by Molly Bloom
“All finished, my little peach!” he singsonged, and promised to call me when it was ready.
A couple days later my phone rang.
“Come over lovebugggg,” I heard. “Hurrrrry! We want to have a fashion show!”
When I arrived, the designer’s assistant handed me a glass of rosé and a small swath of material, and pushed me into a tiny bathroom.
I wiggled out of my clothes and changed into what was basically a skimpy faux–animal pelt with faux-fur trim. Back when I had taken the LSATs, I had never in a million years imagined that instead of power suits I would wear this getup. “Uh, guys, I think I need more material,” I pleaded, too self-conscious to open the door.
“Don’t be crazzzzy,” the designer and his assistants called from the couches where they were lounging and sipping their wine. “You look amazzzzzzing.”
To top it off, they handed me a clip-on Mohawk made from the same fake fur. I thanked them and they air-kissed me out the door.
One part of my brain said, “You’re going to look like a slutty rooster.” The other part said, “Suck it up. The bottle service girls at Shelter make more in a night than you make in a week.”
THE MONEY AT SHELTER WAS GREAT. The success of the night was due to promoters, and the top club promoters had a loyal following of celebrities, billionaires, and models. On the biggest nights, people would wait outside the velvet ropes for hours begging to be let in. I got to know the promoters and eventually I was working the best nights at all the hottest clubs in town. A lot of the managers and promoters were sleazy alcoholics or drug addicts who leveraged their power over who got past the velvet ropes in order to hook up with the pretty young girls. The pretty young girls were almost all aspiring actresses or models, and they believed, truly believed, that getting into the club on the hot night would lead to their being discovered. The whole thing seemed silly, but I minded my business. I was punctual, responsible, and professional. While the other servers were doing shots and hanging out, I was making sure my tables were taken care of. My tips were always above 20 percent and I usually sold more than everyone else. I was there to make money, not friends.
Unexpectedly, my nights at this club furthered my L.A. education. Every night, I was dead sober, watching drunken Hollywood politick, hook up, and hang out. The money I made as a cocktail waitress allowed me to have a little extra, not enough to buy designer shoes but enough to upgrade my Colorado wardrobe. I also loved the way it felt to carry a rolled-up wad of cash home at the end of the night.
I was working long hours during the day, and at a different club every night. I was completely exhausted. But I discovered that I had endless stamina when it came to making money.
No matter how busy or tired I was, I never said no to a job.
Chapter 5
I had heard Reardon mention a place called the Viper Room over the last couple of weeks. Since I wasn’t really allowed to ask questions, especially during the initial negotiations, I did my own research. I learned that the Viper Room was one of the most iconic bars in Los Angeles. Painted a matte black, tucked onto a seedy strip of Sunset in between liquor stores and a cigar shop, the venue had a rich history of celebrity and debauchery. I read that in the ’forties, Bugsy Siegel owned it, and it was called the Melody Room. When Johnny Depp and Anthony Fox took it over in 1993, Tom Petty played opening night, and River Phoenix had died of an overdose there on Halloween in 1994, while Depp and Flea played onstage.
I also knew that in 2000, Depp’s partner, Anthony Fox, sued Johnny over profits, and while the suit was in progress, Fox disappeared. During the resultant confusion, the Viper Room was placed in the hands of a court-appointed receiver, who happened to be a family friend of Reardon’s, and thus his company was given the opportunity to take over the Viper Room, which was then losing a ton of money, and to try to make it profitable again. I guess the deal was going through because one day, after Reardon yelled at people for his usual hour or so, he ordered me to get the car and directed me to the parking lot of the club.
As we pulled in, Reardon turned to me with a serious look on his face.
“According to ticket sales and used inventory, the place should be profitable, but it’s been losing money hand over fist for the past five years. The staff here is a bunch of scumbags; they’ve all worked here forever, and rumor has it there’s been a lot of stealing going on. I’m probably going to fire them all, but I need you to get information from them, find out how the place works.”
With that, he got out of the car and slammed the door so hard that I thought it would break. By the time I got out, he was halfway across the parking lot, and as usual, I found myself running to keep up.
We entered the black building through the side door. Suddenly sunny Los Angeles disappeared and we were in a sinister, dank cave, being greeted by a man with long hair, black eyeliner, and a top hat.
“Hi, Mr. Green. I’m Barnaby,” he said, holding out his hand
Reardon ignored him and walked toward the stairs.
“I’m Molly,” I said, taking the hand that was meant for Reardon and smiling warmly to compensate for Reardon’s rudeness.
“Barnaby,” he repeated, and smiled back. I followed Reardon up a dark staircase. The staff was seated around a table, and none of them looked happy.
“I’m Reardon Green. I’m running this place now. There are going to be a lot of changes around here. If you don’t like it you can leave. If you want to keep your job you need to be cooperative and help make the transition smooth. If you guys can handle that, your job is safe.
“This is my assistant, Molly, she is going to spend some time with you today. I need you to show her how things work around here.”
And he turned to leave. I smiled nervously.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” I said to the angry-looking mob.
“Reardon, seriously? You’re leaving me here—what do you want me to do?”
“Just don’t fuck up,” he said, and he was gone.
I was suddenly hyperaware of my dumb sundress and cheesy cardigan.
I surveyed the angry faces in front of me. The staff members were speaking heatedly among themselves. They all wore black, most had tattoos and piercings, combat boots, Mohawks. They were rough, they were rock-and-roll, and I didn’t know how to speak to them. I wanted to run out into the sunshine of Sunset Boulevard, but I took a deep breath and walked over to the angry crowd. The most important thing was to somehow figure out how to make myself relatable.
“Hey, guys,” I said quietly. “I’m Molly. I don’t know exactly what is going on. I wasn’t given any information before Reardon left me here. But what I do know is that I can be an advocate for you. I work in the service industry too, at night, and during the day I try not to get screamed at or fired by the crazy man you just met. I usually fail at the getting-screamed-at part, by the way.”
I heard a couple snorts, and even a little laugh.
“Anyway, if we can work together and give Reardon what he wants, I think we can all keep our jobs.”
A woman in dark eyeliner and combat boots gave me a nasty look.
“You think you’re gonna get what you need and then fire us all. I don’t trust you one little bit,” she said, jabbing a black fingernail scarily close to my face.”
“Is that true?” asked an older guy with a goatee.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I can’t give you a guarantee, but I can tell you that this is your best shot at keeping your job, and I give you my word that I will fight on your behalf.”
“Give us a minute,” said a pretty blonde in a short plaid skirt.
I walked across the room and sat down in a grimy booth, pretending to check my phone.
There was a heated discussion and two people walked out.
The rest came over to where I was sitting.
“I’m Rex. I’m the manager. Well, I was,” he said, and held out his hand. The others introduced themselves.
I spent the res
t of the day with Rex, who showed me how he ran the place while I took notes. I learned that he had a wife and a kid, and he had been managing the bar for ten years. He seemed like a really good guy. Duff was in charge of booking the bands and she gave me her master list, schedule, and explained how that process worked, and by the end of the day I had a fully functional operations manual, band and booker contacts, ordering information, and so on. I thanked them profusely and gave them my number.
“Call me anytime,” I told them. “I’m going to speak to Reardon and tell him how helpful you have all been.” I knew deep down that Reardon would probably fire them. I felt like an awful person as I trudged back to work. I walked into Reardon’s office and gave him the notebooks. I went to my office and tried to think of the best way to present a case to give the folks I had met a chance.
He came into my office.
“Molly, this isn’t good work,” he announced. When I started to defend myself, he interrupted. “It’s excellent.” I was so shocked I almost fell off my chair.
“I’m proud of you,” he said simply.
I had waited so long to hear any encouragement, some validation that Reardon didn’t think I was the biggest idiot on the planet.
“About the employees . . .”
He turned around, his brown eyes flashing, the look he would give me right before he launched into a tirade.
“What about them?” he asked sternly.
“Never mind,” I said, hating myself.
“You’re coming out with us tonight. Be ready by seven. Really great job today.”
I drove home feeling flashes of happiness followed by pangs of guilt.
The limo picked me up at seven, and all the guys were inside.
Reardon opened a bottle of champagne.
“To Molly, who is finally starting to figure shit out.”
Sam and Cam echoed, “To Mol!”
I smiled.
We got out of the limo in front of Mr. Chow’s, and paparazzi bulbs flashed as we got out.
“Look this way,” they yelled at me, flashing their bulbs in my face.
“I’m not—” I began, but Reardon grabbed my arm and pushed the photographers away. We had a special table reserved for us, where we were joined by beautiful models, infamous socialites, and a few of Reardon’s controversial but very famous actor friends. It was Friday night and every table at Mr. Chow’s was reserved for the rich and famous. Every time I looked down I had a fresh lychee martini. We left Chow’s and headed to the newest, most-impossible-to-get-into club in L.A. Everyone was buzzed, happy, and carefree. We sailed right to the front of the line at the club and were led to the best table.
I was so high from the drinks, the effortless glamour, the access, and the prestige that I almost forgot about the way I tricked the Viper Room employees into trusting me, used them for information, and then broke my promise to fight for them.
I grabbed Reardon’s arm. I needed to at least try.
He smiled at me, his eyes full of pride.
And it was all I ever wanted, and it felt so good, so I let the employees and my promises fade away.
Chapter 6
Late afternoon on a Friday, I was shuffling around the office trying to get my work done quickly so I could leave early. I had a date with one of the bartenders at one of the clubs where I also worked. I would never tell the guys because they would make fun of me incessantly.
“GET IN HERE!” Reardon yelled.
I braced myself. He was doing the thing where he filled a yellow notepad with crazy doodles, something he did when he had a new idea. He would make geometric squares that connected and repeated until they filled the page. He had notebooks full of these—it was his way of working things out in his head.
“We’re going to do a poker game at the Viper Room,” he said, staring at the pad and scribbling away. “It’ll be Tuesday night, you will help run it.”
I knew Reardon played poker occasionally, because I had delivered and collected a couple checks since I started working for him.
“But I work at the club that night.”
“Trust me, this will be good for you,” He looked up from his pad. His eyes were smiling like he knew a secret.
“Take down these names and numbers and invite them. Tuesday at seven,” he barked, scribbling his squares.
“Tell them to bring ten grand cash for the first buy-in. The blinds are fifty/one hundred.”
I was scribbling furiously, I didn’t understand anything he was saying, but I would try to decipher his words on my own before I dared to ask a question.
He started scrolling through his phone and calling out names and numbers.
“Tobey Maguire . . .”
“Leonardo DiCaprio . . .”
“Todd Phillips . . .”
My eyes widened as the list went on.
“AND DON’T FUCKING TELL ANYBODY.”
“I won’t,” I promised him.
I stared at my yellow notepad. In my handwriting were the names and phone numbers of some of the most famous, most powerful, richest men on the planet. I wished I could reach back through the years and whisper my secret to the thirteen-year-old me, starry-eyed and love struck as I watched Titanic.
When I got home I Googled the words or phrases Reardon had used when instructing me to send out invites to the players. For instance he told me to tell the guys that the “blinds would be fifty/one hundred.” A blind, I found out, is a forced bet to start the action of a game. There is a “small” blind and a “big” blind and they are always the responsibility of the player to the left of the dealer.
Then he said, “Tell the players to bring ten thousand for the first buy-in.” The buy-in is the minimum required amount of chips that must be “bought in order for a player” to become involved in a game. Armed with a little understanding, I started to compose a text.
Hi, Tobey, my name is Molly. Nice to meet you.
LOSER! I thought. Scratch the “nice to meet you.”
I will be running the poker game on Tuesday. Start time will be 7 P.M., please bring 10K cash.
Too bossy?
The buy-in is 10K, all the players will bring cash.
Too passive.
The blinds are—
Stop overthinking, Molly. These are just people and you are just giving them the details for a game with playing cards. I composed a simple text and pressed send. I forced myself into the shower to get ready for my date. I casually dried off, applied lotion, eyeing my phone across the room the whole time.
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I raced over and picked it up.
Every single person I had texted had personally responded, and the majority had done so almost immediately.
I’m in
I’m in
I’m in
I’m in . . .
A delicious chill ran through my body, and suddenly my date with the bartender seemed very uninteresting.
OVER THE NEXT COUPLE DAYS I tried to figure out how to host the perfect poker game. There wasn’t very much information on this subject. I Googled things like “What type of music do poker players like to listen to?” And I made mixes for the game with embarrassingly obvious song choices: “The Gambler” or “Night Moves.”
While I tried out my new sound track to make sure it flowed, I tried on every dress in my closet. The reflection in the mirror disappointed with every attempt. I looked like a young, unsophisticated girl from a small town. In my fantasies, I would sweep into the game dressed in a fitted black dress from one of the most expensive stores on Rodeo, a sexy Jimmy Choo stiletto (Jimmy Choo’s was Reardon’s go-to for shoe gifting), and a strand of Chanel pearls. In reality I had a navy-blue dress with a bow in the back, and my navy-blue heels, a gift from Chad in college. They had certainly seen better days.
ON GAME DAY, I ran around doing errands for Reardon and the company, finding time in between to pick up a cheese plate and some other snacks.
The players texted me, almost compu
lsively, throughout the day. They wanted constant updates on who was confirmed. I felt giddy every time my phone lit up. It was like getting a text message from a boy you really liked, but even better. Reardon kept me late in the office to work on some closing documents for a new development project.
I barely had time to dry my hair and throw on a little makeup. I put on my disappointingly ordinary outfit and decided I would compensate for my lack of elegance by being superfriendly, helpful, and professional. I raced to the Viper Room with my mix tapes and my cheese plate. I tried to light some candles and place a few flower arrangements around the room to make it look more inviting, but it doesn’t get much seedier than the basement of the Viper Room, and flowers and candles aren’t going to change much.
Diego, the dealer, showed up first. He was dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt, and he shook my hand and gave me a friendly smile. Reardon knew him from playing poker at Commerce Casino, a cardroom not too far from L.A. Diego had been dealing cards in casinos and home games for over two decades, and he had probably seen almost every scenario a card game could produce. But even his years of experience couldn’t prepare him for how much this game would change all of our lives.
“You ready for this?” he asked as he unpacked a green felt table.
“Sort of,” I replied.
I watched how quickly his hands moved while he counted and stacked the chips.
“Do you need any help?” I asked politely.
“Do you play?” he replied teasingly. “You don’t look like a poker player.”
“No,” I answered. “This is my first time at a game.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you through it.”
I breathed a little easier. I needed all the help I could get.
Barnaby showed up next, complete with his top hat. He was one of the only ones Reardon had kept on staff. He was manning the door; I gave him the list of names and stressed that he only let people on the list in.
“No problem, honey.”
“Don’t let anyone else in.” I repeated myself several times.
