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