Friday, Aug. 5, 2016 | 2 a.m.
By 2004, I was 26 years old and had a bankroll of $60,000. I had become part of a loosely knit group called the Las Vegas Hole-Card Mafia. We shared information about good games with weak dealers. There were so many opportunities out there that I quit my job dealing in California. They were really nice and told me I could come back to work there anytime.
To celebrate quitting, I spent the night hole-carding a game in a nearby casino and got caught. My ex-employer found out and sent me a letter telling me that I was not welcome in his casino anymore. I felt bad — they really had been good to me — but not that bad. I was already living in Las Vegas, splitting time between my mom's house and a comped room in the Flamingo. But there were issues. My father had just died and, on his deathbed, he told me to be careful around mom. He said she was a degenerate gambler. He was right. I had to sleep with my bankroll. Otherwise she'd grab $100 bills and blow them on slot machines.
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