Читать книгу Molly’s Game: The Riveting Book that Inspired the Aaron Sorkin Film - Molly Bloom, Molly Bloom - Страница 15

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.