Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  Someone told the story of an audit at another branch in western Canada. “The only security system was an alarm that rang in the hotel next door. Not exactly sophisticated, but maybe it was effective, right? We decided to test it, sounding the alarm and timing the interval until someone arrived. One of the hotel waiters showed up with a tray of draft beer.”

  Molony, by now, had collected a few stories of his own. At the Kensington Market branch in Toronto, the whole bank had a terrible reek. “I couldn’t figure it out until somebody told me that the Portuguese kept their cash in freezers and refrigerators, with the fish and fowl, before depositing it.” At another branch, where Molony was on relief as office manager, one of the tellers lost the Visa slips from the restaurant down the street. Normally, getting second copies was easy enough, but this restaurant was patronized by gays. “It took me a week to convince the owner I wasn’t compiling a list for the RCMP.”

  Everyone laughed, filing away tales that would be embellished and recirculated. Quirky bankers would become eccentrics, characters would become legends. Establishing yourself in the CIBC meant more than learning the business. It meant absorbing the ethos, acquainting yourself with a huge cast of characters, acclimatizing to the culture. By the time Molony was appointed credit officer at Bay and Richmond, he had grown a moustache and put on twenty pounds. In bearing and appearance he was already a banker, more sombre and composed than some people twice his age. He’d forgotten all about business writing. In his early twenties, he looked forward to a long, secure, and comfortable career. One that left very little to chance.

  One of Molony’s daily responsibilities was to review overdrafts in the personal chequing accounts. On the Monday morning after his dismal weekend at the track, a girl from the PCA department dropped by his office with the printout — four pages of PCA overdrafts. She listed each, and Molony told her how to deal with it. Some bankers considered it a tedious task, but Molony thrived on decisions of any kind. Weigh the variables, choose a course of action, stick to it. He had the right mix of decisiveness and arrogance, and the persuasive skills to justify his decisions to others. Tellers sometimes came to him for direction on accounts that weren’t even his responsibility.

  “That’s the third time in a month, send it back.

  “Who is this person? Find out what he does for a living.

  “Send this one back NSF, but first check and make sure he doesn’t have term deposits with us. Excuse me a moment.” His phone was ringing. “Molony here.”

  “It’s after eleven. We’re waiting.”

  “I have someone in the office right now. I’ll look after it in a day or two.”

  “Wait a minute, Banker.”

  “I’m busy, speak to you later,” said Molony, and hung up.

  He finished the overdrafts, then met with a fellow seeking a business loan. Nine times out of ten Molony knew the moment a customer sat down whether he’d grant the loan. This fellow, a budding restaurateur who had never worked in a restaurant, was out of luck. Molony nodded politely for ten minutes before showing the man out. He was back at his desk when Beck and Colizzi sauntered in.

  Colizzi, ill at ease, was wearing his crocodile boots. A pale blue V-neck sweater revealed the gold chain in the hair of his chest. Beck, a skinny man in running shoes, no socks, and worn jeans, had evidently just got out of bed. Molony was paralyzed with shock. This was not the racetrack, this was Bay Street.

  “Good morning, Mr. Molony,” said Beck, seating himself in one of the guest chairs. A high-strung fellow, he made an exaggerated show of ease. Colizzi took the other chair.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, we were a little concerned when you didn’t show up.”

  The door was open, you could see in. Molony thought of closing it, but that would draw attention: he never closed his door. The partitions didn’t reach the ceiling, anyone could have been listening. He lowered his voice. “You can’t be here,” he said. “I told you, a day or two.”

  “I do apologize, Mr. Molony,” said Beck. Talking the way he imagined people talked in banks, he sounded ludicrous. “My associate and I don’t feel we can leave until we’re in possession of the funds that are owing to us.”

  “Look, I’ll … meet you.”

  “Half an hour?”

  Molony nodded.

  “With the money?”

  “Get out of here,” he said, and rose to see them out.

  “With the money?”

  “I said yes.”

  Molony walked them to the door. What would he say if anyone asked? Couple of bozos looking for a loan. I told them to try the branch across the street. But the noon rush had started — there were lineups for the tellers and foreign-exchange clerks — and no one seemed to have taken any notice.

  What to do? If he didn’t show up, they’d come back. If he showed up empty-handed his credibility would be shot and he’d never be able to collect from them — you didn’t pay off, Banker, why should we pay when you win? Molony’s mother loved dabbling in the stock market and did some trading through his “Brian Molony in Trust” account at Richardson Securities. With her blessing he had already borrowed as much as he could against her stocks. He could sell the stocks to raise the $22,300 and buy them back in a couple of weeks. Not enough time — it took five days to settle a brokerage account. Borrow from his parents? All he needed was a short-term loan, and it wasn’t worth the grief of inventing an explanation. Besides, he had only half an hour before Beck and Colizzi would be back. Same problem with a personnel loan: not enough time. By calling up friends he might be able to piece the money together in a few hours. That, too, would mean stalling Beck and Colizzi. Maybe he should stall them, work out what the bank would call an extended payment plan. No, bad precedent. When he won they’d do the same thing, avoid paying off.

  Molony took a call and, speaking on the phone, noticed a loan sheet on his desk. The answer was staring him in the face. He could set up a loan and hold the debit overnight. Except that he couldn’t count on winning $22,300 in one night. He could make up a fictitious customer, give him a loan, turn the loan into a bank draft … No. How was he going to turn a bank draft payable to John Doe into $22,300 cash? Make the draft payable to Beck and Colizzi? Ask them to hold it for a couple of days, until he could raise the cash? At least that would be a way of buying time.

  Or he could write them a loan, issue a draft, and repay the money when he won. If he did that — a purely hypothetical scenario — would he make the draft payable to Colizzi or Beck? Beck. More common name, and he wasn’t certain how to spell Colizzi. If he did write them a loan and issue them a draft he would have kept his word — half an hour, with the money — without having set an unfortunate precedent. The loan would be small enough that all records would remain in the branch. When he repaid the money he could dig out the documentation and destroy it. Who’d be the wiser?

  You, fool.

  The bank had a name for it. Defalcation. Employee theft.

  Would it be theft, really, if the money were promptly repaid, with interest? Or would it simply be the most convenient way of getting from one week to the next?

  Defalcation.

  Would it be theft if the money were used to exit one set of circumstances and enter another? Or would it be more of a loan, the sort of thing customers came to him for? He was a customer as well as an employee. In effect, he’d be giving himself a loan. A bridge loan.

  He crossed to the foreign-exchange department, where bank drafts were prepared, and told the girl he needed a draft, payable to N. Beck, for $22,300. The girl asked how it would be paid for.

  “A loan,” said Molony. A bridge loan. Why was his back drenched with sweat?

  He went to the discount department and told the girl they were putting through a loan for $22,300. She would open a loan account on the computer, assigning it a number. Molony scribbled the name and the sum on a piece of paper. “Here’s the base information. I’ll give you details later today.”r />
  Before long the girl from foreign exchange brought him the draft. He looked at his watch: his half hour was up. He tore off the branch copy of the draft — it would eventually go to the teller — and slipped the other copies into his pocket. He had solved a short-term problem. He had done something else, too, but before the thought could take shape he hurried out of the branch. The something else was intangible, like the state lines you crossed on the drive to Florida. A sign announced that you’d left Michigan and entered Ohio, but everything looked exactly the same — blue sky, tilled fields, blackbirds rising from a power line. Nothing had changed, except you were no longer in Michigan.

  Molony hurried down to Temperance Street. The blue TransAm pulled up. Colizzi opened the door and broke his seat forward.

  “Get in.”

  “Here comes The Banker on the outside,” said Beck, revving the engine.

  Molony climbed in back, trying not to think of the Louisville Slugger under the front seat, trying not to let the something else take shape. They drove in silence, fighting traffic, until Beck found a spot. He killed the engine and glanced at Molony in the mirror. He was sour and unshaven, with sleep in the corners of his eyes.

  “OK, right,” said Beck, in his nervous, hectoring voice, “somebody don’t got, they don’t got. That’s all there is to it.”

  Beck and Colizzi both had criminal records; Colizzi’s included convictions for drug possession, bookmaking, and assault. Evidently they had talked it over. Violence versus a repayment schedule. They’d decided on a repayment schedule. They had figured Molony wouldn’t bring the money. Beck once owed another bookie and swore all his cash had gone up in a bank fire. The kind of thing a not-very-bright child would say. Molony had given his word and they’d assumed he’d go back on it. He was insulted.

  “Maybe we can work something out,” said Colizzi.

  “Right,” said Beck.

  Fine. He would rip up the draft, destroy the documentation, pretend it never happened. At the track he’d bet with discipline, passing on the races he didn’t like, betting the limit on horses he did. Maybe he could get his limit raised again. Now wasn’t the time, he’d mention it at the track…

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “Like, something each week,” said Beck.

  Colizzi turned in his seat. “Course, you can’t play till you’re paid off.”

  As a boy, Molony had delivered papers, shovelled snow, and done babysitting to make money for the track, and when he ran through his own money he had stolen from his mother’s purse. In the past few months he had not only liquidated his own stocks and borrowed against his mother’s, he had exhausted his savings, cashed his retirement savings plan, and taken out a personal loan. Can’t play till you’re paid off? How would he be able to pay off if he didn’t play? What was he supposed to do — go to the track and watch?

  “I told you I’d have it.” He handed over the negotiable copy of the draft, keeping the customer’s copy. “Didn’t I tell you? What are tonight’s lines?”

  “The hell is this?” said Colizzi.

  “A bank draft. What are the lines?”

  “Me see that,” said Beck. “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “You said you wanted it today. We don’t keep that kind of cash on hand. What are the lines?”

  “I got to give this creep half.”

  “Cash it,” said Molony. “Give him half.”

  Beck turned in his seat. He waited until Molony met his eye. “OK, Banker, I’ll cash it. We’ll go over to your branch right now and I’ll cash it.”

  “I just told you, we don’t keep that kind of cash on hand.”

  “Big branch like that?”

  “Ever read the fine print? Banks keep as little on hand as possible. We need a day’s notice.”

  “What do I do with this?”

  “Deposit it in your own bank. Give him cash, write him a cheque, I don’t care. Am I supposed to do your banking for you?”

  “I don’t like this,” Colizzi said to Beck.

  “You will when you cash it,” said Molony. He settled back in his seat. “What are the lines?”

  Beck glanced at Molony in the mirror. He glanced at Colizzi, who shrugged. He inspected the draft again, then tucked it in his pocket. “Too early for the lines,” he said, and started the car.

  One year at Christmas, on the way down to Florida, Molony and his brother almost had an accident. Michael was learning the standard gearshift — he stopped the Datsun by stalling it — and Brian did most of the driving. In Georgia they pulled off for food and gas. Re-entering the freeway, trying to shift gears, Michael lost control and veered toward the median. Traffic was heavy and fast-moving, and Brian had to lunge and grab the wheel. They joked, but then Brian began shuddering so violently they had to pull off the road.

  Back at the bank, speaking on the phone, Molony couldn’t hold the receiver still. He spread his fingers beneath his desk; they trembled as if he had palsy. He controlled both halves of the entry, debit and credit, but the tellers liked to have everything by three o’clock and when he turned over the debit-loan voucher and the branch copy of the draft he’d be fully committed. The loan would show up on the next day’s printout. Once it appeared on the books it would need a writeup. What was he going to put on the loan sheet?

  What if he’d been seen with Beck and Colizzi? What if someone asked, “Who were those characters in your office this morning?” What if Bay and Richmond were asked for confirmation when Beck tried to cash the draft? What if the audit were sprung unexpectedly in the next few days? What if Mr. Osborne questioned the loan?

  That would have been most mortifying of all — thank heavens Osborne was on holiday. If there was one reason Molony had risen so quickly, it was Alex Osborne. That’s how you got ahead in the bank, by attracting the attention of a superior; Osborne himself had been Des Hazelton’s boy, climbing the ladder in Hazelton’s footsteps. Molony considered himself fortunate to be working for Osborne.

  When Molony got posted to Bay and Richmond, Roy Bridge had been manager — “Father Roy” they called him, nice enough fellow. Bridge was from the old school, the kind of manager who had no contact with junior staff, dealing only with his assistant managers. When Bridge was promoted, in early 1979, he showed Alex Osborne through the branch, introducing the staff. “This is Brian Molony,” he told Osborne, “an excellent credit officer and one of our best workers.” Molony couldn’t believe his ears. Coming from a manager who had never said so much as “boo” to him, this was a ringing endorsement.

  Alex Osborne was slightly portly, with a Chaplinesque moustache and a rigorous eye for detail. Because of his demanding standards and tough facade not everyone liked him, but he was responsible, decisive, and astute. His smarts were those of a man who had worked his way out of humble beginnings. The Osipovicz family had emigrated to Canada from the Ukraine after the war with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and Alexander had grown up intending to become a doctor. In high school, however, he got rheumatic fever and nearly died. Hospital bills used up the money for his medical education, and he had to go to work. He took a job as a teller and quickly proved himself a most capable banker.

  Osborne had been promoted to Bay and Richmond from Credit Room, where he had been superintendent. In other words, he’d been in charge of authorizing loans that exceeded the discretionary limits of the various branches. A loan within the branch limit could be granted on the manager’s signature; any larger loan, to a maximum of $3-million, needed authorization from Credit Room. Once Osborne took over the branch, nobody in Credit Room — his former underlings — had the nerve to overrule him. Any credit application that left Bay and Richmond bearing his signature was almost automatically approved.

  Osborne’s son, Mark, was a fine hockey player, a lanky, dark-haired boy who left home at seventeen to play Junior A in Niagara Falls. Alex Osborne travelled all over the province to watch him. He thought nothing of driving through a snowstorm to Lo
ndon or Kitchener, Belleville or Kingston, Hamilton or St. Catharines, covering hundreds of miles and returning home in the middle of the night. In the off-season he got his son jobs with bank customers, Dufferin Steel and Teperman Wreckers, so Mark could build up his muscles. Mark sometimes dropped into the branch, and Osborne made a point of introducing him to Molony.

  One day Molony’s phone rang. Osborne said, “Reality is a temporary illusion brought on by the absence of alcohol,” and hung up. The manager, joking with a credit officer. Molony joked in return, though always respecting the professional relationship. One winter morning he noticed a tall, thin fellow waiting for a teller. Something about the man seemed odd, and Molony kept an eye on him. When the fellow reached the wicket, the teller’s eyes opened wide. She began taking money from her drawer. Molony hit the alarm. Before the police arrived, however, the man started for the Richmond Street doors. Molony intercepted him. “Excuse me, sir,” he said politely, not sure what to say next.

  “Out of the way or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  Molony chastised himself for not having followed the robber out of the branch. The security people could have reprimanded him for having involved himself at all. It was right there in the holdup procedures, specific instruction on how to act. What you were absolutely not supposed to do was interfere with a robbery in progress. Loss of funds was nothing compared to the possible consequences of violence. Imagine the damages that might be awarded to a customer wounded in an incident precipitated by a bank employee.

  Molony and the teller went to police headquarters to look at mugshots. The teller, shaken, was given the rest of the day off. Back at the branch, Molony said to Osborne, “Could I have the day off, too, Mr. Osborne? All that emotional upheaval.”