Another girl in the branch had come to him for advice. She was a fetching young teller whom a customer had asked for a date. When she turned him down, explaining she was engaged, he offered her a thousand dollars to go to dinner. She was in her teens, earned $11,000 or $12,000. A thousand dollars must have seemed a fortune. She wondered if it would be all right to accept. “Anybody who offers you a thousand dollars is after more than dinner,” Molony told her. “I think it would be unwise.” She later told him she had broken up with her fiancé. “Be careful,” he counselled. “You’re vulnerable. Watch what happens on the rebound.” Next thing she was in tears. She’d dated one of the other assistant managers. She felt lonely and hurt, he seemed to care, he invited her in, she’d had too much to drink … oh, it was awful, now he didn’t have the time of day for her. Molony sympathized and consoled her. He couldn’t help wondering if a girl who’d been offered a thousand dollars for a date would go out with him for nothing.
We’re going to bet the one the pencil lands on? Isn’t it exciting! How can you sit there like it’s nothing? Where do you take the ticket? Why does that horse have bandages on its legs? How much money do the drivers earn? What do these symbols mean on the program? You’re kidding! You have an interest in horses yourself? How old are you, Brian? You seem older. You sure know a lot for someone who’s only twenty-five.
On the way home she told him what fun she’d had, a wonderful evening. Molony got the idea she wouldn’t refuse his advances. He wasn’t tempted — sex had never been a big deal — and he’d already won his bet with himself. She’d gone out with him for nothing. Besides, he was now living with Brenda — sort of. He had moved out of his parents’ home and changed travel agents, again, when the agent sent his Las Vegas tickets to the house. That had taken some fast talking. Better to leave than to risk more screwups. His mother had a sixth sense about these things. She once followed him to St. Mike’s and found him in the variety store, betting baseball. She cried in despair and told Dr. Molony, who strapped his son. Molony had to control very carefully who knew what. His life had become unending subterfuge. His parents thought he roomed with Eli. Koharski called Brenda to say Brian’s parents were trying to reach him. He’s not with me, she said, their wires must have got crossed. Hadn’t Brian said he was going out to dinner with them? Or was it Eli who’d said he thought Brian was seeing his parents? Was she the one who’d got confused? Had he said it, or had she just assumed…
Sherry Brydson chattered on. She told Molony how the club was shaping up, and they traded gossip about stocks. He let slip that he’d bought shares in a company she had mentioned. She had told him about the stock so that he’d expect the certificate from Wood Gundy; she certainly wasn’t recommending it. It floored her that a banker would involve himself in a customer’s affairs, but then Brian was not the typical banker.
Molony nodded and smiled. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eye. The fictitious Sherry Brydson account now showed almost $300,000 in loans she knew nothing about and he had no way of repaying. On her way out she stopped abruptly, as if she’d forgotten something. Molony froze.
“Thank you, Brian.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
Men. Bankers.
“I just wanted you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
A week later, more deeply in the hole than ever to Beck, Epstein, and Colizzi, Molony booked a Saturday-morning flight to Philadelphia, as close as he could get to Atlantic City by commercial airline. Needing U.S. currency, he ordered a cash parcel from the head teller, debiting the Koharski account. He needed more than the $48,000 he could get through the branch. God, he was almost half a million dollars in debt to the bank. His only chance was to put together a substantial chunk to work with.
He had a certified cheque made out to Deak Perera, a currency dealer on King Street. At lunch he picked up his plane ticket, then went to Deak’s, stood in line, and told the girl he wanted to cash the cheque. She asked for identification. Though the cheque was certified, she said, “I’ll have to confirm this.” Molony panicked: if a security guard hadn’t been inside the door he might have fled. Thank heavens the money was drawn on his own account. Still, he didn’t want anyone at the branch to know of his dealings and the sum was enough to attract attention. He could think of no way to stop the girl from phoning. She made the call while Molony, trying to appear nonchalant, felt the sweat trickle down his ribs. The girl returned and cheerfully counted out $10,000 U.S.
Molony tucked the cash in his pocket and got out. Back at the branch he spoke to the woman who’d taken the call. He mentioned he’d needed U.S. cash for his brother and apologized for the trouble. “No trouble,” said the woman, busy with something else. “They were just making sure the certification was good.” He had scraped through, but not without grief. That was it for Deak Perera.
Just south of Richmond on Bay Street was another currency dealer, Friedberg & Co. A few days later Molony had another certified cheque drawn on his account and took it to Friedberg’s. The clerk cashed it without hesitation. That was more like it. Molony tucked the money away, returned to his office, and added it to the cash in his credenza. That afternoon, Brinks made its Friday delivery. The head teller informed him his cash had arrived. He went downstairs and signed for it.
Friday afternoons were wonderful. He’d survived another week. He had two days’ grace. He’d put together a sizeable piece of working capital and had a marvellous feeling the apprenticeship was over. He called Brenda to say sorry, something urgent had come up and he wouldn’t be able to see her on the weekend. How about going to the new Neil Simon play on Monday night instead? Strange, he was in a worse fix than ever but had never felt more exhilarated. An hour to post time, and that was just the start. In his pocket were plane tickets and almost $100,000 U.S. In the morning he was on his way to the casino. Not just any casino — his lucky one. The one that, after the most excruciating five months of his life, would finally lay his problems to rest.
4
ATLANTIC CITY
“Cities are for needs and wants, divine Father, that cannot be met in isolation. Have we expected from them too much and put in too little?”
– The Christophers
olony climbed aboard the shuttle van at Philadelphia Airport. Through his fatigue he felt a pleasing buzz of anticipation. It was a splendid Saturday, the kind of winter morning that promised spring. He had not slept. Colizzi and Beck ran a dice game, and after the harness races he’d gone to the Westbury. People didn’t show up until midnight; Molony couldn’t bear to wait, so he played blackjack with Colizzi and lost ten thousand dollars. Shooting craps he won more than twenty thousand. By then it was five in the morning. After a burger, a shower, and the flight from Toronto, he felt confident and eager to get started. Why wasn’t the van moving? The driver had been instructed to make the run with a full load. It was almost nine o’clock — they’d barely make the ten o’clock opening as it was. Molony suggested to the others that they all kick in to pay for the empty seats.
“Folks sure be eager to lose your hard-earned pay,” said the driver, setting off through the warehouses and refineries of southwest Philadelphia. They crossed the Delaware River and before long were speeding past pine forests and fertile farmland. Billboards advertised casino shows and slot payoffs and parking deals. The expressway was surprisingly busy; stretch limos glided silently past, and buses belched diesel fumes as they roared by. Molony, suddenly drowsy, pictured himself in the casino, starting with craps, then moving to baccarat…
He opened his eyes to see huge red letters on a concrete overpass: WELCOME TO ATLANTIC CITY. Though he had dozed only half an hour he felt fully refreshed. He patted the bundles of cash in his pockets. Off to the left, cars were parked in long rows and shuttle buses were picking up casino employees. Beyond the salt marsh rose the city’s skyline, a jagged mix of demolition and construction. The expressway ended abruptly; the van continued along the one-way streets of
Atlantic City.
Molony had grown up amid the leafy spaces and sober affluence of Moore Park in Toronto. Inglewood Drive was a particularly charming street. The family home was a three-storey, five-bedroom, red brick house fronted by a grey stone wall and backing on a deep ravine. One of the papers ran a photo of Molony’s oldest brother presenting Gina Lollabrigida with flowers when she took up residence in the palatial house on the corner. The children’s upbringing had been privileged but not extravagant. Even a surgeon’s income had to be carefully budgeted when there were nine children to clothe and feed and send off to Catholic schools; besides, Dr. Molony’s beliefs led him to practise thrift and charity. He spent little on himself, invested shrewdly, and donated substantial sums to Catholic agencies.
Having been raised in this environment, and having never travelled, Brian Molony had gained his knowledge of destitution largely from television. Parts of Atlantic City reminded him of news footage of Beirut, people carrying on against a backdrop of house-to-house combat. Piles of debris alternated with burned-out buildings. A rusted car lay upside down on a vacant lot, rudimentary as something washed up on the beach. Black children played ball in the tiny courtyard of a grim, two-storey tenement dotted with graffiti and smashed windows and For Sale signs: “This prime property …”
Hard to believe the place had once flourished as a holiday and convention town, “the Queen of Resorts.” It had been transformed from a fishing village by the advent of train travel. A link was opened between Atlantic City and Philadelphia in 1880, and before long the place had running water, paved streets, and arc lamps, drawing vacationers from Washington and Pittsburgh, Baltimore and New York. By the turn of the century it had become a popular, schlocky resort, with a gigantic, three-tiered carousel, dance halls, vaudeville shows, Steel Pier, forty-foot-wide boardwalk, the Moorish Palace, the London Ghost Show, the Haunted Swing, and Guvernator’s Mammoth Pavilion.
Just as one century’s advance in mass transportation made the place, the next century’s unmade it. Inexpensive air travel marked the start of Atlantic City’s decline. Resort destinations once inaccessible to the middle class were now only a couple of hours and a few hundred dollars away. The big old hotels suffered impossible vacancy rates and fell into disrepair. By the early 1960s tourism had slowed to a trickle, and Atlantic City found itself afflicted with the problems that beset most cities in the northeastern United States. In its heyday Atlantic City had been a twelve-week town, generating so much business between Memorial Day and Labour Day that many residents earned enough to see them through the year. Now the summer unemployment rate exceeded 20 per cent. There was no economic diversity to fall back on. The population dwindled, from a peak of about 60,000, and fewer homeowners were left to pick up the tax bill. Property values fell while property taxes rose; more people departed; those who remained were mostly those who couldn’t afford to leave, the elderly and the unskilled. Atlantic City clung to its enduring distinctions — home of the Miss America Pageant, site of the longest wooden boardwalk in the world, inspiration for the game of Monopoly — but it had become as bereft as the derelicts Molony studied, with pity and fascination, through the window of the shuttle van.
Many northeastern states felt the effects of America’s growing attraction to the Sunbelt. In New Jersey, one proposed solution to the economic problems was casino gambling. The idea wasn’t new. Atlantic City had long had a carnival atmosphere, with “Skillo” games on the Boardwalk and more lucrative action tucked out of sight. On August 31, 1899, The Atlantic Review included a report of gambling on races, faro, and roulette at a mansion in Margate. By the 1950s the question of legalized gambling was being debated, and in 1974 made it to a referendum. New Jerseyians were asked whether they were in favour of making casino gambling legal throughout their state. More than 60 per cent were opposed. Two years later, on a second referendum, they were asked if they favoured legalized gambling only in Atlantic City. This time 56 per cent said yes, and the city’s residents celebrated what the proponents of casino gambling promised would be an urban renaissance. Jobs would be created, money would pour in, and Atlantic City would be restored to its former glory.
Molony watched a hooker in white leather shorts and a white fur coat emerge from a 7-Eleven. A sign in the storefront next door said: “Card reading, $1.” Old Will’s Liquors and Wines. Connie’s Arcade. First Jersey National Bank. Live nude show, private booths. Praise the Lord Parking. New Jersey State Lottery. Three men sat on the stoop of a boarded-up restaurant, passing a bottle. The van turned a corner, and huge red-on-gold mock-Roman letters spelled the word “Caesars.”
“Welcome to our fair city,” said the driver. “Police got better things to do than go looking for you. Want to stretch your legs, best keep to the Boardwalk. And don’t get greedy now. The minute you’re up a million dollars, quit.”
At the same table where, six months earlier, he had won $12,000 learning craps, Molony lost his entire stake — nearly $100,000 — in an hour. Cursing himself, disconsolate, he watched basketball in one of the bars, killing the hours until it was time to fly home. He called Brenda to say hi, then phoned Colizzi. Mario was out, said his father, but they reached him with the beeper and Colizzi had Molony paged at the casino. Molony said he wanted his limit raised, wanted to double up on all the horse and sports bets he’d made. His timing could not have been worse — he had one of the most miserable weekends of his handicapping life. When Monday came around he owed Colizzi $30,000.
Having paid down the Koharski loan with money from the Brydson account, Molony was able to debit Koharski again. He put through a $30,000 loan advance. The branch didn’t have that much cash on hand, however, so he had to issue an interbranch settlement form allowing him to pick up the money at Commerce Court. He hurried across the street to Simpsons. Colizzi was waiting in the basement.
“Come on, we’ve got to go downtown for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We don’t have cash at the branch.”
In biting cold, Molony, without a coat, led the way to the gleaming, fifty-eight-storey headquarters of the CIBC. Colizzi, with his cashmere overcoat and flabby, unshaven jaw, looked like a character in a gangster film. Molony didn’t want to be seen with him but Colizzi couldn’t pick up the cash by himself. The 343 form was an internal bank document that would not normally be handed over to a customer. The two men pushed through revolving doors into the mammoth foyer and presented themselves at the counter.
“Brian Molony, Bay and Richmond. I called earlier. This is Mr. Colizzi. Rush order for some cash.” He handed over the 343 form and his business card. “Could you look after him, please?”
Molony thanked the girl, shook hands with Colizzi, and hurried back to the branch. He hadn’t been at his desk five minutes when Alex Osborne appeared.
“Who’s Mario Colizzi?”
Molony feared he’d lose control of his bowels. He hadn’t even written up the loan yet. How could Osborne have known about it?
“New customer.”
“Downtown’s on the line. This Colizzi is trying to get some cash.”
“I’ll handle it if you like. What line?”
“Line two,” said Osborne, and walked out.
Molony stared at the flashing button. He drew a calming breath and punched it. “Molony here.”
“It’s Commerce Court. We’ve got a gentleman trying to pick up some cash on an interbranch settlement?”
“Right.” A gentleman.
“The spelling of his name doesn’t match the spelling on his driver’s licence.”
“Our fault,” said Molony. “I’ll authorize that.”
Colizzi was furious. That night at the racetrack he ranted. What did Molony take him for? They’d kept him waiting half an hour, grilled him, made him feel like a criminal. No more bullshit, picking it up at the bank. Molony assured him it wouldn’t happen again. Damn right it won’t, said Colizzi, dampening his distress with Courvoisier. Want to play, settle
up like anybody else. Now who do you like in the first?
Directly across the street from the Bay and Richmond branch of the CIBC, not fifty yards away, was the City Hall branch. Rumours sometimes circulated that the two branches would be merged. Not long after Molony had begun defrauding the bank there were new rumblings from downtown about “rationalization of the branch system.” Word had it that Russell Harrison himself had walked up Bay Street, looked from one corner to the other, and said, “What the hell.” In early 1981 it was confirmed that the branches would be amalgamated. Speculation began about staffing — some people would be transferred, others asked to take different positions — and about who would manage the combined branch.
The manager at City Hall, Harry Buckle, had enjoyed a steady, unspectacular career in the bank. With his white hair, glasses, and fresh-shaved, pink cheeks, he was the perfect grandfatherly manager. He had grown up on the prairies; his father had been Saskatchewan’s agriculture minister in the 1930s. Buckle attended the University of Saskatchewan and then joined the federal bureau of statistics. A year cured him of his desire to be a civil servant. He did postgraduate work in commerce at the University of Toronto and then joined the bank. His climb up the ladder was orderly and typical — he started in the branches, joined the audit staff, went back out to the branches, worked in the credit department, went back out to the branches, moved to San Francisco as an assistant vice-president, came back to the credit department, then managed the Westdale branch in Hamilton and the main branch in Halifax before moving to Toronto to manage City Hall branch.
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