by Molly Bloom
My brothers cheered.
“You still got it, sister,” Jeremy said proudly.
I smiled widely and pushed L.A., the game, and Reardon out of my head.
Chapter 12
Everyone had confirmed for Tuesday’s game, everyone, that is, but Reardon, who had not received an invite. He wasn’t arriving back from his holiday vacation until late on Tuesday, and before he had fired me and tried to replace me, he asked me to send invites out for a Thursday game only, so that gave me a small degree of comfort.
I arrived at Phillip’s to set up. His house was elegant, with the rustic undertones of a writer’s retreat, all burnished wood and jam-packed bookshelves. His backyard was expansive, wooded, and featured a vine-covered trellis. It all had the feel of something from a Fitzgerald novel. The whole house was elegant and understated, the opposite of the too-much-money-too-little-taste that most L.A. homes reeked of.
I tried to appear composed, but on the inside, I was a mess. If tonight went badly I would lose everything. But if my plan worked, not only would the game be mine, but I would be free of Reardon’s oppressive hold. I was going all in, and it was terrifying, but electrifying too. Suddenly I felt an intimate bond with the players and the game.
Phillip smiled at me when I arrived.
“You look beautiful. This is going to work,” he assured me.
I smiled and gave him a hug.
“Thank you for what you are doing,” I said. I knew this was a risk on Phillip’s part. Reardon was a formidable enemy.
THE PLAYERS BEGAN TO ARRIVE. Bruce Parker, Steve Brill, Todd Phillips, Tobey, Houston Curtis, and Bob Safai; it was a full house. Tobey was the only one who knew about my scheme.
They all seemed thrilled to be in Phillip’s beautiful house, which was in stark contrast to the dark and seedy Viper Room basement. I could tell immediately they felt much more relaxed and comfortable here.
If I take the game over, I told myself, I’ll clean it up. Upgrade. I imagined holding my games in beautiful rooms, with snack tables outfitted with caviar and fine cheeses. I would hire beautiful girls to quietly serve drinks, and the city of Los Angeles would twinkle many stories below my poker penthouse. If these boys were looking for escapism, I would take them all the way.
“Where’s Reardon?” asked Todd.
My heart was in my throat.
“He’s not playing tonight,” Phillip said, sounding casual.
The game started smoothly; I was gratified to see that everyone was having a great time. The only one who looked unhappy was Phillips, who claimed to prefer seediness to the comforts of a lovely home. Phillips was by nature a contrarian and a general troublemaker, which was completely forgivable on account of his dry wit and comedic timing. His brand of humor was dark and caustic and literally had the table in tears on any given night, which is a huge value add at any poker game.
When dinner arrived as usual from Mr. Chow’s, the men opted for a civilized meal as opposed to eating at the table as befitted their surroundings. I arranged the dining room, and they descended on the spread like people who had never seen food before, giving me a second to take a breath. I wandered outside into the fragrant garden. I sat on a carved bench looking up at the sky. The sun was setting and it was that time of day when the light is perfect and the edges soften. Through the French doors, I could see the guys talking, laughing, and gesticulating with their chopsticks.
I want this to work so badly, more than I have ever wanted anything in my whole life. I sat quietly in the garden, periodically checking on my players. I needed to clear plates if they were finished eating. They seemed to be having a serious conversation. My entire body froze. I took a lap around the garden, and when I returned to the bench, I saw Phillip walking toward me. His hands were in his pockets and he was looking down.
“I lost it, didn’t I?” I asked, feeling like I might throw up. It was a risk, and a calculated one, just as Phillip had taught me. I started babbling, telling myself it was just a game. I’d be okay.
“Molly, MOLLY,” he said loudly, stopping me.
“You won, the game is yours,” he said.
A shocked but huge grin spread across my cheeks.
I threw my arms around Phillip and hugged him so hard he laughed.
In fact, it had been a unanimous vote.
“You’re a good, good man, Phillip Whitford,” I said, smiling.
I floated through the rest of the night. Along with my tips that evening, I received a chorus of personal promises to stick by me. Everyone liked Reardon, but they didn’t think he was right to cut me out. Phillip opened a special bottle of champagne when everyone had gone. We sat together on his back porch.
“Why did you help me?” I asked.
“It wasn’t fair and I’m a sucker for the underdog.”
I smiled and drank more champagne.
Suddenly I remembered I had to contend with Reardon.
“It’s not over yet,” I said. “I still have to face Reardon.”
“Do you want me to talk to him?” Phillip offered graciously
“I have to do this alone, but thank you a million times for offering.”
I knew Reardon would find out soon enough. And, although the players had pledged their allegiance to me, I had been around this crew long enough to know that I couldn’t rest easy.
I got home around three thirty. I lay in bed, sleep eluding me.
MY PHONE STARTED TO RING at five thirty the next morning.
“Get over here,” Reardon growled. I had heard him angry, but never like this.
“Coming,” I answered, to nobody. He had already hung up.
I got ready quickly and jumped in my car. The early-morning stillness and the lack of traffic on Sunset made me all the more anxious. The view outside my window went by in slow motion. What was Reardon going to do to me? He went so crazy over the smallest things, what would he do with this? Hurt me? Force me to leave L.A.? I couldn’t even imagine.
I pulled into his driveway and sat in my car for a minute. My face in the mirror looked wan and fearful. You have to face this, I told myself. I took a deep breath and got out of the car.
Reardon made me wait for a few minutes before he answered the door.
“Go wait for me in the guest room,” he said, in the most serious tone I had ever heard him use. His brown eyes were narrowed to slits, and in the half-light of the dawn, they looked almost black.
The guest room was all the way in the back of the house. I had no idea why he was sending me there. Still, I made my way in that direction obediently, and then I waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. My anxiety was growing and I felt like I was going to pass out. I focused on breathing deeply but the breath wasn’t getting past my throat.
Do I let him talk first? Do I assume a tone of strength or passivity? I sat on the bed with my knees folded up under my chin. I didn’t feel strong. I felt like a little girl waiting in the principal’s office. At this point I just wanted him to get whatever he had planned over with. What had I been thinking? My plan seemed so stupid now. Reardon would never let me get away with this.
He finally came in, interrupting the noisy escalation of my thoughts, and took a seat across from me. He didn’t speak at first, just stared, hard and emotionless.
I stared back, as evenly as I could, and tried not to cry. I was about to break down and beg him for forgiveness, promise to come back to work, and walk away from the game completely when I heard his voice from a far-off place.
“I’m proud of you.”
Clearly I had misheard.
“I’m proud of you,” he repeated, and started grinning.
In none of the scenarios I had envisioned was the dialogue anything like this.
“You are?” I asked, ready for him to recant and start screaming at me.
“I am,” he said. “The game is yours. You earned it.”
I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn’t be this lucky. Things didn’t work out like this in real life. I saw
Reardon was smiling at me like a proud father.
My whole body relaxed, maybe for the first time since I had moved to L.A., and a huge grin spread over my face. I had never felt so happy, or been so shocked.
I jumped up and hugged him, for the first time since I met him.
He laughed and shrugged.
“You deserve it, stupid,” he said. “You’re a great student.”
I HAD ARRIVED, I had the game, I had Reardon’s respect, it was almost 2006, time for a new year, a new me. I felt like it was my graduation day.
Reardon patted me on the head.
“Little Moll is growing up,” he said, looking at me with a sense of pride. He switched gears quickly.
“What should we do for New Year’s? We need a roughish plan.”
Part Three
PLAYING THE RUSH
Los Angeles, 2006–2008
Playing the Rush (noun)
A series of results in a game of chance that work out in a gambler’s favor, within a relatively short time frame.
Chapter 13
In an ironic twist, Phillip, Reardon, and I decided to go to Miami together. It was almost an open gesture of peace and concord. Phillip and a couple of his friends from the exclusive private school he had attended as a kid had chartered a yacht for the week. We all purchased first-class tickets. It was the first time I had ever flown first class. I couldn’t believe the difference. The usually stone-faced flight attendants smiled and tucked me into a giant plush leather seat and brought me a glass of champagne. I looked around at the other passengers to see if they were as excited as I was by this royal treatment. They looked bored. I started pressing buttons and the seat turned into a bed. I looked incredulously at Reardon. He laughed. I turned and looked at the coach passengers crammed into their tiny seats and I decided I never wanted to be back there again. The flight attendant then showed me the in-flight entertainment, where I could watch every single current film. When we arrived, a driver was standing at the baggage claim holding a sign with Phillip’s name. He carried our bags to his slick new black Mercedes and informed us the ride wouldn’t be too long. We arrived at the Marina and a member of the crew met us. The marina was full of large, fancy yachts.
“Which one is ours?” I asked, after introducing myself to the guy.
He pointed toward a navy-and-white yacht that looked as big as a cruise ship.
My eyes flew open. Suddenly I felt insecure. I was sure everyone else on the boat was fully accustomed to this lifestyle, and I didn’t want to seem like the one that didn’t belong. I curbed the skip in my step and tried to feign boredom as I had seen the other passengers in first class do.
This boat was incredible, unlike anything I had ever seen. It was a fully functional floating mansion equipped with a formal living and dining room, a gym, even a helicopter. As I assumed, my fellow passengers all seemed at home in this environment. The women were waifish, impossibly glamorous models and socialites. The men were well-dressed playboys who practically reeked of old money. Everyone seemed to have stepped off the pages of Vogue. A crew member named Jason showed me to my room.
“Sunset is in an hour, we will have cocktails on the north deck.”
THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE UNBELIEVABLE. It was like being airdropped into an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. At no point in my middle-class upbringing, no matter how much I fantasized about the kind of life I wanted, had I envisioned the degree of luxury that real money could buy. Reardon, Phillip, and I spent the next few days lazing in the sun on deck and eating sumptuous meals prepared by the boat’s chef. At night, we went to parties on other boats, or headed into South Beach to dance at the clubs, where we were always ushered to the front of the line and treated like royalty.
The clubs also blew my mind. All the clichés of wealth and excess were in full effect in these places. A group of famous models was snorting cocaine off their compacts with hundred-dollar bills. Bottle after bottle of champagne was poured or sprayed . . . I lost count after fifty bottles, which meant that there was $50,000 worth of Dom and Cristal on the floor. Another model was making out with the handsome Greek shipping heir who had become visible due to a high profile relationship with Paris Hilton. A few seconds later, Paris walked into the club and beelined for her ex and his new friend. My eyes flew open as the pretty blond socialite punched the other girl right in the face. I seemed to be the only one noticing the commotion.
No one seemed to care about anything but having fun. There were no rules, no limitations, and no concern for the monstrous bar tab, which I calculated must have been at least $80,000–$100,000 on champagne alone. The models attracted wealthy men, professional athletes, and celebrities. Each night at the club, I tried to overcome my shyness and talk to as many people as possible, casually mentioning poker and collecting names. These lawless playgrounds for the rich and famous were the ultimate fertile ground for finding new players. I was always working that angle. It was amazing how many numbers I got, either from potential players themselves or from someone who knew someone that loved to play. Poker easily broke down walls.
On New Year’s Eve, we went to a party hosted by P. Diddy. Some of the biggest names in music took turns performing. Someone passed me an Ecstasy pill. I had always been afraid of drugs, but I popped it in my mouth. Thirty minutes later I felt like every cell in my body was tingling and I was in a soft bubble of happiness and love. The music, the lights, everything was beautiful and perfect. All I wanted to do was dance. Everyone was my best friend and when midnight came glitter filled the air, and it seemed like everyone in the world wanted to kiss me. We shouted the countdown and I couldn’t remember any other time in my life when I had been happier.
AFTER THE AFTER-PARTY and the after-after-party, the first signs of dawn sent the partygoers fleeing for bed like vampires. My pill had worn off for the most part, but I still felt fuzzy and content.
“Oh my God, I seriously can’t watch the sun come up again,” I overheard a leggy brunette exclaim, leaving a trail of sequins behind her.
“I know, it totallllyyy freaks me out,” said her blond friend, looking the worse for wear.
“Let’s take our Xanax now,” she said, and in unison they popped open matching pill bottles and swallowed the little white pills without anything to drink. When I got back to the boat, I was starving, so I went to the kitchen to fix myself a snack. My ears were still ringing from the loud music in the club and I felt too full of adrenaline to sleep. I grabbed my food and climbed to the very top of the ship. My mind started to return to reality. I sat cross-legged and watched as the sun came up over the ocean. Tomorrow we were going back to L.A. and everything would be different. I had been so high off my victory, and over the fact that my relationship with Reardon had survived my scheme, that I didn’t even think about what taking over the game really meant. I had been under Reardon’s protective, if not oppressive, umbrella. Now it was just me. No fall guy, no crazy lunatic that scared everyone standing behind me. I knew I had a lot to learn, and not a lot of time to study. But somehow I wasn’t scared. I was excited. Anything could happen, and my fate was finally all up to me.
Chapter 14
I returned from Miami filled with energy, my brain flooded with ideas I wanted to implement in the game.
My dad was someone who was always processing and analyzing everything. Discussions were never simple with him, words were dissected, references sourced. Growing up with this was sometimes annoying, but I realized what an important skill this kind of thinking actually was in the real world. In order to really run the game the way I dreamed, to offer value and to make myself irreplaceable, I needed to process and analyze my players. I needed to get inside the psyche of the gambler.
I was aware that this was not a traditional game of poker. The stakes were too high to make it a friendly at-home game, complete with nachos and beer. The players weren’t pros, and they were too rich to be playing for a living.
My game was about escapism. In order to
offer complete escape, I had to offer more than just chips, cards, and a table. I had to sell a dream—a dream of an even better, more exciting life in which the recruit could hobnob with celebrities, beautiful women, and be catered to like he was the most important person at the table.
For the person to be willing to escape into the world of poker, however, he had to have the gene. These players could afford to escape anywhere in the world. I needed them to escape at my table, not in Maui or Aspen. They needed to want to play poker. In a regular setting you could never detect who had the gene. Net worth had nothing to do with it; nor did social class, ethnicity, or career path. This was part of what made the table so interesting—here was an eclectic group, brought together by some sort of genetic mutation. And, for all the negative stigmas, gamblers seem to have an endless reserve of hope and optimism. They all believe they can make something out of nothing. They would show up with renewed hope each week, regardless of the results or outcomes of weeks past. Especially if along with the thrill of the fight came an assistant who handled every aspect of the game and any aspect of their lives if they wanted. That assistant, of course, was me.
So, my assets were an ability to provide escape, a nose for sniffing out those with the gene, creating an environment where the excitement of the win could be fostered, and myself.
Lesson one: make sure your players are always comfortable.
Lesson two: feed the machine new blood.
Lesson three: be irreplaceable.
Lesson four: it’s always about the money. I had clearly learned a lot from my father.
I WENT TO WORK IMMEDIATELY.
I set up appointments at the three most luxurious hotels in Los Angeles.
My first stop was the Peninsula, a quietly elegant hotel that catered to the richest of the rich. I drove onto the cobblestone drive and met the hotel manager, who was polished down to his Prada loafers. After having his staff pull me a foamy cappuccino, he escorted me around the hotel so I could see the dreamy rooms and the manicured grounds.
