have, uh . . . apple martini,” said the bigger one, who had introduced himself as Nicky. I almost spit my iced tea across the table. The tough guy wanted an apple martini? Really? The whole thing made me want to laugh. The costumes, the fruity girl drink. It was all too much.
The smaller one, Vinny, spoke to me.
“We want to talk about a partnership,” he said, his tone letting me know it was more of an order than an offer. “We can help you collect. Nobody will fuck with you. We hear you run a real good game, a nice game, but everyone tries to fuck with you because you’re a girl. If you are with us, no one will fuck with you, ever.”
As true as his statement was, and as nice an offer as it seemed, I knew it was not on the up-and-up.
I paused and took an extra-long sip of my iced tea.
“Guys, I really appreciate the offer, but I don’t really need any help,” I said, and tried to make firm but friendly eye contact.
“Look, this ain’t Beverly Hills,” said Vinny. “This is how it works: you give us a piece and we keep you safe. It’s not really an offer, it’s just how it is.”
“It’s just not that kind of game,” I said, trying to reason with them. “If I get into bed with you guys, I lose my clients.” That was true. It was the absence of a connection to the underworld that kept me in the clear. The cops didn’t really care about poker games until they were related to violence, drugs, prostitution, loan sharking. Getting involved with these guys wouldn’t keep me safe at all—it would open me up to bigger trouble.
We went back and forth for a bit, talking in circles. Vinny was getting a little heated and Nicky shot him a look.
“Look, let me think about it.” I was already racking my brain for a solution, for a way I could be valuable to them without involving them in my business. “Let’s talk in a couple days.”
I stood to shake their hands, and they towered over me.
“Hey,” I offered, almost as an afterthought. “This seems like a hard way to make a living. You know, I know people. If you want to go in a different direction, I could help you, introduce you to some people who could appreciate the unique, uh, skill set you’ve acquired.”
I gave them my most sincere smile and they stared at me like I was from outer space.
“We’ll be in touch,” said Vinny in a low voice.
NICKY CALLED ME LATER IN THE WEEK.
“Do you really think you could help me?” His voice sounded plaintive, not at all like a posturing tough guy.
“What do you need?”
“I want to do something different. I don’t know what, just different.”
I silently cheered.
“Sure,” I said. “Why don’t we meet for lunch after the holidays and discuss?”
“Thanks, Molly,” he said.
Thank God, I thought. Problem solved. No need to think about it again.
I barely had time to notice that I had a missed call from Nicky. He called again but I was too inundated with work to respond. I didn’t return his next call, or the next. I had bigger problems to deal with: one of my players had written a check for $250,000 that had bounced. And Kenneth was slow paying me the half-million even though he was worth a bajillion.
Then it was Christmas and it was time to go home. I had to. I hadn’t been back to Colorado in ages, and I missed my family.
Chapter 30
Colorado was beautiful, covered with pristine white snow. It had been so long since I had been home. I came downstairs in the morning and my mom, grandma, and brothers were sitting around in their pajamas watching a YouTube video of a recent “wish” my brother had granted through his charity, which helped lonely or poor senior citizens realize their lifelong dreams. I took a walk with my mother, and all of the neighbors greeted me by name as we passed. When we visited the local Starbucks, the barista asked me how my day was going, and continued on, asking me what I would do with the remainder of “this beautiful” day. It was so different from my life in New York; it felt like a different planet.
My family was so wonderful, but they were strangers these days. No matter how much older and more accomplished I became, the feeling of inferiority and being an outsider never left. My brothers were both doing remarkable things. Jordan had been accepted into the residency program at Harvard; he married the love of his life and planned to start a family. Jeremy wasted no time after retiring from his illustrious sports career—he immediately launched a tech company and was honored as one of the “30 under 30 in Tech” by Forbes. Not only was Jeremy’s philanthropy undeniably touching, he received a sizable investment to fund his work and was garnering a lot of good press. I tried to put my feelings of inadequacy aside and simply enjoy and appreciate my family. It was not easy.
At dinner, I stared at my plate, listening to my brothers talk about their lives. Poker was the one thing I was really, really good at. I had built this multimillion-dollar enterprise from scratch, but I still didn’t feel like I had a place at the table. I ate quietly, refilling my wineglass too many times. I had nothing worthy to add to the conversation. My family knew about the game. They tried to ignore it, treating it like it was a phase I was going through. A point came when I could no longer control the frustration I felt at being, as I saw it, undervalued; I wanted to rebel. I started talking—about the money, the celebrity and billionaire “friends,” the private jets, the full-time driver, the staff, the clubs. Just because my family members didn’t find these things impressive didn’t mean the rest of the world didn’t dream about the life I was describing. I knew I sounded obnoxious.
I could see their eyes judging me, disapproving.
“Is this really the life you want?” asked Jordan.
“Yeah, it is. I don’t judge your perfect little rule-following, earnest, boring lives.” I was getting angrier, louder, and definitely too drunk.
“I don’t give a fuck what you think about my career. You have no idea what I have built, the obstacles I have overcome, so save your self-righteous comments and disapproving looks.”
I ran upstairs to my old room, slammed my door, and cried into my pillow. I angrily wiped my eyes and picked up my computer. I was mad at myself and embarrassed; I wanted to leave. I booked a flight and ordered a pickup from a car service.
My mom knocked on the door.
“Honey, we are just worried,” she began when she came in. “We love you and we are all so proud of you. You just don’t seem like yourself; you seem unhappy.”
“There is nothing to worry about, Mom. I’m fine. I’m just tired. I want to lie down, okay?”
“Okay, honey, I love you so much.” She hugged me.
I locked the door and packed my bags.
I left a note.
Sorry, just need to get back to NYC.
When the car arrived I walked out of the house with my suitcase. I could hear my family laughing in the living room. I paused for a minute.
They were looking at old photo albums and making fun of each other. I quietly shut the front door behind me. I didn’t want to say good-bye; I just wanted to get back to New York as quickly as possible.
ON THE PLANE RIDE BACK TO THE CITY, I thought about the game, the business. It was the only thing that made me feel special, the only thing that hadn’t broken my heart. There were challenges, but I always found a way to tackle them. It wasn’t just the game; there was a world of opportunities built into it.
The game was my entry into any world I wanted to be a part of. The hedge-fund world. The art world. I could do a game with politicians, artists, royalty. Every subset of every society had gamblers within it, and unearthing them was my specialty.
I meditated on the possibilities during the ride into the city from the airport. New York was covered in snow and festive decorations, and I felt excited to be back. I really did love the city. I felt renewed energy and passion.
I greeted my doorman, Roger, like an old friend and went upstairs.
The building was undergoing construction, and the hallway was empty and quiet. The few tenants who lived there were away for the holidays. Lucy was staying with my neighbor June, who was also her dog walker. I was so excited to see her that I stopped by June’s apartment to pick her up. June didn’t answer, so I headed upstairs.
Roger knocked on the door with my luggage, more bags than usual because I had brought some things back with me from Colorado.
“Happy holidays, Roger,” I said, and tipped him extra-generously.
As he was leaving, I remembered to ask about the mail.
“Were there any packages?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “If there are, I’ll bring them up.”
I thanked him.
I started unpacking when I heard a knock. Probably Roger with my mail, I thought. I opened the door to a stranger. He stepped forward forcefully into the entryway. Before I could protest, he pushed me back and came into my apartment, shutting the door swiftly behind him.
I opened my mouth to scream and he pulled out a gun from under his jacket and slammed me back against the wall. I felt pain radiate down from the center of my skull.
He stuck the barrel of the gun in my mouth.