Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  One day Andrews returned to Room 8 to find that another monitor had logged two calls on Mario Colizzi’s line. Andrews rewound the tape and put on his headphones. In the first call, Beck and Colizzi were complaining about somebody. Andrews felt sure it was Mr. Brown.

  “He said he was going to go away and pick something up,” said Colizzi. “He never went away, so I put on the stall for him. He’s probably mad at me. Fuck him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They all get mad at me. How did he do, good or bad?”

  “He lost.”

  “Oh, that’s good. A lot?”

  Beck asked, “What’s going on with this guy?”

  Colizzi said he didn’t know, the guy had phoned his father at least six times. “With me, he wants to play, you know. He never has money to give me. He said he was going to go away and get it, he didn’t go away and get it and he wanted to keep playing. No way.”

  “So that means he’s lying then.”

  “He’s always lying.”

  They talked about which of them should get paid first. Beck pointed out that there was another IOU for twenty-five.

  Andrews listened carefully. Twenty-five hundred? Or twenty-five thousand?

  “It looks like the party’s over, doesn’t it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think,” said Colizzi. He said he had given Mr. Brown the slip at Greenwood. He said that Mr. Brown had phoned his father, but that he’d turned off his beeper. “Plus I had a good excuse anyways, my little niece’s birthday party.”

  “Sounds like it’s all over for him,” said Beck.

  “Sure, if he don’t give it’s all over. Am I going to play for fun? I might get caught and arrested for fun?”

  Beck suggested giving Mr. Brown a free holiday if he paid off.

  “We got to send him to a place where there’s no gambling,” said Colizzi.

  “He’ll find something to do.”

  “Send him to Devil’s Island,” said Colizzi.

  Andrews put a little red star beside the log record of that call, then ran the tape ahead. Mr. Brown had called Colizzi not long afterwards. The old man answered the phone.

  “Is Mario there, please?”

  “Just a moment. Mario, telefono!”

  “Hello,” said Colizzi, “I had a little problem. The ex-wife got arrested, drunk driving and everything, so I had to get the kid. I had the kid for the weekend.”

  “You can’t pick up the phone and phone me.”

  “Phone, you wouldn’t have been there. You said you were going to go up there, then this happened.”

  “Well, I said —”

  “I went up there by the sixth, seventh race, ask Freddy. He said you were there mad and you left. Then I came home and my father said you’d phoned all day.”

  “He said he could get hold of you.”

  “I left the beeper at home, thought I had it with me, that’s what he said, phoned the beeper, I said I left it here. I thought you were going to go away, too. The weekend.”

  “Even if I go away,” said Mr. Brown, “I call you first.”

  “What am I going to do, the kid comes first. I wish I’d get him forever. She’s getting fourteen days in jail and six months, her second time.”

  “Drunk driving?”

  “Yeah, second time, she’ll probably do weekends. I’ll get the kid every week, it’s good.”

  Mr. Brown was planning to go to Atlantic City. Colizzi was worried that they weren’t getting together. Mr. Brown wanted to meet on Thursday instead. Colizzi said, “Thursday, I’m busy Thursday, I might have to go to Buffalo.”

  “One second you’re looking after the kid. The next thing you’re going to Buffalo.” Andrews detected something new in Mr. Brown’s voice, an undertone of contempt. This was a man who did not like being jerked around. He said he’d looked like a fool at the track, searching for Colizzi when he wasn’t there.

  “You were seventeen short,” said Colizzi. “Seven plus the ten.”

  Seven plus ten. If it’s hundreds, you don’t say ten. Seventeen thousand dollars short? In a week? Plus another IOU for twenty-five thousand? Was Andrews getting this straight?

  “Don’t worry about the other one,” said Mr. Brown.

  “I’m not worried about nothing.”

  “Well, don’t upset me!”

  “What do you want to do,” said Colizzi, “you want to keep going?”

  “Yeah!”

  “You want to keep on going?”

  “Yeah!”

  “When do you want to stop?”

  “Whenever you feel uncomfortable.”

  “I feel what?”

  “Uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, can I see you tonight? We’ll talk about it.”

  They agreed to meet at the track before the first race.

  Ron Andrews put a red star beside that call, too. Then he rewound the tape, slowed it down, and listened to the conversation again. What to do about Sherry Brydson? In the wake of the audit at Bay and Richmond, this delicate question weighed not just on Brian Molony but on Harry Buckle as well. How heavy a hand ought the bank to use in dealing with a member of the Thomson family? The ideal solution would be to obtain from John Tory the family’s guarantee. Molony arranged a meeting with Tory so that he and Buckle could feel him out. Tory, it turned out, was unprepared to extend the guarantee. Sherry’s disbursement from the trust she could do with as she wished. She had wanted to spread her entrepreneurial wings independent of the family and that was her prerogative. Tory indicated to Buckle and Molony that the bank was to treat her exactly as it would any other customer. He made clear, though, that the CIBC was to do nothing rash before consulting him. The bank had the idea the Thomson interests would not allow Brydson to embarrass herself, but that direct support would be provided only in case of dire need. All of which brought Harry Buckle — and everyone else at the CIBC — back to where they’d started. What to do about Sherry Brydson?

  Because Molony and Brydson’s lawyer were on good terms, Buckle took them for a meal at the National Club. Perhaps Brian could induce Stu Butts to go back to Brydson and make clear the bank’s concerns. Perhaps that would prompt her to increase her security or find some other way of appeasing the bank. The three men discussed the situation at lunch and again, a week later, at a meeting in Molony’s office. Molony, fearing that either Butts or Buckle would mention a figure, kept changing the subject, piping up with non sequiturs about the Blue Jays, the bad weather in New England, and the erratic performance of the Canadian dollar.

  “The key point,” said Buckle, “is that the building, in its present condition, simply isn’t —”

  “Wasn’t that your phone, Mr. Buckle? I know Stu has to get back, so perhaps we should end here and talk again in a day or two.”

  Buckle didn’t mind ending the meeting. This was something Brian could look after. He seemed to get along with Brydson’s people, and he was the only one who really knew the details of the loan account. Besides, Buckle had other things on his mind. He was about to head off for three weeks of golf in Florida and South Carolina, and he hadn’t yet packed.

  The weekend Harry Buckle headed south, Ron Andrews drove north through a snowstorm to The Bulldog’s cottage. He and The Bulldog both made a point of developing friendships outside the force. All too easy to socialize with other cops, to fall into the embittered, myopic cynicism that was one of the occupational hazards. Andrews and The Bulldog were close friends, though, and often went snowmobiling together. On Sunday the conversation got around to the 14 Division wiretap. The sixty-day authorization was almost up, and nothing solid had grown out of the investigation.

  “I think we should keep an eye on Mario Colizzi,” said Andrews.

  “What have you got?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something behind this Mr. Brown. I don’t know what, but something.”

  “Think we should obtain a new authorization?”

  “Jus
t a feeling I’ve got,” said Andrews. “I can’t tell you more than that.”

  Obtaining a new authorization meant starting over, putting together an affidavit. It meant a new round of physical surveillance on the subject. You had to be able to say where he went and who he met. You had to document that his phone was busiest at the hours when gambling was normally carried out. You had to take the affidavit to a crown agent. Only if it were airtight did you get your authorization right then. Bookies thought it was easy — almost automatic — when in truth it was often a pain in the neck. You basically needed enough to arrest him then and there. The wiretap gave you documentary evidence to take to court, icing on the cake.

  There was also the expense. Bell charged $50 a day for each line, and one authorization might cover twenty lines. A thousand a day added up quickly, and The Bulldog’s budget had no fat. But The Bulldog himself had worked more than a hundred authorizations. He knew the importance of listening to the monitors, encouraging them to form their own opinions, letting them steer the investigation. That’s why his men turned up more quality stuff than the Intelligence gambling squad — individual contributions to the group effort. Mario was still booking, no doubt about that; they had the grounds for a new affidavit. It came down to Andrews’ gut instinct, and The Bulldog put great faith in instinct.

  “See what I can do,” he said.

  On March 11,1982, Judge H. R. Locke of York County Court granted an authorization to intercept the private communications of a number of men suspected of illegal betting and conspiracy to bet illegally. One was Mario Colizzi.

  It was now more or less understood, by their friends if not by either set of parents, that Brian and Brenda were living together. He had moved in to the twenty-third-floor apartment on a trial basis. He gave Brenda $300 a month and she looked after the bills. Two hundred was half the rent; the other hundred was for phone, cable, and sundry items. They split everything. When the phone bill started including page after page of long-distance charges to the Sportsline number, Brenda simply gave it to him without a word. He paid it himself. She pointed out that he earned a better salary than she did — $33,000 to her $23,000 — but he wouldn’t hear of contributing more than half the total cost. Indeed, when she raised the subject, saying she sometimes spent more than her $300 share, he chastised her for not budgeting more carefully. The next day he sent flowers and a card saying he was sorry.

  Brian was less than tidy, and his clothes tended to collect on every chair and door frame. If Brenda objected, he explained that he was airing them out. There was no arguing with him. His mother had spent her life picking up after the Molony boys and he expected her to do the same. It wasn’t a big deal, not something she’d ever really got upset about. That was just Brian. But she was more unhappy than ever — tired of spending night after night and weekends by herself — and reminders of his selfishness added to her resentment. Gathering up the dirty clothes, waiting for the elevator down to the laundry room, she wondered why she’d become so involved with him in the first place. The Brian she lived with wasn’t the same Brian she’d been drawn to.

  If anyone else criticized him, she stood up for him. When one of the girls at work suggested that Brenda was getting the short end of the stick, that Brian was using her, she vehemently denied it. Secretly, though, she wondered if it were true. What was she going to do? The strain was affecting her sleep, her work, her whole life. Between chatting on the phone with girlfriends and visiting her parents, she fantasized about issuing an ultimatum. She would have done it, too, except she was afraid to imagine his answer.

  One evening, putting his socks away, she came on a bundle of U.S. cash. The sight of the money terrified her. It was like the airline tickets she’d accidentally opened, like Colizzi’s low, faintly accented voice on the phone — it took her fear out of hiding and stuck it right under her nose, so blatant she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. What was Brian doing with so much American money? Had he got himself in debt to them? Was he discharging the debt by carrying money across the border? Is that why he was always going away?

  That night Brian got home at one-thirty. He’d had good success at the races and was looking forward to checking the scores and the stock quotations. The sight of Brenda in her flannel nightgown, stone-faced, not even watching television, nearly made him turn around. She asked him about the money. She wanted to know why he had it, where it came from. Was it his? Was he in some kind of trouble? He gave splendid, evasive answers, but she wouldn’t let him get away with it. She had promised herself for months she’d straighten this out — get some real communication going or else break it off completely.

  “Where is this relationship headed? Where do you want it to go?”

  Brian seemed puzzled. “In what sense?”

  “Nothing changes. When I tried to talk to you before Christmas you said your problems would be settled by February. Now it’s March and you’re going away more than ever. What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking after things the best way I know how.”

  “What are you looking after?”

  “I’ve told you. I’ve got financial responsibilities. I’m under a lot of pressure at work. Buckle’s away. I’ve got an important meeting coming up. They’re my problems and I’ll deal with them.”

  “I have two thousand in my savings account. You can have that if you want.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll deal with this myself.”

  “I could cash my RRSP. Almost three thousand. I could give you almost five thousand dollars altogether.”

  “Brenda, I can’t take your money. Just let me deal with it.”

  “Do you owe more than twenty thousand?”

  Brian laughed, as if the question were preposterous. “Where did you pick that number? Out of a hat?”

  “I don’t know where. Answer me. Do you?”

  “I want you to let me deal with my own problems. And please stop worrying. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Don’t tell me to stop worrying! I just worry more.”

  He shrugged and turned on the TV.

  She got up and shut it off. “Why do you have to go away?”

  “If you want more time together, come with me,” he said, turning it back on, changing stations. “I told you before, you can come anytime you want.” She hated Atlantic City, hated gambling. But now she couldn’t say he hadn’t made concessions, offered to include her. Her anger turned into hopelessness.

  “Just tell me one thing,” she said, resigned now, more curious than accusing. She felt chilly, and tucked her bare feet under herself on the chair. “Please tell me why you have to keep going back.”

  She may as well have asked a bull, in its bright necklace of blood, why it kept lunging at the cape. The question was central to Molony’s essence but one he himself was unequipped to answer. He believed he kept going back because he had borrowed a huge sum and gambling was his one chance of recovering it. He thought of himself as forced to gamble to extricate himself from the financial web in which he’d entangled himself. The casino games at Caesars offered his only hope of redemption.

  Craps and baccarat are indeed games, as pinochle and checkers are games. As in any game, agreed-upon conventions organize the activity. To subscribe to those conventions, to participate in the game, is to cut yourself off from the world. The variables that orient you in the outside world — climate, geography, hour of day — vanish when you step into the casino. The Tropicana in Las Vegas at four on a blistering afternoon is the Golden Nugget in Atlantic City on a foggy night. The Tropicana is the Golden Nugget, New Jersey is Nevada, four o’clock is eleven, and money is chips — these are what the American sociologist Irving Goffman calls the “transformation rules” that give new meaning to existing perceptions.

  The casino insulates those who play the game, and its power to render you inattentive to the outside world makes it a marvellous escape. What better way to forget the office, the mortgage, the pressures of family and c
areer? Most people find a few days in Las Vegas or Atlantic City a wonderful tonic. They’re free to live by their own schedule, behave as they wish, enjoy the glitter and self-indulgence. They return to their lives restored and content.

  Unhappy people, though, grieving people, desperate, bereft, fragile, rejected, downhearted, frightened, unfulfilled, lonely, and insecure people find a casino less restorative than analgesic. In the casino, life’s complications are set aside. The more painful the complications, the greater the casino’s allure. If the gambler has low self-esteem, if the outside world has given him a poor self-image, he has the additional comfort of being stroked. He is recognized and catered to. His ego is bolstered, his vanity flattered. Every gambler tells himself his object is to win, but his true object may be the avoidance of pain. Playing and losing is better than not playing. Winning is better than losing, sure, but only because it allows the gambler to keep playing.

  Goffman has said that all games “display in a simple way the structure of real-life situations. They cut us off from serious life by immersing us in its possibilities.” Once Molony entered the casino, he found it self-contained and complete. Within its framework anything could happen. He could witness the impossible — twenty straight passes at the crap table, the bank winning ten times in a row at baccarat, someone down to his last chip cashing out for a million dollars. Not just witness the impossible, but accomplish it. The chosen someone could be him. Going to the casino was not like going to the movies — mere escape into entertainment — because his presence helped dictate the construction of events. He did gamble to escape, clearly, but gambling was more than that: it was an existential act. Each time he threw the dice he forged his fate. No matter that his fate was pre-ordained, that anyone else could have predicted a disastrous end. Swept away by his defiance were the limitations, frustrations, and ambiguities of daily life, a grey plain across which other people spent their lives trudging. This was (1) not satisfactory, (2) acceptable, or (3)unsatisfactory. This was black and white, win or lose. Molony had found the way to take himself off the grey plain, knowledge so powerful it’s usually available only to those able to master it. He happened on it through a defective brand of self-possession and was unequipped for mastery. Fail to master powerful knowledge and you’re at its mercy.