by Molly Bloom
“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said. Time slowed down.
A gun in my mouth, there was a gun in my mouth. My teeth chattered as the unforgiving cold steel tapped against them.
Cold fear and adrenaline surged through my veins. I nodded my head to show I would comply and he pulled the revolver out of my mouth and pressed it to the back of my head.
Maybe Roger would come. He was my only hope.
“Walk,” he said, moving me with the gun toward my bedroom.
He shoved me in the direction of my bed and I fell forward onto the mattress, exactly where I did not want to be. I was still hoping that Roger would show up, but what if there hadn’t been any packages . . . what if he forgot? Or worse, what if this madman shot him?
I needed to pull myself together, but the terror made it so hard to think clearly. I scooted back and sat up against my headboard.
“I have money,” I managed to say. “I have a lot of money.”
“Where?”
“I have cash in my safe.”
He grabbed me by the hair. It still hurt from where he had smashed me against the wall. I felt dizzy.
“Where?”
“In my closet.” I motioned to the corner of my room.
Okay, this was good. Maybe he was here for money. A tiny bit of clarity returned. I looked at his face; he had dark hair, large dark eyes. He was cleanly shaven. Why didn’t he have a mask on? WHY WASN’T HE WEARING A MASK? As things stood, I could easily identify him . . . The answer hit me like a brick.
He’s going to kill me.
I had left my family without saying good-bye. I had been awful and mean.
He’s going to kill me.
He grabbed my arm and led me to the closet, then put his hand on my shoulder and shoved me onto my knees. My body had gone limp, the realization that these were most likely my last few minutes on this earth had replaced the fear with grief.
He gestured toward the safe with the gun.
Numbly I entered my code into the keypad. The gun was pressing against my skull.
The metal door swung open to reveal the neatly organized, rubber-banded stacks of $10,000 and jewelry boxes within, along with important documents like my birth certificate and passport.
“Give me the cash and the jewelry,” he said. I could detect excitement in his voice.
I passed him the stacks.
I handed him the jewelry my grandmother had left me.
“Give me a bag,” he ordered. He would need it to carry all the cash. I stood up carefully and handed him a Balmain bag from my extensive collection of designer purses.
He shoved the stacks, a gold locket with a picture of my great-grandmother who was my namesake, my mother’s wedding ring, and a pair of diamond earrings from my grandmother inside. He zipped the bag closed looking very pleased.
Then he stooped down to where I was kneeling and grabbed my face with his rough and callused hands, shoving his face up against mine. His breath smelled like tooth decay and cigarettes.
He pressed his mouth against my ear and whispered, “You still think you can call the shots, you little fucking cunt?”
“What do you mean?” I asked weakly
“This is your fault. If you weren’t such a bitch to my friends, I wouldn’t have to do what I have to do.”
And that was the moment when it made sense: he had been sent by the guys I met at the Four Seasons.
He ran the back of his hand down my cheek.
“It’s such a shame, you have such a pretty face.”
He pulled me to my feet by my hair.
He slammed my head into the wall. Everything was spinning. I was crying. As soon as I opened my eyes again, I felt his fist connect with my cheek. He hit me again in the nose.
It felt like all my nerves exploded, then numbness. My hand flew to my face; blood was gushing out of my nose and into my mouth. I couldn’t breathe. I was choking on my own blood. He hit me again. His fist felt like an iron bar as it slammed against the delicate bones of my face. I imagined all of the bones breaking, splintering into little pieces. My face felt like it was blowing up like a balloon. I cried out and tried to get away from him, but there was nowhere to go in the closet, and I pushed myself back as far as I could, pressed against the dresses and coats, bleeding on rustling silk and smooth, soft fur.
Everything hurt. It hurt so much it almost stopped hurting, like it was one complete feeling that just changed the way it felt to be alive. I was like an animal, gasping, trapped.
He pulled me out of the closet and then took his gun out of his jacket.
I saw my mom and dad’s faces, my brothers, Lucy, Eugene.
“Please, I have a family. Please don’t kill me,” I choked. I didn’t care what he wanted, I would do anything. I just didn’t want to die.
“Molly,” he said, and now his voice was as gentle as his hand on my back, and sad. “I told you. We didn’t want it to be like this . . .”
He pointed the gun at my face. I winced and shut my eyes. It felt like an eternity.
“Open your eyes. We could have a very good relationship, just don’t disrespect us ever again.”
I managed to nod my head.
“And don’t even think about calling the police. We know where your mom lives—a real pretty house in the Colorado mountains.”
Oh God, oh God, what have I done?
“I won’t . . . I promise,” I sobbed
“This is your one and only warning.”
I saw his fist come at me again, and then, blackness.
When I came to I was alone. My whole body felt limp and I crawled toward the front door, lifted myself up by the handle, and closed the dead bolt. Then I sat with my back against the door, waiting, listening.
I couldn’t call anyone, not the police, not building security, not a boyfriend or my friends. Maybe I could call Eugene.
I dialed his number.
“What’s up?” he asked. He had been cold and distant ever since I’d begun dating Glen.
“Eugene, can you come over? I need you.” My voice was weak and tearful.
“Oh, now that you aren’t with Glen you need me? Sorry, Zil, you made your decision. I’m busy.”
“Please, Eug,” I begged
“I can’t, I’m sorry.” And he hung up.
I was completely alone.
I don’t know how long I sat with my back to the door. I felt weak and frozen. When I finally got up on shaky legs and went into the bathroom, my reflection in the mirror was horrific. My eyes were swollen and black, my lip was cut and bloody, and there was dried blood caked all over my face, neck, and chest. My clothes were covered in blood. It was like looking at someone else’s image. I got in the shower and stood under the water, the heat of it blasting my bruised and cut skin. I didn’t care. I sank to my knees and sobbed under the water, crying for the things I had lost, for the loneliness, for all the things I had hoped I would be.
Most of all, I sobbed because I knew I wasn’t going to walk away—even now, even after this.
Chapter 31
I spent New Year’s Eve by myself, waiting for my bruises to heal. I lied to my friends, I lied to my parents. I stared numbly out of my window as midnight struck and 2011 arrived. I didn’t leave my apartment for a week. I spent most of the time in bed, curled up with Lucy, who looked at me with her deep, soulful, concerned eyes. When I finally went out, I thought I saw my attacker’s face everywhere. I was sure my driver had been in on it, almost positive one of the doormen had taken cash to give him entry. I trusted no one.
I got another call from Vinny. This time I called him back.
“Molly, how are you?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Let’s have another meeting. I think you will see things clearer now.”
“Okay,” I said.
I didn’t have a choice and I knew it.
“Next week,” I said. “I’m traveling this week.” I couldn’t face him with the bruises. I wouldn’t give hi
m the satisfaction.
The day before I was supposed to meet with the men responsible for having me beaten and robbed, the men who I might be forced to make some sort of deal with, I picked up the New York Times. On the front page I saw:
NEARLY 125 ARE ARRESTED IN SWEEPING FBI MOB ROUNDUP
I read on. This was the biggest mob takedown in New York City history.
I never got the call I was expecting from Vinny . . . or anyone else. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.
MY LUCK DIDN’T LAST FOR LONG: A subpoena arrived via certified mail. Brad Ruderman, one of my players from my old L.A. game had been indicted by the federal government. Allegedly his fund had been a Ponzi scheme. “Bad Brad” Ruderman was known in my games in Los Angeles as “free money.” It became routine after I sent out the invitation text for the weekly game that everyone responded with, “Is Brad playing?” He was so bad it often felt like he was trying to lose. No one could actually play the cards that poorly after two years of steady practice. And then there was Brad.
I knew him well, so after he’d been in my game for a couple months, I had pulled him aside.
“This may not be for you,” I said, gently, and offered him poker lessons. I wanted Brad to play, but I wanted him to have a chance to win.
Even Tobey tried to help him learn how to play, which shocked me a bit until I understood what his motivation must have been: Tobey loved the game when Brad was in it because it attracted the “A-team” players. Brad needed to get better so he would keep coming back. If he lost too much, he’d quit.
I liked him, but there was always something strange, something off with Brad. To me, he seemed a bit lost. We became friendly enough that when his mother passed, I went to the funeral. He seemed a bit tortured too, but he was generally very nice. Now I understood why his affect had been so odd: he had been hiding a giant secret. Most of the investors in Brad’s fund were family and friends. He wasn’t even registered with the SEC, and at the time of his arrest he had only $60,000 in his fund—a far cry from the $45 million he reported to his investors. That’s why, even though he never won, he kept playing. Suddenly it all made sense. He may have lost $5.3 million in the game, but he had used the playing field to raise millions, getting the other guys to invest with him as he allowed them to take his money.
Now the prosecutor wanted my deposition. Brad had already disclosed information about the game, the players, the amount he lost, who the checks went to, and allegedly that the game was run and orchestrated by me. I kept reading the subpoena. Brad was claiming that I lured him into my games and that in these clandestine rooms he had developed a gambling addiction which led him to lose sight of his morals, culminating in the Ponzi scheme.
So I flew to Los Angeles.
MY OLD, L.A. ATTORNEY picked me up at the airport. The deposition was as unpleasant as I had expected. After hours of skirting questions and only confirming innocuous details, I was exhausted. The questions dredged up memories of my L.A. life, which I had pushed into that corner of my mind that I refused to visit.
It had been so long since I was back in California. I was staying at the Four Seasons; the hotel held so many memories for me, and it felt like there were many ghosts haunting the halls, but so much had changed. I was a different person. And the L.A. game had changed too. Rick Salomon had accused Arthur Grossman of cheating, and even though he recanted his accusation, he was no longer invited. Most interesting of all, Tobey was rarely invited anymore either.
Arthur had become the biggest winner in the game, allowing one of the local pros to play in exchange for lessons. The dealers were on salary and the girls came and went based on their current girlfriend status.
I sat on my patio looking out on the city I felt I had once presided over. The familiar landmarks, the view that used to invoke such a feeling of confidence and triumph, now seemed to shun me.
I wondered if, in the end, Tobey felt like it had all been worth it.
Chapter 32
It was early March and once again the cold winter was giving way to more temperate weather, raising my spirits along with it. I was racing around the city, taking meetings, making deals, and unearthing new gamblers in New York. My visit to Los Angeles had reminded me that I had lost everything and rebuilt once before, and that I could do it again. So that was my current plan: to rebuild my empire in New York—but not forever. When I was ready, I would exit gracefully and start a new life as far from poker as possible.
I was on my own now, distrustful and wary of bringing anyone close, but that was safe. And I was discovering the charm of a new breed of clientele: wealthy Russians. I was intrigued by this new subset of players. They possessed both hardness and a kind of generosity, and they respected me, even revered me.
They also loved luxury, they appreciated the details, and they seemed to have very little attachment to money—they seemed to acquire it effortlessly and part with it with the same ease. It was one of several nuances in this community’s behavioral style that I found fascinating, like the way they never asked one another what their business was. Such a line of inquiry would have been considered rude. What had been the most common question among my American players—“So what do you do, bro?”—would have netted you disdain and disrespect with my new Russian friends.
I became particularly close with a man named Alex, who seemed to be a leader of sorts. He was incredibly intelligent, sophisticated and mysterious, with a quiet but stately composure.
In New York there seemed to be a never-ending supply of Russians with fancy cars, fancy shoes, and fancy watches who wanted to play. They all seemed to have bottomless pockets. They didn’t complain, they paid promptly, they didn’t ask for deals, and they wanted to play every day of the week.
I was back on my way up, and I liked the international flavor.
I HAD ALSO REBUILT MY BIG GAME, and it was better than ever. Along with the Russians, the Wall Street guys, the athletes, and the celebrities were back. I had an epic game planned for this evening—one of my huge London players was in town, and the Russians said they were bringing some guys visiting from Moscow who were allegedly some of the biggest gamblers in the world. If the night went as planned, it would serve as solid proof that I could always come back, better, stronger—no matter who tried to knock me down.
I was at my vanity preparing for the game. It was 10 P.M. and I had just returned from a collection run that had taken much longer than I’d anticipated.
I quickly applied my makeup, and then my phone rang. It was a blocked number.
“Yes?” I said, looking in the mirror.
“Don’t go to your game tonight,” a muffled voice warned.
“Who is this?” I demanded.
The line went dead.
Since the attack at my apartment, I had begun to change the venues of my games regularly and had hired security guards.
I was on top again. I figured that the voice on the phone belonged to one of my competitors, and that he was trying to scare me.
I finished dressing, trying to ignore the cryptic call. I slid on a white silk dress, nude, strappy stilettos, my silver fox coat, and a vintage Dior diamond bracelet. The Russians made it fun to dress up again; they were appreciative of glamour and presentation. I gave myself one last glance in the mirror and headed out. I called for the elevator. Then my phone started buzzing incessantly. I fished it out and glanced at the message.
I looked down at the text message from Peter, a player who was already at the game. I was standing in the elevator bank. The elevator arrived, the doors slid open, and I let them close, just standing there in shock.
The FBI is here!! 20 or so. They are looking for you.
I read the words over and over, trying to make some sense.
I stood still. Everything else kept moving forward. The whole universe was spinning and I was frozen in that hallway. After a moment the trance lifted. The elevator came and went, the doors opened and closed, and I reacted. I rushed back into my apartment.
>
I felt I had very little time to act. The agents must have realized by now that I wasn’t at the game. My apartment would be their next stop, if they were not already at the entrance to the building, poised and waiting for me to step out. The feds. THE FEDS.
This was infinitely bigger than anything I had ever anticipated. I was terrified. I wanted my mom. I grabbed my purse, a hastily packed suitcase, and Lucy and bolted out the door.
I closed my eyes, hoping the FBI wouldn’t be waiting in my lobby as we rode down the twenty-one floors. The door opened, I braced myself.
Nobody was there.
We walked to the front doors and pushed through into the cool night air. I held my breath as we stepped onto the curb, waiting for lights and yells and panic. There was nothing unusual, just passersby dressed in business casual and the stink of the carriage horses from across the street in Central Park.
My black Escalade was waiting
I turned around and looked at my glamorous dream apartment. The EMPIRE sign on the side of the building glowed in red letters. I felt sad. Somehow I knew it was the last time I would ever be here.
“WHERE TO?” SAID MY NEW DRIVER, Joe, jovial and relaxed.
It struck me that not everybody’s world was ending tonight. Just mine.
“Joe,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Please. Quickly.”
“Where to, Miss Bloom?”
“Just drive, please,” I said.
I called my attorney at home
“I’m sorry to disturb you. The feds raided my game tonight. They broke down the door and they were looking for me.”
“Where are you?” he asked, going from sleeping to sharp and alert in one second.
“I’m in a car, headed to the airport. I want to go home, to Colorado.” My voice cracked. “Is—is it a crime to leave the state?”
I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth.
“No, it’s not a crime, but they may very well be at the airport to apprehend you. Just stay in New York tonight. Check into a hotel, stay at a friend’s, and I’ll deal with this first thing in the morning.”