Copyright

William Collins

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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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

Part One

Beginner’s Luck (noun)

The supposed phenomenon of a poker novice experiencing a disproportionate frequency of success.

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