Читать книгу Molly’s Game: The Riveting Book that Inspired the Aaron Sorkin Film - Molly Bloom, Molly Bloom - Страница 13

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 rosé and a small swath of material, and pushed me into a tiny bathroom.

I wiggled out of my clothes and changed into what was basically a skimpy faux–animal pelt with faux-fur trim. Back when I had taken the LSATs, I had never in a million years imagined that instead of power suits I would wear this getup. “Uh, guys, I think I need more material,” I pleaded, too self-conscious to open the door.

“Don’t be crazzzzy,” the designer and his assistants called from the couches where they were lounging and sipping their wine. “You look amazzzzzzing.”

To top it off, they handed me a clip-on Mohawk made from the same fake fur. I thanked them and they air-kissed me out the door.

One part of my brain said, “You’re going to look like a slutty rooster.” The other part said, “Suck it up. The bottle service girls at Shelter make more in a night than you make in a week.”

THE MONEY AT SHELTER WAS GREAT. The success of the night was due to promoters, and the top club promoters had a loyal following of celebrities, billionaires, and models. On the biggest nights, people would wait outside the velvet ropes for hours begging to be let in. I got to know the promoters and eventually I was working the best nights at all the hottest clubs in town. A lot of the managers and promoters were sleazy alcoholics or drug addicts who leveraged their power over who got past the velvet ropes in order to hook up with the pretty young girls. The pretty young girls were almost all aspiring actresses or models, and they believed, truly believed, that getting into the club on the hot night would lead to their being discovered. The whole thing seemed silly, but I minded my business. I was punctual, responsible, and professional. While the other servers were doing shots and hanging out, I was making sure my tables were taken care of. My tips were always above 20 percent and I usually sold more than everyone else. I was there to make money, not friends.

Unexpectedly, my nights at this club furthered my L.A. education. Every night, I was dead sober, watching drunken Hollywood politick, hook up, and hang out. The money I made as a cocktail waitress allowed me to have a little extra, not enough to buy designer shoes but enough to upgrade my Colorado wardrobe. I also loved the way it felt to carry a rolled-up wad of cash home at the end of the night.

I was working long hours during the day, and at a different club every night. I was completely exhausted. But I discovered that I had endless stamina when it came to making money.

No matter how busy or tired I was, I never said no to a job.