Molly’s Game: The Riveting Book that Inspired the Aaron Sorkin Film
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Copyright
William Collins
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
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
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
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
Part One: BEGINNER’S LUCK
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part Two: HOLLYWOODING
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Three: PLAYING THE RUSH
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Four: COOLER
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part Five: A CHIP AND A CHAIR
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Six: COLD DECK
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Author’s Note
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
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
Beginner’s Luck (noun)
The supposed phenomenon of a poker novice experiencing a disproportionate frequency of success.
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