Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  On Monday morning he got out of the apartment before Brenda had a chance to question him. Between having to deal with her and having to walk into the bank, mornings had become an ordeal. Mondays were worst of all. Five days, in which a thousand things could go wrong, before the next respite, the next chance to right himself. Each day he half expected Brenda’s ultimatum; each day he half expected to find the auditors in the branch. When that happened he was sunk. He used the half hour in the car, driving along the lake, to calm himself. For a time he had listened to the soundtrack from Man of La Mancha every morning, but a Melissa Manchester ballad had replaced “The Impossible Dream” as his favourite song. It got to him every time he heard it:

  Don’t cry out loud

  Keep it inside, learn how to hide your feelings

  Fly high and proud, and if you should fall

  Remember you almost had it all…

  Molony parked in the Eaton Centre and hurried across Queen Street. The department stores had done up their windows. Powdery snow blew against the glass and swirled along the sidewalks. With Christmas only a couple of weeks off, he’d been given a reprieve. Surely the audit wouldn’t be sprung until the New Year. Thank heavens — he desperately needed the time. He didn’t like to think how much he owed the bank; the number, out of context, was frightening. But his luck had been so bad lately it was bound to turn, and two or three big wins would put him back on his feet.

  Molony headed down Bay Street, hurrying through the falling snow. He wasn’t wearing an overcoat and felt the chill on his neck. When he peered through the plate-glass windows on Richmond, drawing close to see past his own reflection, his heart shrank.

  Too much activity in the branch. Faces he’d never seen. At eight-thirty in the morning, it could mean only one thing.

  5

  THE HEAT IS ON

  “Slow me down, Lord. Ease the pounding of my heart by the quieting of my mind. Steady my hurried pace with a vision of the eternal reach of time.”

  – Prayer To Achieve Inner Peace

  ank audits are intended to accomplish two things: ensure that proper procedure is being followed, and confirm the assets and liabilities of the branch. At Bay and Richmond, an audit meant the unannounced arrival of a twenty-five- or thirty-man team first thing in the morning. They counted the cash and the securities before the branch opened, in order not to impede the day’s business. They also seized the books. The first part of an audit entails balance confirmation. The inspectors then go through the loans in detail, confirming security and collateral and giving each loan a rating of 1 (satisfactory), 2 (acceptable), or 3 (unsatisfactory).

  In the United States, audits are conducted by state or federal agencies. Banks with state charters are inspected by state inspectors. Banks with federal charters — about a third of the roughly 15,000 American banks — are audited by the comptroller of the currency. The corresponding federal agency in Canada, the inspector-general of banks, is insignificant and servile. The inspector-general has a staff of only a few dozen people; his duties are “to be responsible for the administration of the Bank Act,” a document written by the banks themselves in the nineteenth century and revised by Parliament every ten years.

  In Canada, bank audits are conducted by the inspection division of the bank itself. The auditors are looking for sloppiness, dishonesty, and adherence to systems. A good audit improves their chances for promotion. The mood at the branch can get testy. When Harry Buckle was in Halifax, an auditor noticed a loan to someone he happened to know and dislike, and “rated” the loan (as questionable) out of personal animosity. Buckle was outraged; the two men remained at odds for years. But a Commerce man is encouraged to think of himself as part of the Commerce team, and the mood is more often one of friendly cooperation. The bank’s biggest branch, Commerce Court, sometimes informed the inspection division that it didn’t want to be audited on a particular date — at the time of a new bond issue, for instance, it would be in no one’s interest to have the auditors counting $100 government bonds. In the U.S., such intervention would not be tolerated. There’s not the same adversarial air in Canada as in the United States. Nor, perhaps, the same rigorous scrutiny.

  The morning Molony peered through the Richmond Street windows and saw the auditors in the branch, his first impulse was to flee. Vanish, never to be heard from again. Poor Brenda, his poor family — such shame and humiliation. He stood in the falling snow and wondered where, exactly, he would go. The only places that came to mind were Las Vegas and Atlantic City. What would he do? Without working capital he had no way of bailing himself out. Besides, once they uncovered the frauds they’d catch up with him soon enough.

  “Morning, Brian,” said one of the tellers. “Coming in, or are you going to stand there playing snowman?”

  He had no choice. He pushed through the door as if it were another day at the office. It was over. He’d put his bad eggs in two baskets, and one or other was sure to be looked into. Roger Oskaner owed the CIBC $175,000. His credit limit was $100,000 with full security. Not only was he a fictitious customer, he was over his fictitious limit. In branch records he didn’t have any security. He didn’t even have an address.

  How could Molony buy time? He did a hasty memo indicating he had spoken to Credit Room and got approval for a $175,000 loan to Oskaner fully secured by government bonds. He added the memo to the loan file. He could only pray the auditors wouldn’t confirm the approval or look into Oskaner himself.

  The fictitious Brydson loan account was trickier. In nine months Molony had used it nineteen times and taken amounts ranging from $45,000 to $250,000. The bank’s books showed her companies as owing $2-million more than she had actually borrowed. Her legitimate loans, for the Elmwood Club and her oil-and-gas companies, were in the name of Westerkirk Holdings; she was unaware the branch had a second, U.S.-dollar, account in her name. Computer-generated audit notices went out to a random sample of branch customers. Because Brydson’s legitimate loans were substantial, however, she would get a personal letter asking her to confirm the audited statement. She’d reply directly to the inspection department, bypassing the branch, and Molony’s goose would be cooked — if he made it that far. He had one hope. If the auditors failed to turn anything up by Friday, he’d have the weekend to win back the $2-million and Oskaner’s $175,000.

  In the meantime he needed cash. The Leo Sherman account?

  No way, not Leo Sherman. Koharski?

  Having paid off the fictitious Koharski loan, Molony could use the account again. He debited the loan account by $80,000 — Koharski’s supposed limit — and drove to the airport Saturday morning. He’d had a good week with the bookies and was carrying $170,000. The terminal was busy and the lineups were long. He cleared customs — never pleasant — and headed for his gate. At the barrier marked “Passengers Only” he waited as people fed their hand luggage through the X-ray unit and stepped through the metal detector. He had the cash divided among his pockets. He dreaded the security procedure and felt that his discomfort was obvious to everyone. The lineup inched forward. The Greek couple ahead of him were saying a tearful goodbye, hugging and kissing. The woman put her bag on the conveyor and passed through the frame. The security guard, a weary Indian fellow, signalled Molony to come forward. He stepped through the detector and set off the alarm.

  “Did you forget to take your keys out?”

  Bundles of American fifties were jammed into every pocket. Not ten feet away, a uniformed Mountie stood chatting to a security man in plain clothes. How could he get the money out without being seen? He stood there paralyzed. The lineup was building behind him. The Indian fellow repeated, “Pockets, sir.” Molony half turned, fumbling, using his body to shield the cash. He pulled the bundles out and glanced up to find the Mountie looking directly at him: game over: when they questioned him about the currency violation they’d want to know where he worked. Frantically he freed his keys, handed them over, and stuffed money back in his pocket. It felt as if everyone wa
s watching; but the Mountie had turned away and resumed his conversation. A little girl in line said to her mother, “That man has a lot of money.”

  Molony smiled at the mother, who smiled in return. He extended his arms like a scarecrow, sweating profusely. The guard ran the detector into his armpits, down his ribs, over the bulging pockets, between his legs.

  “Go ahead.”

  Molony was halfway to the gate before he could breathe. Thank God no one paid attention to children. He was certain he’d been caught, yet he’d pulled through. It was surely a sign. Once he’d recovered his composure he began to feel purposeful and confident. The worst was finally over. This was going to be his day. Boarding the plane, he had a clear picture of himself in the casino, moving back and forth between craps and baccarat, his winnings so substantial he needed a security guard to help with them. He felt the cash in his pockets and buckled himself into his seat. If he could have had one wish, he would have asked to be transported instantly to the crap table at Caesars. Like a child before Christmas, he could hardly bear to wait.

  Dec. 12, 1981. Caesars Atlantic City. Kevin Kelly.

  12:05 p.m. Craps 9. Purple action (Maloney). Has almost two full racks, $100,000. Was down to $10,000, made big hand, ran it to almost $90,000. Walked.

  3:45 p.m. Observed Maloney receive $70,000 in markers — 3 × 20,000 and 1 × 10,000 — and lose it all.

  4:20 p.m. Baccarat 2. Maloney up $90,000. Lost it all. $20,000 marker. Lost. $20,000 marker. Lost. Going bad.

  9:00 p.m. Observed Craps 10. Maloney betting $3,000 on Pass with odds and $1,500 on Come with odds. Two players on table. Maloney losing. Gets a $10,000 marker and loses that.

  The week after the auditors showed up at the branch, one of the audit assistants, a young Chinese, stuck his head in Molony’s office and asked if Steve Richardson was around. Richardson had gone to Commerce Court for lunch.

  “He’s out for an hour. Maybe I can help.”

  “I’m working on the Westerkirk Holdings account.”

  “Oh yes,” said Molony. “I’m familiar with it.”

  Auditors try to ensure that a customer’s entire activity at the branch is included in the confirmation, otherwise the customer gets alarmed: “What about my term deposits? Why aren’t they on here?” The Chinese said, “I want to make sure we have everything in our confirmation letter.”

  “Let me see,” said Molony, terrified. The auditors had overlooked both the fictitious Sherry Brydson loan account and her liquid assets. “There’s more. I’m busy right now, but leave it with me if you like.”

  The auditors were using branch typists — not recommended procedure, but the audit turned out a huge volume of correspondence and the branch had secretarial staff available. Molony changed the heading of the letter, adding “Sherry Brydson” to “Westerkirk Holdings Inc.” He included the liquid assets and had the letter retyped. The Chinese fellow was surprised he’d taken the trouble.

  “Thank you for the help. Lot of work.”

  “No problem,” said Molony.

  The new heading on the letter suggested that the fictitious Sherry Brydson loan had been included in the audit confirmation. The loan card for Sherry Brydson bore the notation, “Hold mail — give to manager post #2.” If the auditors came to Molony, he’d say, “Everything was included in the Westerkirk letter that went out to her,” and hope they didn’t bother comparing the loan balance at the branch to the loan balance in the letter.

  Sheer fluke that Richardson had been at lunch and Molony had been able to doctor the letter. Thereafter he lived in terror. He didn’t know how the computer isolated loans for detailed inspection, but assumed any loan in seven figures would be confirmed. When Brydson’s controller received the confirmation, she might notice the discrepancy in the name of the account. He had to get the bad loan paid off. He wasn’t sure how much time he had, but days at most. His only hope was to put together a stake — a real stake — and get back to the casino over the holidays.

  Leo Sherman?

  No way, not Leo Sherman.

  Leo Sherman was a skinny, white-haired businessman who had sold his nut business to Standard Brands for several million dollars. Alex Osborne, with his contacts and good reputation among the Jewish businessmen on Spadina Avenue, had attracted the account to Bay and Richmond and turned it over to Molony. Sherman had taken out investment loans in various corporate names. A rather self-centred, blustery fellow, he had also set up a $1-million authorized credit in his own name, seemingly for no other reason than to be able to tell his friends, “I have a million-dollar personal line of credit at the bank.” In two years he had never borrowed against it. The documentation was in place, the credit fully secured; his presigned demand notes were on file.

  Not Leo Sherman.

  Molony liked the man. His company’s motto was “Our business is nuts.” He gave everybody jars of peanuts. He worked alongside his son at a big, peanut-shaped desk. He took Molony and Alex Osborne to watch the Blue Jays from the Standard Brands private box. He dropped by the branch for no other reason than to bellow, for all to hear, “Where’s Molony? I want to see my banker.” Sherman took him across the street for a shoeshine and invited him down to Florida. He dragged Molony along to a YMHA dinner, introduced him to his cronies, and said, “This is my banker, Brian Molony. Terrific kid. You should all give him your business.”

  Not Leo Sherman.

  What difference did it make now? If he didn’t pay down Brydson before the auditors got to it, he was sunk. He had a problem that only money would solve and Leo Sherman had a million-dollar line of unused credit. What choice was there? First big win, the money would go to retiring the loan.

  How big a loan? Molony took one of the presigned promissory notes and, before he had time to change his mind, filled in the first figure that came into his head: $360,000 U.S.

  Over the holiday a number of Molony’s friends noticed he was drinking more than usual. Wasn’t like Brian to knock back one drink and pour another. But then it was Christmas, and if anybody could hold their liquor, Brian could. After five rum-and-Cokes he behaved exactly as he had before the first. You’d have thought he’d forgotten the Bacardi.

  Funny, too, that he and Brenda weren’t going to Florida. It was something of a Molony tradition that the family gathered in Fort Lauderdale over Christmas. Brenda assumed they’d be going, but at the last minute Brian said he had so much to do at the branch he simply couldn’t spare the time. When Brenda told her girlfriend, also a CIBC employee, the girlfriend commented to her husband that, so far as she could recall, Brian hadn’t taken holidays all year. According to the Branch Management and Operations Manual, he should have taken two consecutive weeks at least once a year. Wasn’t like Brian not to go by the book.

  Molony spent a quiet Christmas with Brenda’s family, then drove out to the farm to visit Sieg and Sheila. Sieg, too, noticed a change. He had recently come into Toronto to see Brian for more money. He and Brian’s mother were both keen on an oil stock, and Sieg wanted to increase his investment loan. Brian had been uncharacteristically brusque and impatient. Sieg got the feeling he was being hurried out and wondered if Brian was embarrassed to be dealing with a country rube. He said nothing to Brian, of course, but told Sheila he couldn’t help wondering whether Bay Street and the big promotion had gone to Brian’s head.

  On Boxing Day, Brian drove down to visit Doug in Sarnia, telling Brenda he’d be there two or three days. Doug teased him about his messy car; they talked about their jobs, and the stock market, and what had happened to some of their old school chums. On the surface things were the same as ever. Neither of them had forgotten the trip to Las Vegas. After Nicole and the kids had gone to bed, Brian and Doug got into the rum. As they were saying goodnight, Brian suddenly blurted, “I think I’m in trouble.” Doug assumed he was referring to the borrowed money and asked if he could help. Brian drained his glass, chewing an ice cube, giving himself a moment. “Not unless you’re a marriage counsellor. I’m
in trouble with Brenda. She was planning on going to Florida.”

  In the morning, before anyone else was up, Brian woke Doug to say goodbye. It had snowed heavily overnight and a noisy wind was whipping the house, piling drifts against the window.

  “You’re not going to drive back in this weather.”

  “Have to,” said Brian. Colizzi was in Las Vegas. “The snow’s stopped. The highway’s probably clear.”

  At the office, or in action, Molony never felt tired, but at a restaurant or in the car exhaustion sometimes seeped out of his bones. On the treacherous drive along Highway 401 he kept the windows open. The air was freezing cold but the heater made him so drowsy he feared he’d drive off the road. Toronto had missed the brunt of the storm and the plane took off on schedule.

  In Las Vegas he took a cab to the Tropicana. He had almost $250,000 cash. In a few hours the money was gone. How stupid could one person be? He hadn’t even got bets down on the college bowl games. He’d often had bad luck at the Tropicana and promised himself he’d avoid it. He couldn’t have picked a better spot if he’d been trying to lose. Why hadn’t he gone next door? It was his own damn fault, he was such a stupid idiot he could have punched himself. Lucky that Colizzi was in town or it would have been a thoroughly miserable wait for the flight home. He went to Colizzi’s room and knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Come back later.”

  “Open up. It’s important.”

  Colizzi opened the door dressed in a gold chain and a bath towel. Behind him, in bed, a pale woman was doing something with a credit card and a mirror.

  “What do you want?”

  “Maybe he wants a date,” said the woman. “Ask him in.”

  “How much have you got?”

  “What do you need?” said Colizzi, taking his leather pants from the chair. “Want some of that?” He nodded over his shoulder. “Not bad French.”