Going for Broke

Putting your last dollar toward a bad-beat jackpot may not have been the best career strategy for this guy.
I got a call yesterday at the WSOP from the Butler. I haven’t seen the guy for a couple months — not since me and my jiu-jitsu coach and heavy metal teacher got booted out of our sweet pad (pool table, poker table, dart board, 65-inch HDTV, Strip-view bedroom, fireplace/jacuzzi bathroom, no utilities) on the Eastside. We of course knew all was headed south when the Butler — the guy who set the whole housing arrangement up — walked into our casa unannounced to do a cocaine deal, and shortly thereafter got busted by The Boss (who owned the house, in theory, though not on paper) for stealing rent money.
(I met the Butler last year at the WSOP, as he was trying to sell his private concierge services to poker players and convince me to turn him into a recurring character on Pokerati.)
Anyhow, so I got a call from an unknown 973 number yesterday that I answered in the press box. “Hey, Dan, it’s John. Are you at the Series? How’s it going?”
“Um, uh, pretty good? We’re just getting rolling … so what’s up? Did you make it to Kansas City?”
“Yeah, and it’s not good. I’m calling because I need a stake.”
“Yeow, dude … can’t help you out. Wouldn’t know how to get you money if I could.”
“Western Union.”
“Sorry, man Have you tried Tom? His number is 602-97… .”