Molly’s Game: The Riveting Book that Inspired the Aaron Sorkin Film

Molly’s Game: The Riveting Book that Inspired the Aaron Sorkin Film Molly Bloom NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTUREMolly Bloom reveals how she built one of the most exclusive, high-stakes underground poker games in the world – an insider’s story of excess and danger, glamour and greed.Molly Bloom formed the most elite high-stakes poker game Hollywood had ever seen – she was its mistress, its lion tamer, its agent, and its oxygen. Everyone wanted in, few were invited to the table.In the late 2000s, Molly Bloom, a twentysomething from Loveland Colorado, ran the highest stakes, most exclusive poker game in existence. Hundreds of millions of dollars were won and lost at her table. Molly’s game became the game for those in the know-celebrities, business moguls, and millionaires. Molly staged her games in palatial suites with beautiful views and exquisite amenities. She flew privately, dined at exquisite restaurants, hobnobbed with the heads of Hollywood studios, was courted by handsome leading men, and was privy to the world’s most delicious gossip, until it all came crashing down around her and she lost everything.Molly’s Game is a behind the scenes look at Molly’s game, the life she created, the life she lost, and what she learned in the process. Copyright (#ulink_c3c55e4e-e39b-5f8c-a890-886a3e062546) William Collins An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.WilliamCollinsBooks.com (http://www.WilliamCollinsBooks.com) This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2017 Copyright © Molly Bloom 2014 Molly’s Game Motion Picture Artwork © 2017 MG’S GAME, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Molly Bloom asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Source ISBN: 9780008278366 Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008274436 Version: 2017-12-07 Dedication (#ulink_0124609b-8009-5b8c-821c-5e06714ccea1) This book is dedicated to my mom, Charlene Bloom, who gave me life not once, but twice. Without your fierce love and unwavering support, none of this would have been possible. Contents COVER (#u4407585c-e279-5174-9b83-970b261d9f03) TITLE PAGE (#ucf04acb3-0c24-530a-b0f8-de73f8af0dbb) COPYRIGHT (#uf7d6a9b1-ab52-5c2c-a1fd-5ecdcb81715a) DEDICATION (#ubc7d0410-2273-5a56-9db9-8ff04c7f4c27) AUTHOR’S NOTE (#u658f302e-c294-559c-885b-700082bab3ed) PROLOGUE (#u4ac7cb51-9e92-5254-a828-d43a2159b122) Part One: BEGINNER’S LUCK (#ue62f4409-7beb-5889-9367-285c65a257c3) Chapter 1 (#u03019b34-9bbf-517b-bdff-9e5561e3c4b9) Chapter 2 (#ub96675d0-8669-5b45-afe6-2657835aefc8) Chapter 3 (#u5af0236d-cfa8-5ef6-9ebb-bfb8161c64c9) Chapter 4 (#ud936040f-88d7-52ad-93cf-45bf7149a96a) Chapter 5 (#u47d8d529-6934-50f0-801e-fca5d1fbda52) Chapter 6 (#u575cb272-cf2d-5246-aa95-90472568e1f1) Part Two: HOLLYWOODING (#ueea01589-cbc6-59cb-9be4-01e3a41049a4) Chapter 7 (#u305e26f7-a835-5d37-b2fe-8a96a651b95a) Chapter 8 (#u72229339-1cdd-5c87-839f-4e7245ce7e64) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Part Three: PLAYING THE RUSH (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Part Four: COOLER (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Part Five: A CHIP AND A CHAIR (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Part Six: COLD DECK (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo) ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo) ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo) ABOUT THE PUBLISHER (#litres_trial_promo) Author’s Note (#ulink_12f4d6b0-19b4-5220-886d-28c234aeb6f3) The events and experiences that follow are all true. In some places, I’ve changed the names, identities, and other specifics of individuals in order to protect their privacy and integrity, and especially to protect their right to tell—or not to tell—their own stories if they so chose. The conversations I re-create come from my clear recollections of them, though they are not written to represent word-for-word transcripts. Instead, I’ve retold them in a way that evokes the real feeling and meaning of what was said, in keeping with the true essence, mood, and spirit of the exchanges. Prologue (#ulink_ded3f8b9-0b78-54c1-9c94-6f25f75f5000) I am standing in my hallway. It’s early morning, maybe five o’clock. I’m wearing a sheer white lace nightgown. High-beam, fluorescent light blinds me. “PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR,” a man’s voice yells—he sounds aggressive but emotionless … I raise my trembling hands and my eyes slowly adjust to the light. I am facing a wall of uniformed federal agents stacked back as far as I can see. They are armed with assault weapons—machine guns, guns I have only seen in movies are now pointed at me. “Walk toward us, slowly,” the voice commands. There is a detachment, a lack of humanity in the tone. I realize that they believe I am a threat, the criminal they have been trained to apprehend. “SLOWER!” the voice warns menacingly. I walk on trembling legs, putting one foot in front of the other. It is the longest walk of my life. “STAY VERY STILL, NO SUDDEN MOVEMENT,” warns another deep voice. Fear grips my body, making it hard to breathe; the dark hallway begins to look blurry. I am worried I may pass out. I imagine my white negligee covered in blood, and I force myself to stay conscious. Finally, I reach the front of the line, and I feel someone grab me, and push me roughly up against a concrete wall. I feel hands patting me down, running all along my body; then cold steel handcuffs close tightly around my wrists. “I have a dog, her name is Lucy, please don’t hurt her,” I plead. After what feels like an eternity, a female agent yells, “CLEAR!” The man holding me guides me to my couch. Lucy runs over to me and licks my legs. It kills me to see her so afraid and I try not to cry. “Sir,” I say shakily to the man who handcuffed me. “Can you please tell me what’s going on? I think there must be some mistake.” “You are Molly Bloom, aren’t you?” I nod my head. “Then there is no mistake.” He places a piece of paper in front of me. I lean forward, my hands still cuffed tightly behind my back. I can’t get past the first line, in black bold letters. The United States of America v. Molly Bloom Part One (#ulink_d8832516-f497-5aa5-bdd1-48f4025876b3) Beginner’s Luck (noun) The supposed phenomenon of a poker novice experiencing a disproportionate frequency of success. Chapter 1 (#ulink_a73a91b1-e2d3-5955-899f-7c64b0c0f2ff) For the first two decades of my life, I lived in Colorado, in a small town called Loveland, forty-six miles north of Denver. My father was handsome, charismatic, and complicated. He was a practicing psychologist and a professor at Colorado State University. The education of his children was of paramount importance to him. If my brothers and I didn’t bring home A’s and B’s, we were in big trouble. That being said, he always encouraged us to pursue our dreams. At home he was affectionate, playful, and loving, but when it came to our performance in school and athletics, he demanded excellence. He was filled with a fiery passion that at times was so intense, it was almost terrifying. Nothing was “recreational” in our family; everything was a lesson in pushing past the limits and being the best we could possibly be. I remember one summer my father woke us up early for a family bike ride. The “ride” ended up involving a grueling vertical climb of three thousand feet at an altitude of almost eleven thousand feet. My youngest brother, Jeremy, must have been six or so, and he rode a bike without gears. I can still see him pedaling his little heart out to keep up, and my dad yelling and screaming like a banshee at him and the rest us to ride faster and push harder, and no complaining allowed. Many years later I asked my dad where his fervor came from. He paused; he had three grown kids who had far surpassed any expectations he could have dreamed of for them. At this point he was older, less fiery, and more introspective. “It’s one of two things,” he told me. “In my life and my career, I have seen what the world can do to people, especially girls. I wanted to make sure you kids had the best possible shot.” He paused again. “Or, I saw you all as extensions of myself.” From the other direction, my mother taught us compassion. She believed in being kind to every living thing and she led by example. My beautiful mother is the most gentle and loving person I have ever known. She is smart and competent, and instead of pushing us to conquer and win, she encouraged us to dream, and took it upon herself to nurture and facilitate those dreams. When I was very young, I loved costumes, so naturally Halloween was my favorite holiday. I would wait anxiously each year, laboring over who or what I would be that year. My fifth Halloween I couldn’t choose between a duck and a fairy. I told my mother I wanted to be a duck-fairy. My mother kept a straight face. “Well then, duck-fairy you shall be.” She stayed up all night constructing the costume. I, of course, looked ridiculous but her nonjudgmental support of individuality inspired my brothers and me to live outside the box and forge our own paths. She fixed the cars, mowed the lawn, invented educational games, created treasure hunts, was on every PTA board, and still made sure she looked beautiful and had a drink in hand for my father when he got home from work. My parents parented according to their strengths: my brothers and I were guided by their combined feminine and masculine energies. Their polarity molded us. MY FAMILY WENT SKIING EVERY WEEKEND during my childhood. We would pile into the Wagoner and drive two hours to our one-bedroom condo in Keystone. No matter what the conditions were—blizzards, stomachaches, sixty below zero, we were always the first ones on the mountain. Jordan and I were talented, but my brother Jeremy was a prodigy. We all soon caught the attention of the head coach of the local mogul team and we began training and soon even competing. During the summers, we spent our days water skiing, biking, running, hiking. My brothers played Pee Wee football, baseball, and basketball. I started competing in gymnastics and running 5K races. We were always moving, always training to go faster, be stronger, push harder. We didn’t resent any of it. It was what we knew. At twelve, I was running a 5K when I felt a white-hot pain between my shoulder blades. After a unanimous first, second, and third opinion, I was scheduled for emergency spinal surgery. I had a rapid onset of scoliosis. My parents waited nervously during my seven-hour surgery while the doctors cut me open from neck to tailbone and carefully straightened my spine (which looked like an S and was curved at sixty-three degrees) by extracting bone from my hip, fusing the eleven curved vertebrae together, and fastening metal rods to the fused segment. Afterward, my doctor gently but firmly informed me that my competitive sports career was over. He droned on, telling me all the activities I could not do and how one can lead a very fulfilling and normal life, but I had stopped listening. Quitting skiing was simply not an option. It was woven too tightly into the fabric of my family. I spent a year recovering. I was homeschooled and I had to spend most of the day in bed. I watched longingly as my family left every weekend without me, sitting in bed while they flew down the slopes or went out on the lake. I felt ashamed of my brace and my physical limitations. I felt like an outsider. I became even more determined to not let my surgery affect my life. I longed to feel a part of my family again; to feel the pride and hear the praise of my father, instead of the pity. With each lonely day I grew more and more determined to never again sit life out. As soon as the X-rays showed that my vertebrae had successfully fused, I was back on the mountain, skiing with a fierce determination, and by midseason I was winning in my age division. By then, my younger brother Jeremy had taken the freestyle skiing world by storm. He was ten years old and already dominating the sport. He was also exceptional in track and football. His coaches told my father they had never seen anyone as talented as Jeremy. He was our golden boy. My brother Jordan was also a talented athlete, but his mind was his greatest attribute. He loved to learn. He loved to take things apart and figure out how to put them back together. He didn’t want to hear imaginary bedtime stories; he wanted to hear stories about real people in history. My mom had a new story every night for him, about great world leaders or visionary scientists, and she researched the facts and wove them into engaging tales. From a very young age, Jordan knew he wanted to be a surgeon. I remember his favorite stuffed animal, Sir Dog. Sir Dog was Jordan’s first patient and underwent so many procedures he began to look like Frankenstein. My dad was delighted with his brilliant son and his ambition. My brothers’ talents and ambitions presented early and I watched those gifts earn them the accolades that I desperately wanted. I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others. (My mom had initially suggested this, but I quickly became fascinated.) I was moved by their bravery and determination, and I decided right then and there, I didn’t want to settle for an ordinary life. I craved adventure; I wanted to leave my mark. When my brothers and I reached our teenage years, Jordan’s academic prowess continued to surpass his peers. He was two years younger than I was when he tested out of his grade’s science and math classes and was placed in mine. Jeremy broke records in track, led the football team to the state championship, and was a local hero. My grades were high, and I was a good, sometimes great, athlete. But still, I hadn’t unearthed any talent as impressive as those of my brothers. The feelings of inadequacy increased and drove me almost obsessively to somehow prove my worth. As we got older, I watched my father invest himself more and more in my brothers’ goals and dreams. I became tired of always being on the outside, I wanted the attention and approval too. The issue was that I was a dreamer, and inspired by the heroines in my books. I had grand ambitions that fell far outside my father’s pragmatism. But I still desperately craved his approval. “Jeremy is going to be an Olympian, and Jordan will be a doctor. What should I be, Dad?” I asked him on an early morning chairlift. “Well, you like to read and argue,” he started, which felt like a thorny compliment. In fairness, I was that annoying teenager who questioned every opinion or decision my parents made. “You should be an attorney.” And so it was decreed. I went off to college, I studied political science, and I continued to compete in skiing. I pledged a sorority, in an effort to be well rounded, but when the organization’s mandatory social requirements got in the way of my real goals, I quit. I had to work hard for my grades, and even harder to overcome my physical limitations in skiing. I was obsessed with success, I was driven by an innate ambition, but more than that by a need for praise and recognition The year I made the U.S. national ski team, my dad had a sit-down with me. “Shouldn’t you focus on school, Molly? I mean how far are you going to go with this thing? You have far exceeded any expectations anyone had of you.” Though they never said it, everyone had pretty much stopped taking my skiing career seriously after my back surgery. I was devastated. Instead of the visions I had of my father looking at me with the same proud smile he gave Jeremy the year before when he had made the national team, he was trying to talk me out of it. The hurt only further fueled my determination. If no one else would believe in me, I would believe in myself. That year Jeremy finished third overall in the country, and to the shock of my family, so did I. I remember standing tall on the podium, a medal around my neck and my long hair in a ponytail. I got home that night and ignored the pain in my back and neck. I was tired of living with pain and pretending it wasn’t there. I was exhausted from trying to keep up with my superstar brother and I was especially tired of feeling like I had to constantly prove myself. Still, I had made the U.S. Ski Team and I had placed third overall. I felt satisfied. It was time to move on—on my own terms now. I RETIRED FROM SKIING. I didn’t really want to be around for the fallout from that decision, though I suspected that despite my third-place finish, my father would still be relieved. To get away, I signed up for a study abroad in Greece. I instantly fell in love with the unfamiliarity and uncertainty involved in being in a foreign place. Everything was a discovery, a riddle to solve. Suddenly my world became a lot bigger than seeking my father’s approval. Somewhere, someone else was winning a blue ribbon in women’s moguls, or acing an exam, but frankly I didn’t care. I was especially enamored with the Gypsies in Greece. When I think about them now, they weren’t so unlike gamblers—seeking out angles, adventure, ignoring rules, and living an unfettered, free life. I made friends with some Gypsy kids in Crete. Their parents had been rounded up and shipped back to Serbia, so they were on their own. The Greeks are very wary of foreigners, understandable for a nation that has had a long history of occupation. I bought these kids food, and medicine for their baby. I spoke conversational Greek, and their Gypsy dialect was similar enough that we were able to communicate. The leader of the Gypsies’ tribe heard about what I had done for the children and invited me to their camp. That was an amazing experience. I decided to do my honors thesis on the legal treatment of nomadic people. It saddened me that these people couldn’t travel freely, as they had done for hundreds of years, and it seemed they had no advocates or representation. Their way of life was entirely free. It was so different from the life I had known. They loved music, food, dancing, falling in love, and when a place became stale they went somewhere else. This particular tribe was opposed to stealing, and instead focused on art and commerce to make their living. I spent an extra three months after my program ended traveling by myself, staying in hostels, meeting interesting people, and exploring new places. I returned to the States a different girl. I still cared about school, but now I cared just as much about life experience and adventure. And then I met Chad. Chad was good-looking, fast-talking, and brilliant. He was a deal maker and a hustler. He taught me about wine, took me to expensive restaurants, took me to my first opera, gave me amazing books to read. Chad is the one who took me to California for the first time. I’ll never forget the drive along the Pacific Coast Highway. I couldn’t believe this place was real. We went to Rodeo Drive, had lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Time seemed to slow down, as if Los Angeles was one never-ending perfect day. I watched the beautiful people—they all seemed so content and happy. Los Angeles felt almost dreamlike and not governed by reality. I had started to rethink my plan to live in Greece, and Los Angeles solidified my thoughts; I wanted to take a year off to be free, no plan, no structure, and just live. I had chased winter (even during the summers my brother and I would attend ski camp on the glaciers in British Columbia) and the dreams of what I thought my father had in store for me for as long as I could remember. I was filled with excitement at the idea of an uncharted path. Law school could wait, it was just a year. Chad tried everything to get me to stay in Colorado, including buying me an adorable beagle puppy. But my mind was made up. I appreciated what Chad had given me—which were the tools to create a new life—but I didn’t love him. He let me keep the dog. I named her Lucy. She was so badly behaved that she got kicked out of every puppy day care and obedience class I took her to. But she was sweet and smart and she loved and needed me. It was nice to be needed. No matter how much I tried to explain my decision, my parents refused to fund my undefined California hiatus. I had saved about $2,000 from a babysitting job I had taken over the summer. I had one friend in L.A. named Steve, who had been on the ski team with me. He had reluctantly agreed to a limited stay on his couch. “You need to have a plan,” he lectured me over the phone one day while I was driving on the highway to Los Angeles. “L.A. isn’t like Colorado, nobody will notice you here,” he said, trying to prepare me for the harsh reality of this place. But when I put my mind to something, nothing and nobody can dissuade me; it’s been a strength and, at times, a huge detriment. “Mmm-hmm,” I said, staring at the desert horizon, halfway to my next adventure. Lucy sat copilot, sleeping. “What is your plan? Do you even have one?” Steve asked. “Of course, I’ll get a job and get off your couch, and then I’ll take over the world,” I joked. He sighed. “Drive safely,” he said. Steve always had been risk-averse. I hung up the phone and fixed my eyes on the road ahead. IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT when the 405 started descending into Los Angeles. There were so many lights, and each light had a story. It was so unlike the stretches of darkness in Colorado. In L.A., the light far outweighed the dark—the lights represented a whole world waiting to be discovered. Steve had made up the couch for Lucy and me and we crashed hard after our seventeen-hour drive. I woke up early, and the sun was streaming through the windows. I took Lucy outside for a walk. L.A. smelled heavenly, like sunshine and flowers. But if I wanted to stay, I needed to get a job STAT. I had a little waitressing experience and I felt like that was my best bet since you could make tips right away as opposed to waiting for a weekly paycheck. Steve was up when I returned. “Welcome to L.A.,” he said. “Thanks, Steve. Where do you think is the best place for me to get a waitressing job?” “Beverly Hills would be the best, but it’s really hard. Every pretty girl is an out-of-work actress or model and they are all waitresses, it’s not like—” “I know, Steve, I know it’s not Colorado.” I smiled. “How do I get to Beverly Hills?” He gave me directions and wished me luck with doubtful eyes. He was right, most places I tried were not hiring. I was greeted icily by one pretty hostess after another who gave me a disdainful once-over and explained haughtily that they were fully staffed and I could fill out an application but it would be a waste of time because there were so many other applicants. I was starting to lose hope as I walked into a last restaurant on the street. “Hi! Are you hiring?” I asked with my biggest, brightest, most hopeful smile. Instead of being a slender, perfectly put-together mean girl, the person in front of me was a man in his ’forties. “Are you an actress?” he asked suspiciously. “No.” “Model?” “No.” I laughed. I was five four on my tallest day. “Is there any reason you would ever have to go to a casting?” “Sir, I don’t even know what that means.” His face relaxed. “I have a breakfast shift. You need to be here at five A.M., and when I say five A.M., I mean four forty-five A.M.” I smiled bigger to conceal my horror at this ungodly hour. “No problem,” I said firmly. “You’re hired,” he said, then explained to me about the uniform, which was a pressed, heavily starched, white dress shirt, a tie, and black pants. “Don’t be late, I don’t tolerate tardiness.” he said, and walked away quickly to berate some poor employee. IT WAS STILL DARK when I drove to the restaurant. I had borrowed an oversized shirt and tie from Steve. I looked like a puffy penguin. My new boss, Ed, was already inside, along with another waitress. There was only one customer. He led me through the restaurant explaining my duties and informing me proudly that he had worked there for fifteen years, and he basically, as far as I was concerned, owned the place. He was the only one who had the ear of the owner, who was very rich and very important, and if I saw him I was never to address him unless Ed had instructed me to do so. The owner had many rich, important friends, known as VIP’s, and we were to treat them all like God. After my training session, Ed dispatched me to serve. “VIP,” Ed mouthed dramatically. I gave him a thumbs-up, trying to hide my contempt. The customer was a cute little old man. I walked up with a megawatt smile. “Hi there! How is your morning so far?” He looked up, his pale watery eyes squinting at me. “Aren’t you something. Are you new?” I smiled. “I am. It’s my first day.” He nodded. “Thought so, turn around,” he demanded, tracing a circle in the air with bony fingers. I turned around, and looked at the front of the restaurant, trying to see what he wanted me to see. There was nothing of note. I looked back at him, confused. He was nodding in approval. “I’d like you to be my special friend,” he said. “I’ll pay your bills and you can help me out.” He winked. Now I was utterly confused, and my face must have shown it. “I’m a diabetic,” he began. “So I can’t even get it up,” he continued, reassuring me. “I just want affection and attention.” My expression went from confused to aghast. Oh my God, this old man who could’ve have been my grandfather was propositioning me. I was mortified. I felt the blood rush to my face. I wanted to tell him off, but I had been taught to always respect my elders. I wasn’t sure how to handle this. I had to find Ed. I mumbled something and rushed off. I approached Ed, my face burning. “Ed, I know he’s a VIP but he …” and I whispered the proposal into Ed’s ear. Ed looked at me blankly “So what’s the problem? I thought I discussed the policy on VIP’s.” I looked at him incredulously. “Are you serious? I’m definitely NOT going back over there. Can someone else take the table?” I asked. “Molly, it’s not even two hours into your shift and you’re already causing problems. You should count yourself lucky that one of the VIP’s has taken a liking to you.” I felt my chest fill with hot anger. Ed looked at me with a sneer. “That offer might be the best you will ever have in this town.” I rushed out of that restaurant as fast as I could, but the tears were coming hard and fast. I ducked into an alley and tried to pull myself together. STILL WEARING MY UNIFORM, I walked toward my car. A shiny silver Mercedes sped by at an alarming speed and pulled onto the sidewalk in front of me, nearly obliterating me. Perfect. Could this day get any worse? A young, good-looking guy wearing army fatigues and a rhinestone-skull T-shirt exited the coupe, slamming the door and shouting at his cell phone. He stopped screaming as I passed him. “Hey, are you a waitress?” I looked down at my uniform. “No. Yes. Well, I mean, I …” I stumbled for words. “You either are or you’re not, it’s not a hard question,” he demanded impatiently “Okay, yes,” I said. “Stay there,” he ordered. “ANDREW!” he yelled. A man in a chef’s coat walked out of a restaurant and approached us. “Look, I found you your waitress, so stop crying. FUCK! Do I have to do everything around here?” “Does she have experience?” “How the fuck should I know?” the man barked. Andrew sighed and said, “Come with me.” We walked inside a restaurant, which was filled with frenetic energy: the construction workers—drilling, pounding, polishing; the designer in midtizzy because he ordered powder-pink peonies, and not soft pink, bartenders stocking the bar, and the waiters doing side work. “Our soft opening is tonight,” said Andrew. “We’re short-staffed and construction isn’t even finished.” He wasn’t complaining. He was just worn down. I followed him into a beautiful vine-covered courtyard, an oasis amid the chaos. We sat on a wooden bench, and he began to grill me. “How do you know Reardon?” he asked. I assumed that Reardon was the terrifying man with the silver Mercedes. “Um, he almost hit me with his car,” I answered, Andrew laughed appreciatively. “Sounds about right,” “How long have you been in L.A.?” he asked kindly “About thirty-six hours,” “I said. “From where?” “Colorado.” “Something tells me you don’t have fine dining experience.” “My mom taught the manners class at my school, and I’m a fast learner,” I offered. He laughed. “Okay, Colorado, I have a feeling I’m going to regret it, but we will give you a shot.” “What’s your policy on VIP’s?” I asked. “It’s Beverly Hills. Everyone is a fucking VIP,” he said. “So hypothetically, if a gross, perverted old man tries to solicit you, do you have to wait on them?” “I’ll throw them out on their old ass,” I smiled. “When do I start?” Chapter 2 (#ulink_91d742cc-a51c-5650-b4ed-4a7aa0cb1193) From the outside, Boulevard, the restaurant where I’d just been hired, looked dark and mysterious. When I walked in, I saw the young Hollywood set lounging on suede ottomans and leather banquettes. I felt as if I were crashing a private party. I arrived thinking it would be like the other jobs I’d had. I would receive some training and then start, but that wasn’t the kind of place Reardon Green ran: it was sink or swim in his world. Everyone was rushing around, nobody had a second to answer a question, and I was constantly in the way. I stood in the middle of the whirlwind and took a deep breath. It appeared I didn’t have any tables assigned to me yet, so I started doing laps around the restaurant clearing plates and refilling drinks. I placed a lemon-drop martini in front of a woman I recognized from some show on television. “Oh, actually, can you bring me the whole lemon?” she asked me. She turned to her fellow diners. “I like to cut it myself—just to make sure it’s really fresh. You see them sitting out there in those plastic bins covered with flies.” She shuddered and the whole table shuddered with her. Of course, then they all wanted to garnish their own drinks now. I was sent off to find an orange, a lemon, and a lime. The walk to the kitchen took me past tables full of celebrities and socialites, and I tried not to stare at the A-list faces I had seen in magazines but never in person. As I pushed through the kitchen doors, the noise of the dining room receded behind me. The kitchen had its own sound, a symphony of orders and acquiescences, the clink of plates, the thud of heavy iron pots, and the hiss of meat hitting a pan. Andrew was screaming at the sous-chefs and hurrying plates to go out to the tables. I rushed through it all and made for the fridge, trying not to bother anyone or get in the way. In my hurry, I turned the wrong way and found myself in a supply closet where Cam, one of the owners, was leaning back against a mountain of paper towels with his pants around his ankles. I stopped dead in my tracks. This was by far the most humiliating moment of my life. “Sorry!” I whispered, still frozen in my tracks. He smiled at me, affable and completely unembarrassed. “What’s up!” he said. “Wanna be in my movie?” He pointed toward the security camera on the ceiling and widened his boyish grin, raising his hand for me to high-five him. The girl who squatted on her knees in front of him giggled. I did not want to insult him, so I gingerly leaned over the girl and quickly slapped his palm. Then I fled as fast as I could, my face burning with embarrassment. What had I signed on for? A WEEK AFTER I STARTED WORKING at the restaurant, I went to a party with Steve. I was standing and listening to everybody talk about the pilots they were shooting and the scripts they were writing, feeling very much like an outsider, when a pretty girl grabbed my hand. “Who cares?” she whispered in my ear. “Let’s take a shot!” She was dressed head to toe in designer clothes, carrying a bag that was worth more than my car. I followed her into the kitchen. Three tequila shots later, she was my new best friend. Blair was a party girl, but she was down-to-earth and kind, and she seemed not to have a care in the world. She was the heir to a peanut butter fortune, and her family had houses all over the world, including Beverly Hills, where she had spent her childhood before being shipped off to a fancy private school in New York. A couple of young girls walked into the kitchen, and Blair flinched. I recognized one of the girls from a popular MTV reality show. “Oh shit!” Blair said, grabbing the tequila bottle with one hand and my arm with the other. She dragged me into a bathroom down the hallway. “I hooked up with that girl’s boyfriend and she caught us. She wants to kill me!” I started laughing as she tipped the bottle back and took a swig. We spent most of the night in the massive marble bathroom, laughing and taking shots, talking about our lives and our big plans for the future. I told her about my living situation—because in a week I wouldn’t have one. Steve had laid down the law. “Oh my God! Move in with me!” she squealed. “My apartment is gorgeous, you will love it. I totally have an extra room.” In one drunken night, hiding in a bathroom from a scorned reality star, I found a new comrade and a place to live. That was L.A. You just never knew what would happen when you left the house. I DIDN’T LOVE WAITING TABLES, and to be honest, I was pretty terrible at it, but the restaurant was a way into this strange new world, composed of three primary layers: the staff, the customers, and my bosses. The staff was not your normal restaurant employees. They were all aspiring musicians, models, or actresses and most of them were actually very talented. The waiters were usually aspiring actors who treated their restaurant position simply as a role they were playing. I observed them as they got into character, put their ego aside, and became who they needed to be for the table: flirt, the frat boy, the confidant. The bartenders were usually musicians or models. The girls were sexy and glamorous, and they knew how to work a room. I studied their ability to be flirtatious and coy at the same time. I practiced doing my hair and makeup the way they did, and I took note of the sexy outfits they put together. I tried to make myself small, and take it all in. The customers were larger than life: celebrities, rock stars, CEO’s, finance wizards, actual princes; you never knew who would show up. Most of them had a pretty healthy sense of entitlement, and keeping them happy all the time was next to impossible. I learned little tricks, though, like speaking to the women first and primarily (for the date tables) or being efficient but invisible during business lunches. I was good at reading human behavior but terrible at food service. I was constantly dropping plates, forgetting to clear certain forks, and I was a disaster at opening wine in the ceremonious way the owners required. But to me, the most interesting characters of all were Reardon and his two partners. Reardon was brilliant, impatient, volatile, and impossible. He was the brains of the operation. Cam was the son of one of the richest men in the world. His monthly trust-fund checks were enough to buy a small island. He seemed to take little interest in the business and, as far as I could tell, spent his time womanizing, partying, gambling, and indulging in every hedonistic vice you could imagine. He was the money; his role was signing off as the guarantor. Sam had grown up with Cam. He had brilliant people skills. He was charming, hilarious, and he knew how to schmooze better than anybody I had ever seen. I guess he was the head of marketing and client relations. Watching the three of them interact was like observing a new species. They did not live in the same world I had known for the last twenty-some years. They were over the top, unfazed by consequence and had a total disregard for rules and structure. THE FORMULA AT THE RESTAURANT was the same as at any in Beverly Hills that hoped to survive—provide the discerning customer with the best of everything. The partners had spent a small fortune on Frette linens, Riedel glassware, and wines from the finest vineyards. The servers were attractive and professional, the chef was world-renowned, and the decor was beautiful. The inviting atmosphere that the staff created was part of our act. Our politeness was the curtain that concealed the frenzy that was always threatening to surface. You see, the bosses expected perfection and professionalism—that is, until they got a couple drinks in them and would easily forget their carefully laid plans. One Sunday morning, I went to open the restaurant for brunch, and discovered that Sam, a DJ, and a bunch of girls were still there partying. Sam had turned our fine dining restaurant into his very own seedy after-hours club. I tried explaining to him that I needed to open the large suede curtains and remove the makeshift DJ booth so that I could ready the restaurant for service. He replied in gibberish. “Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb …” he garbled, and closed the curtains as quickly as I opened them. I called Reardon. “Sam is still here partying. He won’t leave and he won’t let me open the restaurant, what should I do?” “Goddammit! Fuck! Put Sam on the phone. I’m coming down there.” I handed Sam the phone. “Dumb dumb dumb dumb,” he continued to Reardon, and handed me back the phone. “Get him in a cab!!” yelled Reardon. I looked around the room, but Sam had disappeared. “Wait, I think he’s gone,” I said. Just then, I looked out the window. Sam, with his large-face gold Rolex, polished Prada shoes, and beige silk pants, was outside boarding a bus. I ran out to try to stop him. I started laughing into the phone. “What’s going on, what’s he doing?” Reardon demanded. “He’s getting on the bus to downtown L.A.” “As in public transportation?” “Yep,” I replied as a happy and obliterated Sam waved cheerfully to me from his seat on the bus. “Jesus.” Reardon sighed. “Tell the Hammer to pick him up.” The Hammer was the guys’ security slash limo driver slash money collector. I heard he had recently gotten out of jail for something, but no one would tell me what. I called the Hammer, who grumpily agreed to take the “sled,” which was what Sam had named the company limo, to find Sam somewhere in the streets of downtown. When I hung up and turned around, the DJ and the girls were just about to open a thousand-dollar bottle of Louis XIII champagne. I swooped in and grabbed the bottle. “No, no, no! Time to go home, guys,” I said. I turned off the music like a parent busting up a party and ushered them out onto the street. I managed to get the restaurant open in time for brunch and the Hammer eventually found Sam walking the streets of Compton with a bottle of Cristal champagne and some interesting friends. It seemed like every day at the restaurant was more absurd than the last, but it wasn’t ever boring. Chapter 3 (#ulink_7417f6c3-e4fd-5ce4-b592-eddfc2157947) You’re the worst fucking waitress we’ve ever seen,” Reardon barked to me after a shift one day. I was aware of the limitations of my aptitude for servitude, but the worst ever? Really? My stomach plunged … Was I getting fired? “The worst,” he repeated. “But there’s something about you. Everybody likes you. People come back just to talk to you.” “Thanks?” I said tentatively. “Why don’t you come work for us?” I looked at him in confusion. “For our real-estate development fund. We just raised two hundred and fifty million dollars.” “What would I do?” I asked, treading carefully. “Don’t ask stupid questions. What do you care? It’s better than serving food and you’ll learn a lot.” I snorted under my breath, thinking of all the ridiculous shenanigans I had seen in the last couple months. “Oh, you think you’re smart? You’re not fucking smart. You don’t know anything about the way the world works.” It wasn’t a very gracious job offer, but I wasn’t getting fired either. So I said, “Okay, I’ll do it.” “No shit,” replied Reardon. WORKING AT THE REAL-ESTATE FUND eliminated the other layers from my life and it was all Reardon, Sam, and Cam, all the time. They were like their own fraternity. They had their own rules, they even had their own language. It goes without saying that they were from a completely different world than I was. What seemed like once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to me—Sundance, Oscar parties, yacht trips—were their casual weekend plans. Their friends were celebrities, famous athletes, billionaires, and socialites. I began to spend my days and nights doing various tasks for them, always watching from the sidelines, secretly hoping to be invited into their club. Reardon would come into my office at 8:30 P.M. on a Friday and say, “Get me a reservation for nine tonight at [insert the name of the hottest, most impossible restaurant to get a reservation at here].” I would call and the hostess would laugh and hang up. “They’re fully booked,” I would tell him. He would then erupt in a fury: “You’re the biggest fucking idiot I’ve ever met. What’s wrong with you? How do you expect to get anywhere in life if you can’t even get a reservation at some stupid fucking restaurant.” He made me so nervous that I would start garbling my words or tugging on my hair. “Speak! Speak! Don’t touch your face. Don’t fumble around!” he would demand. That was the scenario for my early learning curve; every day felt like I was on the front lines of battle. One morning he called at five thirty, waking me up. “Need you in the office, now,” he ordered. “Pick up bagels.” He hung up. Reardon never said hello or good-bye. He was a straight-to-the-point kind of guy. I groaned and dragged myself into the shower. I barely had time to dry off before I received a follow-up text message. Where the fuck are you? I drove as fast as I could to the office hoping to pass a bagel shop. The only thing I saw was the Pink Dot grocery. I ran in and grabbed some bagels and cream cheese. My hair was wet and my eyes were barely open, but I made it to the office, with breakfast, in record time. “Where are my bagels?” said Reardon, in lieu of “good morning.” I placed the bag on his desk. He ripped open the bag. Reardon never just opened things, he annihilated everything in his path. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” he yelled. I jumped. By now I should have been used to the sudden fury that Reardon could unleash, but it still took me by surprise sometimes. “Are these from PINK DOT?” Apparently Pink Dot was a low-rent, late-night kind of grocery store. “You might as well have stopped at a FUCKING homeless shelter!” he screamed. “I DO NOT EAT FUCKING BAGELS FROM FUCKING PINK DOT. THESE ARE FUCKING POOR PEOPLE BAGELS.” He hurled the bag at me. I ducked just in time. “Where would you like me to get your bagels in the future?” I asked in a deliberately calm voice, hoping my adultlike tone would allow him to see he was behaving like a temperamental two-year-old. “Go get the car,” he barked. I chauffeured him to Greenblatt’s to pick up bagels for real “players.” He had me drop him off at his meeting. “Wait here,” he said. “For how long?” I asked. “Until I come back, stupid.” He laughed, slamming the door. EVENTUALLY REARDON STARTED BRINGING ME to the meetings instead of making me wait outside. I observed him closely. Reardon was a master negotiator. He was able to convince really smart people to make really stupid decisions. He would walk into a meeting, and by the time he walked out, he was carrying signed agreements that met all of his insane demands: he would assume none of the risk and had the final say in all decisions. It didn’t matter who his opponent was, he outplayed them every time. I came to recognize the checkmate moment in which the Ivy League guy with his custom suit and air of arrogance would suddenly realize the guy wearing army fatigues and a skull T-shirt, who had partied his way through a state university, had just crushed him. I had to hide my smile as Mr. Pedigree’s elitist expression deflated into withering defeat. There was no university on the planet that could have prepared me for the education I got from Reardon. It was baptism by fire. It was frustrating, and it was challenging, but I loved every class. I loved the show. I loved watching him succeed. In order to survive in his world, I had to learn how to operate well under pressure, and so he tightened the screws in order to teach me. Reardon was like a more extreme version of my father, always pushing me, never allowing me to take it easy, wanting to make me tough. He gave me a Wall Street–style education, the kind that guys give guys down on the floor or at the trading desk, the kind that women rarely get. I started to see the world for what it was, or at least his world. I also saw that there were more than just the traditional, safe routes to success. Reardon became my grad school and I studied how he operated. Law school wasn’t even on my radar anymore. Reardon was a master strategist. He knew how to analyze a deal, and if he recognized opportunity, he would capitalize on it. It didn’t matter if it was something he had no experience in, he would learn. Study it day and night, until he figured it out. The lessons I got from Reardon on how to actually conduct business were, however, ludicrously short on detail. “We’re going to Monaco, Molly. Take care of the company.” They’d go party for four weeks; all the while documents that needed their signatures would be piling up. “Hey, Molly, take care of the escrow.” “What’s an escrow?” “Fucking figure it out, stupid.” If I didn’t get or do exactly what Reardon wanted, he would go crazy, and when he finally dismissed me, I would go home and turn off all the lights, get in the bathtub, and cry. Or I would drink wine with Blair after she had come home from being at an actual party with actual people, or on an actual date, and weep to her about my nonexistent social life. “So come out,” she would say, shaking her head at my stupidity. I wasn’t even being paid that well; she couldn’t understand why I was hanging on so tightly to something that was making me so miserable. Blair didn’t see what I saw. As much as I had intended on spending my year in L.A. being young, spontaneous, and carefree, my gut told me to stick it out. I NEEDED TO STAY BALANCED, though, so I decided to volunteer at the local hospital. I wanted to work with the kids. Volunteering had always been important in my family, and my mom often took us to feed the homeless, or visit nursing homes. The children’s ward felt very personal to me, because I had spent several months in and out of the hospital after my spinal surgery. I’d had very serious complications from the surgery. When I came off the operating table, my liver was failing and my gallbladder was severely infected. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. They even had a theory at one point that I had contracted a mysterious infection while being cut open, so I was placed in the isolation ward. It looked like something out of a movie. The doctors wore hazmat suits and the whole ward felt like a giant bubble that I was trapped in. No visitors were allowed. I remember being afraid that I would die in there all by myself. With the exception of those days in isolation, my mom never left my side. In the children’s ward, it broke my heart to see how hard it was for the kids who didn’t have that type of support. I was lucky enough to make a full recovery from my surgery, but the memory never left me. Once I’d finished my training at the hospital, I began to spend a couple days a week after work with the kids who were terminally ill. We were warned that most of them would die, but nothing prepares you for the actual event. Despite being pale and weak, they were beautiful, happy little spirits. It was inspiring and humbling. After a few weeks, I met a little girl named Grace, and despite her frail body, she was full of boundless energy and big dreams. She hadn’t been outside in a very long time, and all she wanted in the world was to be an archaeologist, discovering lost cities. I begged and pleaded to be able to wheel her outside. Finally I got the approval. I raced to the basement the following day, and her room was empty. “She passed, Molly,” my favorite nurse, Patrick, told me with a hand on my shoulder. Even though my supervisor had warned me about this moment, and asked that all the volunteers do their grieving in private and remain strong for the kids and their family, I lost it. Patrick walked me into the bathroom. “It is part of the job. You have to be strong for the others. Take a moment,” he said gently, and left me to sob on the bathroom floor. While there was often heartbreak and tragedy, sometimes there were little miracles. One of the young boys, Christopher, was actually beating his death sentence and getting better every day. The light was coming back into his eyes and his paper-white skin was turning pink. He walked around the halls telling the other kids his story and giving them hope. Christopher’s courage and optimism helped me maintain a healthy perspective in my new crazy world. Chapter 4 (#ulink_ef0ebec8-3dc9-52ec-806f-474a7c7622c6) Over time, and under the pressure of Reardon’s forceful tutelage, I became the assistant who could do anything. Skipping to the front of a waiting list for the latest overpriced watch, reserving a car during the New York City transit strike, one-night-stand removal: I could figure anything out. I could manage escrow accounts and secure reservations at restaurants that were booked out for months. Now when Reardon asked for the impossible, I would just smile, nod, and call the restaurant. “Hi, I’m just calling to confirm my reservation for dinner tonight.” “Sorry, we don’t have it.” Pause. “But I made this reservation ten months ago. It’s my boss’s birthday, and he flew his closest friends in from New York! Oh, my god, he’s going to fire me. Please can you help?” I’d respond, adding some sniffles if needed. Pause. “What was your name again?” “Molly Bloom.” “Okay, Miss Bloom. I see it here. Four people for eight P.M.” “Six.” “Oh, that’s right. Six. Thank you, Miss Bloom. We’re so sorry for the confusion.” ONE EVENING, I WAS FILING PAPERS, listening to the guys laughing and reminiscing in Reardon’s office. Cam and Sam had grown up together, and Sam and Reardon had gone to college together. After finishing school, they realized that besides being great at partying together, they could build a company based on what each one brought to the table, and their partnership was born. Tonight they were in a great mood, celebrating another huge deal they had just closed. “We like the Hunny, right, player?” asked Sam. “Hunny” meant money. “Remember when you shot the moon man?” Sam asked Cam. “That was so roguish.” They laughed. I could hear them pouring another round. “You have to tell Molly that story,” said Sam. My ears perked up, and I rushed into the room. Cam stood up to better illustrate his tale. At ’six-foot-five, he was pure muscle, his energy was effusive, like a giant, out-of-control puppy. “So we were playing paintball,” said Cam, mimicking holding a rifle with which he shot each one of us. “My dad had Buzz Aldrin over, you know, that old guy who walked on the moon. So I walked right up to him and shot him, close range—BAM!” He continued to simulate the action. “And I said, Boom, got you Moon MAN!” They all laughed hysterically. I started laughing with them, picturing the absurdity of Cam blasting the legendary Buzz Aldrin with paintballs. “Pour little Molly a drink,” said Reardon. “She helped with this deal.” “You’re really starting to be a player, Mol,” said Sam affectionately, and handed me a Macallan 18. We all raised our glasses. I wanted so much to be part of them. I wanted to make deals, to enjoy the good life that comes with money and status. The single-malt scotch tasted like gasoline, but I smiled and forced back my urge to gag. THE BETTER I PERFORMED FOR THE BOYS, the more I was expected to do. But even as my responsibilities expanded, I was still responsible for Reardon’s personal life. A big part of that personal life was keeping the high turnover of girlfriends happy. I was constantly being sent on high-end errands. I hadn’t really been exposed or interested in designer clothes or handbags in my Colorado life. But the luxurious gifts I picked up for Reardon’s girl of the week began to seduce me, and I started to imagine myself dressed in these clothes, wearing the beautiful shoes I delivered to Brittny and Jamie and whomever else Reardon bought consolation gifts for. It wasn’t so much that I cared about these high-priced items, it was’ that I realized people treated you differently, took you more seriously, when you had them. On this particular afternoon, Reardon sent me to a store called Valerie’s. It turned out that Valerie’s was a high-end makeup shop in Beverly Hills that offered makeup application and custom blends for the who’s who of Hollywood and Beverly Hills society. I walked into the large door and it was like walking into a fairy princess land. Gauzy drapes, soft lavender hues, cream velvet chaises, and an array of beautiful products. A beautiful blond woman greeted me. “Hi, I’m Valerie, how can I help you?” “You did all this?” I asked Valerie. “I created it all,” she said. “It’s very beautiful,” I replied longingly. As she rang up the products Reardon had ordered, I almost choked—the tab was $1,000 for three things. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “People really pay that much for makeup?” She smiled, amused. “Come here.” She motioned me to follow her. She led me to her station, which looked like an old Hollywood movie star’s vanity. She whipped the chair away from the mirror and after just a few moments of brushstrokes, pencils, and mascara, she handed me a silver mirror. I was completely transformed. It was unbelievable, like I was looking at a different person. “Amazing …” I said, looking at myself. “True luxury is worth the spend.” I nodded, catching another glance at my transformed face. “Come back and see me when you’re ready.” She winked. And although I had been told my whole life that money couldn’t buy you happiness, it was certainly clear to me that it could provide some desirable upgrades. THE SALARY REARDON PAID ME covered the basics, but I decided I needed to earn some extra money to upgrade my wardrobe. To supplement my income, I applied for a part-time cocktail job. Applying to be a cocktail waitress was a whole different world than applying for a regular restaurant job. For instance, most clubs ask for head shots. When I applied at Shelter, I discovered that Fred, the manager, was the very eccentric former computer programmer from the first restaurant I’d worked at. L.A. was a town full of characters who were constantly changing roles. Take Fred, for example. One day he was in glasses and a skinny tie running seminars on restaurant operating systems; the next, he was the general manager for a caveman-themed club in an Armani suit. As soon as he hired me, he explained that my uniform would be custom made and slipped me a card. The designer’s “studio” was a disheveled, tiny apartment in West Hollywood, and the designer himself was a colorful, flamboyant character who spilled his white wine spritzer on me as he took my measurements. “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 ros? 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 (#ulink_3ad47e89-b293-50a2-bbd5-0fd46569ae02) 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 rest 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 (#ulink_a14f9c82-7c8c-5435-b599-47a9c5eaa42f) 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 $10,000 cash. Too bossy? The buy-in is $10,000, 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 compulsively, 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. “Sorry, Barnaby, I know you know what you’re doing, I’m just so nervous. I want everything to be perfect.” He put his arm around me. “Don’t worry, angel, everything will be better than perfect.” I smiled gratefully. “I hope you’re right.” AT 6:45 P.M. I STOOD by the front door and waited. I fidgeted with my dress. I started to feel insecure about how to greet the players. I knew their names, but did that mean that I should introduce myself? Stop it, I said in my head. I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down by imagining myself as I wanted to be. “Molly Bloom, you are wearing the dress of your dreams, you are confident and fearless and you will be perfect.” None of this was true, of course, but I wanted it to be. I opened my eyes, lifted my chin, and relaxed my shoulders. It was showtime. The first person to arrive was Todd Phillips, the writer and director of Old School and the Hangover franchise. “Hello,” I said, warmly reaching out my hand. “I’m Molly Bloom.” I gave him a genuine smile. “Hi, gorgeous, I’m Todd Phillips, nice to meet you in person. “Do I give the buy-in to you?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, eyeing the giant stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Can I get you a drink?” I asked. He ordered a Diet Coke. I went behind the bar and set the enormous amount of money down. After I served him his drink, I started counting the stack. It was $10,000 all right. I put it in the cash register with Todd’s name on it. I felt cool, edgy, and dangerous counting that much money. The others started to arrive. Bruce Parker introduced himself and handed me his buy-in as well. I knew from my research that he had been a founding partner of one of the most prestigious golf companies in the world. Bob Safai was a real-estate magnate, and Phillip Whitford came from a long line of European aristocrats. His mother was a glamorous supermodel and his father was one of the most famous playboys in Manhattan. Reardon came blasting in with his typical “oh yeah!” greeting. The rumpled Houston Curtis showed up next, followed by Tobey and Leo. I straightened my shoulders and smiled as naturally as I could. They are just people, I told myself as butterflies flew manically around in my stomach. I introduced myself, took their buy-ins, and asked for their drink order. When I shook Leo’s hand and he gave me a crooked smile from under his hat, my heart raced a little faster. Tobey was cute too, and he seemed very friendly. I didn’t have any back story on Houston Curtis except that he was somehow involved in the movie business. He had kind eyes, but there was something different about him. He didn’t seem to belong with this crowd. Steve Brill and Dylan Sellers, two more major Hollywood directors showed up next. The energy in the room was palpable. It felt less like the basement of the Viper Room was a sports arena. Reardon finished ripping into a sandwich and shouted to no one in particular, but everyone in general, “Let’s play.” I WATCHED, FASCINATED. It was all incredibly surreal. I was standing in the corner of the Viper Room counting ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS IN CASH! I was in the company of movie stars, important directors, and powerful business tycoons. I felt like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole. Diego fanned out ten cards and each player drew for their seat. There seemed to be a lot of weight being given to this action. When everyone was seated, Diego began dealing the cards. I figured this was a good time to offer the players more drinks. I plastered on my brightest smile and went around the table offering drinks or snacks. Strangely, I wasn’t getting the warmest reception. Phillip Whitford grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear, “Don’t talk to a guy if he’s in a hand. Most of them can’t think and play at the same time.” I thanked him graciously, and made a mental note. With the exception of a few drink orders, no one spoke to me during the game at all, and I had time to watch closely. The ten men seated around the table were speaking openly. The movie stars and directors spoke about Hollywood, Reardon and Bob Safai analyzed the real-estate market. Phillips and Brill harassed each other constantly in hilarious fashion. Of course, there was talk about the game itself too. I felt like a fly on the wall in a top-secret, masters-of-the-universe club. At the end of the night, as Diego counted each player’s chips, Reardon said, “Make sure you tip Molly if you want to be invited to the next game.” He winked at me. As the players filed out, they thanked me, some kissed my cheek, but they all pressed bills into my hand. I smiled warmly and thanked them in return, trying not to let my hands shake. When they were all gone, I sat down in a daze, and with trembling hands I counted $3,000. But even better than the money was the knowledge that I now knew why I had come to L.A. I knew why I had withstood Reardon’s temper tantrums, his constant insults, the degrading cocktail-waitress uniforms, the sleazy, ass-grabby guys. I wanted a big life, a grand adventure, and no one was going to hand it to me. I wasn’t born with a way to get it, like my brothers. I was waiting for my opportunity, and somehow I knew it would come. Again I thought of Lewis Carroll’s Alice saying, “I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.” I understood the profound simplicity of that statement—because after tonight I knew I could never, ever go back. Part Two (#ulink_565d3331-6d18-52d0-ad2a-79dc40e42eab) HOLLYWOODING (#ulink_565d3331-6d18-52d0-ad2a-79dc40e42eab) Los Angeles, 2005–2006 Hollywooding (verb) To act in an exaggerated way in a poker hand, as a means of creating deception. Chapter 7 (#ulink_d0073df7-c2b0-5015-8979-218677aa41a5) I woke in the cool, dark morning before the sun and before my alarm, luxuriating in my sheets and letting my thoughts roll over the events of the night before. What a strange new world I had stumbled upon. By the time I had finished cleaning up at the Viper, it was nearly 2 A.M. I had locked the doors behind me and run to my car with my purse tucked protectively under my arm. I drove home singing songs at the top of my lungs. Blair was still out when I got home. I ran a hot shower, trying to calm myself down, but when I crawled into bed, I was still amped. I started making lists in my head of all of the things I could do with my tip money. Pay next month’s rent. Buy some new clothes, pay my credit-card bill. I might even have enough to save a little. I finally fell asleep. When I climbed out of bed I immediately checked my sock drawer. The stack of hundred-dollar bills was right where I had left it. I went to the kitchen to make coffee. According to the clock, it was barely 6 A.M., but the news was too good to hold in. I had to tell Blair. I had to tell somebody, or I was going to explode. She’d had a late night, so I knew I better have some coffee in hand. “Why are you so happy?” she grumped, accepting the mug with her eyes half closed. I was about to burst out with the whole crazy, unbelievable story when the caffeine kicked in and reality sharpened into focus. Even though she was my best friend, and we told each other everything, I couldn’t tell her this. It was my secret to carry, not hers. If she slipped up and told someone and it got back to any of the players, I would lose their trust. I decided then and there not to tell anyone, not even my family, about the game. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my place in that room. “No special reason,” I said, attempting to dim my enthusiasm. “It’s just a beautiful day and I don’t want you to miss it.” “Can’t handle you right now. Shut my door.” She groaned, and rolled over. “Sorry,” I said, stepping into the hall. I GOT TO THE OFFICE early that morning, as I wanted to prove that the game wouldn’t impact my performance. I spent an hour cleaning and organizing Reardon’s desk and sorting files. When I finished catching up on my work, I checked my phone. Seven new messages! My heart lurched. Usually that meant Reardon was raging about something. Not today, though. Today my in-box was full of messages from the players, asking me when the next game was, or commenting on how much fun they’d had. They also wanted to secure their seat for next week. I did a little happy dance. Reardon didn’t make an appearance until ten. “Hi!” I said brightly, handing him his coffee and the mail. “Someone looks happy,” he said, with a wink. I relaxed a bit; thank God, he was in a good mood. “How much did you make?” “Three thousand!” I whispered, still in disbelief. He laughed. “Told you this would be good for you, stupid.” I beamed. “Everyone loved it,” he said. “They won’t shut the fuck up. They’ve been calling me all morning.” I tried not to look too eager. “We will have the game every Tuesday.” My face lit up and I couldn’t control the huge smile spreading across my face. “Don’t let it fuck up your work,” he cautioned. Then he looked at my feet. “And go buy some new shoes, those are fucking disgusting.” FOR OUR SECOND GAME, Reardon stipulated that all the players bring $10,000 for their initial buy-in and a check for any additional losses they might incur. Over the course of the week, as he fielded calls from people who had heard about the game and wanted to play, I listened carefully. I then created a spreadsheet for all the current and potential poker players. I wanted to figure out how to be irreplaceable. I still had a lot … well, everything to learn about the game, but I knew a few things about human behavior from my time at the restaurants and watching my dad work. I knew that men, especially men of the social class and status of the cardplayers, wanted to feel comfortable and attended to. I upgraded the supermarket cheese plate to a swankier version from a Beverly Hills cheese store. I had memorized each player’s favorite drink, favorite snacks, and their favorite dish from the high-end restaurant we usually ordered from. Those little details were sure to go a long way. When Reardon gave me the finalized list of players I was to invite for the second game, there were nine of them, most repeats from the first game, and I set out to learn all I could about every one of them. 1 Bob Safai, the real-estate magnate. He was confident and he could be charming or terrifying depending on whether he was winning or losing. I had seen him berate the dealers and various opponents last week. He had been very nice to me, but I got the feeling this was someone you wanted to have on your good side. 2 Todd Phillips, the writer/director whose latest movie, The Hangover, had by now made its mark in the boy humor hall of fame. 3 Phillip Whitford, the aristocrat, was handsome, well mannered, reeked of old money, and was arguably the best player at the table. He was the one who had given me the pointer about not speaking to a guy if he was in the hand, and had offered me encouraging warm smiles. I felt like he was an ally. 4 Tobey Maguire was married to Jen Meyer, daughter of the CEO of Universal. Despite his small stature, he was a huge movie star, and according to the guys, he was the second-best player in the game. 5 Leonardo DiCaprio, maybe the most recognizable movie star in the world. Not only was he devastatingly handsome, he was incredibly talented. He had a strange style at the table, though; it was almost as if he wasn’t trying to win or lose. He folded most hands and listened to music on huge headphones. 6 Houston Curtis was the one that didn’t belong. Houston had grown up without wealth or privilege. He was a producer of lowbrow reality content, such as Best of Backyard Wrestling videos. His claim to fame was that he had learned how to play cards when he was a little boy, and came to Hollywood without a dime. He seemed to be good friends with Tobey. 7 Bruce Parker was in his ’fifties. I heard him say he got his start by dealing weed. He had eventually leveraged his understanding of business to climb the executive ladder at one of the oldest and most successful golf companies. He allegedly made billions in sales and helped take the company public. 8 Reardon, who I already knew more about than I had ever needed to know. 9 Mark Wideman, whom I hadn’t yet met, was a friend of Phillip’s and would be new to the table this week. This time, writing the text to the group was easier. I knew who they were and what to expect. I hit send, and just like last time, the guys responded immediately with “I’m in” and “Who’s playing?” I waited anxiously for Tuesday, and it couldn’t come soon enough. Chapter 8 (#ulink_a2f6f57b-ca7e-585b-897b-5346ccece835) Over the weekend I drove my beat-up Jeep Grand Cherokee to Barneys. I self-consciously handed the valet my keys, super aware that my car didn’t exactly fit in with the sleek and shiny Mercedes, BMWs, Ferraris, and Bentleys. Once inside, I forgot about my insecurities and I beelined for the shoe department. I looked around at the immaculate displays. For the first time in my life I could afford to buy whatever I chose. I was like a kid in a candy store. “What can I help you with?” an immaculately dressed salesman asked, looking disapprovingly at the worn-out flip-flops I was wearing. “I’m just looking,” I said, ignoring his snobbery. “May I pull some styles for you?” he asked. “Sure,” I said cheerfully. After trying on ten pairs, I settled on a classic Louboutin black pump. “Are you this good at finding dresses too?” I asked him. “Come with me,” he said warmly, as I shelled out the thousand in cash to pay for the shoes. He was nicer to me now that I was spending money. “Let me introduce you to my friend on the fourth floor,” he said. Her name was Caroline. Walking along with her, I felt like how my car must have felt in the lot with all of those fancier versions of what a car could be. I was incredibly aware of my own sloppy appearance. Barney’s was filled with perfectly put-together women who looked like they had never had a bad hair day in their lives. I was in jean shorts, flip-flops, and a sweatshirt, my hair was in a messy ponytail, and I had on a Denver Broncos hat, but the worst was my glaringly obvious fake Prada purse that I had bought from a vendor in downtown L.A. “How can I help?” she asked. “I’m looking for a dress that makes me look nothing like myself.” I laughed. She laughed too. “Is this for work? Date? An audition?” “With these prices, hopefully all of the above.” “I’m going to pull some options, so have a seat.” She motioned toward the large plush dressing room. “While I’m doing that, take off the hat, put your hair in a bun, and put on the new shoes.” I did as I was told. She returned with several gorgeous dresses. “Show me each one,” she said. I wiggled into a structured black Dolce & Gabbana. It was like a magic trick—it lifted my boobs, sucked in my waist, and accentuated my butt. I walked out of the dressing room. “Where did this body come from?” Caroline asked appreciatively, leading me to a three-way mirror. The dress created an optical illusion dress that made me look not only elegant, but sexy. How could I say no, even to the price tag? This dress had transformed me as much as Valerie’s makeup application. “So there’s your sexy, now let’s get a classic, and you’re well on your way to leaving the old you behind.” I smiled happily. I tried on a navy-blue Valentino that hugged my body in the right places without being too provocative. We finished the look with a strand of Chanel pearls. “You sure are good at your job,” I said admiringly. She smiled. “Just give me your credit card and you will be on your way.” “Oh,” I said, pulling out my wad of hundreds. “I have cash.” Caroline’s face fell. I was sad. I could tell she thought I was a call girl. “I’ll be back with the total.” Her voice was still friendly, just a little cooler. I was changing back into my clothes when she let herself into the dressing room. “I’m not supposed to do this, it could get me fired. But I like you and I’ve seen this town destroy young girls.” “I promise you, Caroline, I am not an escort or anything like that. I just had a really good run at a poker game. And that’s the truth.” She smiled. “That’s very cool, and much better than the answer I feared. “Here is my card, you call me anytime you need anything.” I smiled back. “Thanks for being honest, even at the risk of getting in trouble.” I walked out of Barneys with my new outfits, beaming from ear to ear. FINALLY TUESDAY CAME, and Reardon actually let me leave work at a reasonable hour this time, so I drove home to change into my new outfit. I was driving when my phone rang; it was one of my bosses from the club world. I was still picking up shifts when I could. “Hey, T.J. What’s up?” “I need you to work tonight,” he said. He sounded impatient. Everyone who works in the nightclub industry is always grumpy during the daytime hours. “I can’t,” I said. This was the first time I had ever told him no. “I guess you don’t value your job,” he said, his tone sharp. “There are a million girls in this town that would kill for it.” I thought about the money I had made last week working the game, more money in one night than I might take home in a month at the club, and I sucked in my breath and said, “Well, why don’t you call one of them, because I quit.” He paused, shocked. I politely thanked him for the opportunity and hung up. I knew I was being reckless. There was no guarantee this card game would last, but I was going to try to push it as far as I could. And it felt damn good to quit that thankless, demeaning cocktail job. I SHOWED UP IN MY NEW DRESS AND SHOES. I had chosen the sexier one. “Whoa, look at you,” Diego said, taking the bags of liquor from me. “Your tips are gonna be gooood tonight.” “Is it too much?” I asked “No way, you look hot, mama. “Speaking of tips, what do you want to do about that?” “About what?” I asked. “Tips,” he said. “The guys tip me throughout the game. I saw that they gave you some cash at the end. You’re always gonna make more when there’s chips involved. We can split if you want. Fifty-fifty.” I thought about this carefully. I had seen the guys throwing the chips into the center after winning a hand. So logic told me that ten guys tipping over the course of many hours probably translated to a lot of money, However, Reardon had made it clear that tipping me was the way to get invited back. “Let’s see what happens tonight and decide after the game.” I wanted to see how much he made. “Okay,” he said, smiling. Reardon walked in just then. “Whoaaa,” he said, laughing. “You kind of look like a piece of ass.” That was as close to a compliment as I would ever get from him. I squinted at him disapprovingly. He looked at the food spread. “Big-time!” he announced, and he tore into a sandwich. Translation: I had done well with my food selection. The truth was, I learned all of it from Reardon, who loved the best of the best, like caviar when he was hungover. I had come a long way since he had thrown Pink Dot bagels at me. All the food runs he sent me on, all of the cheese plates he ordered for the office, had impacted my awareness of the finer things. Houston ambled in and gave me a warm hug. I had his diet raspberry Snapple ready. Bruce Parker was next, with Todd Phillips close behind him. He and Todd were laughing as they entered. “What are you sickos laughing about?” Reardon said, fist-bumping. Reardon was a germophobe who opted to fist-bump instead of shake hands for sanitary reasons. Of course, his fear of germs seemed to fly out the window when it came to his sexual exploits. “Parker just got a handy in the parking lot,” Phillips explained. “She was cute and only wanted five hundred, I figured it would be good luck.” Bruce laughed. “Roguish.” Reardon nodded in approval. Just then they noticed me trying to disappear into the corner. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Todd said. “Molly’s heard it all, she works for me.” Reardon brushed off the apologies while I nodded and forced an easy smile. “How does your boyfriend feel about you wearing that dress and hanging out with a bunch of scumbags like us?” Todd asked. “I don’t have a …” I began, but they had lost interest in me—Tobey and Leo had just walked in. The guys became a little shy, and awkward, except, of course, for Reardon, who fist-bumped Leo with a gruff, “What’s happening, player?” While the guys clustered around Leo, Tobey went over to Diego and handed him his Shuffle Master. The Shuffle Master is a $17,000 machine that is supposed to deliver a fair, random shuffle every time and increases the speed and accuracy of each game. Last week, Tobey had told the guys he wouldn’t play without it. The next player to arrive was Bob Safai. Last week I had watched Diego deal him what the others referred to as a “bad beat.” This meant that even though Bob had a much stronger hand, he still lost. I watched as Bob had thrown his cards angrily at Diego. Statistically, Diego had explained to me later, Bob should have taken the round. It was a “two-outer,” which meant that there were only two cards in the deck that could make his opponent the winner. When Tobey hit it, Bob had gone berserk. He had given Diego a nasty look and said something about stacking the deck for Tobey. Incidents like that made me grateful that Tobey had brought a machine to shuffle this time, and that I wasn’t dealing the games. “Hi, honey,” Bob said now as I took his coat. I saw his eyes flick around the room; even he got a little giddy when he saw that Leo was there. Phillip Whitford walked in with his friend Mark Wideman. Mark was friends with Pete Sampras, who allegedly played high-stakes poker too. Wideman was a good player, but he had said he would try to bring Sampras, which would be a great draw for the game. When he saw me, Whitford let out a low whistle and kissed my hand. I blushed and looked at the floor, enjoying every surreal moment of being the only girl among such handsome, accomplished men. And then above the buzz of voices came Reardon’s ringing voice. “Let’s play!!” THEY SETTLED INTO THEIR SEATS, and the air filled with the smooth sounds of my Frank Sinatra playlist, the whirring of the Shuffle Master, the shuffling of chips, and the happy playful banter of the players. Once the game was well under way, it was hard to keep up. Guys were reloading their chips in rapid fire and everyone was betting all their chips at once, which Phillip told me during a rare pause was called “going all in.” Even though I was a novice at poker, I was captivated. The game felt frenzied and exciting. And I wasn’t the only one who felt the energy. Diego was dealing hands at lightning speed. The guys were also making side bets on the color of the flop (the first three communal cards dealt by Diego), and they even started wagering on sports. I sat in the corner, always watching. Occasionally I would refill drinks. The guys were so focused on the game they almost forgot I was there, except for Phillip, who kept text-messaging me with poker insights. I typed furiously on my laptop, documenting everything I was learning. Meanwhile, Bob was giving sound bites on the real-estate market, Wideman was talking about Sampras, Tobey was analyzing poker hands with Houston, Reardon was trying to get everyone on tilt by insulting them, Phillips was dropping one-liners, Leo had his headphones on to help him focus. Bruce talked for a while about the girl who had given him a $500 hand job, and then moved on to how he had made his money, beginning with his start as a weed dealer in Hollywood. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/molly-bloom-2/molly-s-game-the-riveting-book-that-inspired-the-aaron-sorki/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.