Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  In a casino, the conventional distinctions by which people organize themselves — appearance, social standing, race, religion, dress, occupation — are set aside. Few places are as egalitarian as the crap table. Nothing counts but money. If you have enough to play, you’re part of the game. It doesn’t matter how you came by the money or how you’re perceived by the outside world. Your achievement at the table becomes the basis of your standing, as achieved success is the basis of capitalistic society. The casino reflects the North American ideal — make money at the game and you’re a winner. Even if you’re a loser (“anybody you see more than twice”), the casino allows you to gain status according to the amount you lose and the way you comport yourself. The brilliance of the casino is twofold. It allows you a measure of dignity while taking your money, and it conditions you to return and lose more money.

  More than anyone else, the Harvard psychologist B. F. Skinner has shaped our thinking about conditioned behaviour. Skinner is the main proponent of the view that human behaviour is shaped by its consequences. Pavlov’s conditioning was based on association. His dogs, accustomed to hearing a bell when presented with food, began salivating at the sound of the bell even in the absence of food. Skinner looked instead at how a particular behaviour was reinforced. He believed that our thoughts and rationalizations are mere gloss on the true reason we do what we do. He argued that behaviour, if positively reinforced, will be repeated; if negatively reinforced, will eventually be extinguished.

  Skinner’s ideas are by no means universally accepted — he makes a quick, unexamined extrapolation from rats and pigeons to human beings — but behaviourism provides, at the least, an intriguing way of looking at the world. Regard a casino in behaviouristic terms and you find all the elements Skinner deemed crucial to the conditioning process. The first is an environment that’s carefully controlled. Skinner’s rats and pigeons were confined in highly simplified, barren environments — “Skinner boxes.” The casino environment — stimulatory music and colour schemes, constant temperature and lighting, no clocks or windows — is as deliberate as the uptempo Muzak segments programmed to coincide with unproductive work periods in offices and factories. And while the gambler, unlike the lab rat, is free to leave this contrived setting, he is subtly discouraged from doing so. Everything he might want — food, drink, entertainment, shopping, recreation, sleep — can be obtained under the same roof. It’s easier to stay than to leave. Architecturally, hotel-casino complexes contrive to bring you again and again to the gaming tables. Go from the coffee shop to your room, the pool to the newsstand, the showroom to the front doors, and you pass through the casino. There are few places to sit down other than at the tables. To get from Caesars’ casino to the Boardwalk in Atlantic City, you pass through two sets of doors. The tinted exterior glass makes even the sunniest day appear overcast and dismal.

  Skinner found that one key to successful operant conditioning is timing. Conditioning is most successful when the consequence immediately follows the behaviour. In the casino a bet is placed, it’s won or lost, the next bet is placed. The same behaviour is repeated over and over; the reinforcement is immediate. The most effective reinforcement schedule, Skinner discovered, is intermittent positive reinforcement. If a behaviour is always reinforced, the animal doesn’t repeat it immediately: a food pellet can be obtained any time. If it’s never reinforced, the behaviour gradually dies out. Behaviour is most firmly reinforced, in other words, when the reward does not come each time the behaviour is repeated but does come, eventually, if it is repeated often enough. Every gambler wins sometimes but never knows when the next win will come. Though unable to predict when he’ll be rewarded, he’s been conditioned to expect that, sooner or later, he will be.

  Like every gambler, Molony lost more often than he won. Is losing not negative reinforcement? According to behaviourism, shouldn’t gambling be extinguished? Often it is. Many people gamble, lose, and swear off gambling. Suppose, though, that the reinforcing consequence of placing a bet is not winning but feeling the intense excitement of having money at risk. If stimulation is the reinforcement, the gambler, as he loses, is conditioning himself to continue gambling. Psychologists have done laboratory experiments in which an electrode was implanted in the pleasure centre of a rat’s brain. In the rat’s cage was one bar that could be depressed to release a food pellet and another to stimulate the pleasure centre. The rat opted for pleasure again and again; depressing the pleasure bar was its final act before dying of starvation.

  “I have to go back,” Molony told Brenda. She wanted nothing more than the truth, but how could he share it with her? The tortuous complications of his life were his own doing. What kind of person would drag an innocent into them? “It’s something I have to clear up. It won’t take much longer.”

  “Brian, don’t you see? I don’t know if we can go on like this much longer.”

  “You’ll just have to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  March 13,1982. Caesars Atlantic City. Frank Hines.

  10 p.m. Brian Maloney on game. Received two markers for total of $45,000. Bets up to $10,000. Lost $30,000 while I observed game.

  3:30 a.m. Baccarat 1. Maloney still playing. Bets up to $20,000.

  On the morning of St. Patrick’s Day, Bert Mills walked briskly from Commerce Court up to the branch at Bay and Richmond. Mills was a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man who didn’t quite fill out his dark blue suit. He was a vice-president in the bank’s credit division. Since Harry Buckle was away, Mills asked the acting manager, John Galbraith, to brief him about the Sherry Brydson meeting. Galbraith knew little about it and introduced Mills to Brian Molony.

  “Perhaps you could bring Mr. Mills up to date.”

  Molony told Mills that Brydson had requested a meeting once it became clear that the bank was unwilling to make further loans in the absence of more security. Brydson felt that if she could talk to someone senior in the bank, said Molony, she could explain exactly what she was trying to do.

  “How much more do they want?”

  “A million to a million-two should do it.”

  “We’d better get over there,” said Mills, looking at his watch.

  “I’ll just use the men’s room first.”

  It was a lovely morning, with a hint of spring in the air. Crossing Bay Street to the Thomson Building, Molony felt like a man walking to the gallows. The day before, in desperation, he had done a memo to Credit Room claiming that the Bank of Montreal had agreed to take over part of Brydson’s loan. Craziness. It would only draw questions about how the business had been allowed to slip away.

  In the spacious boardroom on the twenty-fourth floor of the Thomson Building, Mills and Molony shook hands with Brydson and her people. “Is it warm out?” Stuart Butts asked Molony. “I can’t believe how hot your hand feels.” The atmosphere was tense. Brydson’s people wondered if the bank had decided there would be no more money. That would be inconvenient enough, but there was an even more disquieting possibility. Had the decision been made to call the loan? Absurd to go this far and then pull the plug, but why else would the meeting have been called? Why would a vice-president be getting involved?

  Brydson’s people sat on one side of the table, Mills and Molony on the other. John Tory sat slightly apart, an observer. Molony had to find a way of directing the meeting. He was terrified not only of a possible reference to the amount of Brydson’s loans, but also to any allusion to the Bank of Montreal.

  “Why don’t you tell us about the club,” he suggested. “How’s the membership drive going?”

  “We’d prefer to follow our agenda,” said one of Brydson’s people, distributing xeroxed sheets around the table.

  Molony was so anxious he could barely make sense of the financial projections. Was it possible? He went through the projections again. Miraculously, there was no reference to the loan balance.

  “Perhaps you could explain the membership projections,” he said. Could they not hear his heart
thumping? “How exactly do you plan to attract these members?”

  Brydson’s original plan had been to sell shares in an oil-and-gas company and offer club membership as a bonus. This approach had tax advantages, allowing members to write off their investment. But the deal became so convoluted — the Ontario Securities Commission would require scores of documents from each investor — that it aroused suspicion; then federal legislation was passed that erased the tax benefits. Having spent $370,000 developing the prospectus, Brydson had to trash the whole scheme. The new plan was to raise money through annual memberships. Molony asked how these memberships would be sold. Brydson mentioned a number of marketing ideas, and Molony asked for elaboration. Membership didn’t bear directly on financial matters: he could have talked about membership all day.

  Brydson’s people couldn’t grasp the point of the meeting. Mills kept saying the bank had serious reservations. Brydson replied that the bank had been kept apprised all along: “The facts are the facts. You have our financial statements. We’ve been keeping you up to date on the projected opening date. Now, as you know, it looks like there’s going to be a strike in the building trades, which is why we’ve had to set the opening back again.”

  “The situation is unacceptable,” said Mills. “The bank has concerns about these projections and the available security. Mr. Tory, we would frankly appreciate the assurance of your support.”

  Tory, an impeccable diplomat, replied that the project had to be assessed on its own. If, through unforeseen circumstances, Sherry’s affairs reached crisis point — a purely hypothetical situation — then yes, of course, some form of support would be seriously considered. The salient fact, though, was that this was a business proposition, to be looked at without reference to external factors.

  Mills was frustrated. Why wouldn’t Tory say, “We stand behind it. If this thing blows up, we’ll write a cheque.”

  Brydson’s people were frustrated. Why wouldn’t the bank articulate its concerns? Here was its chance to say, “We’re not happy with the reporting procedures,” or, “We’re not persuaded by these financial projections.” But Molony only asked for more information and Mills only shook his head and repeated that the situation was unacceptable.

  “I can’t make the plumbers work any faster,” said Brydson, exasperated. “It seems to me you have two choices. You either support us until we can get the doors open and have some hope of making the money back, or you help yourselves to a partly completed project. I can’t see any other options. I can’t snap my fingers and make the problems go away.”

  “As I say, we have concerns about the available security.”

  “You have the security of the building,” said Brydson. “I don’t understand why that isn’t enough.”

  To Brydson, the building was securing $4-million in loans. To Mills, it had been securing up to $6.5-million. The discrepancy hung like a guillotine above the boardroom table, miraculously invisible to everyone but Molony.

  Mills asked if the appraisal on the building had been done recently. Brydson said it was a few weeks old. Mills asked Molony what the bank’s own appraisers had to say about it.

  “We don’t have a Kinross appraisal,” said Molony. “That’s a very good point. Perhaps we should get their thoughts before we go any further. I’ll arrange it this afternoon. Once we have that, we’ll all be in a better position to assess the situation.”

  Brydson left the meeting angry, baffled, and upset. If they thought there was a problem, why didn’t they make clear what it was? If they thought she was mishandling the project, why didn’t they send in a management consultant to look things over and protect their investment? What had been the purpose of the meeting? Simply to scold her?

  Stu Butts said to Molony, “Is it chilly in here? Your hand is ice cold.”

  Mills, aware that Tory represented all the corporate concerns beneath the Thomson umbrella, said, “Good to see you. Why don’t you come up to the fifty-sixth floor one day and have some lunch.”

  “Good to see you, too.”

  “Interesting meeting,” Molony said in the elevator. “What are your thoughts?”

  “I don’t know about that women’s club,” said Mills. “Some of those projections seem very optimistic. Now they’re talking about changing the health spa and adding boutiques? If you ask me, the whole thing seems a bit farfetched.”

  On Saturday morning, Molony drove to the airport with a haunted sense of mission. He did not feel well. He had not been sleeping. When he did slip under, he found himself back at the boardroom table trying to explain the $2.5-million discrepancy, sputtering, mortified, a disgrace. This was the weekend. It had to be. He had survived St. Patrick’s Day by the skin of his teeth and didn’t know how much longer he could hang on. He cleared customs and was making for his gate when he noticed a man headed his way who looked remarkably familiar. The man had Alex Osborne’s bulky build and round face, but was dressed in white trousers and a floral shirt.

  “Hello there, Brian.”

  “Good to see you, sir. What are you doing here?”

  “Might even be the same thing you are,” said Osborne, teasing.

  “Not catching an airplane by any chance, are you?”

  “Just surprised to see you,” said Molony, acutely aware of the $238,000 cash in his various pockets. He must have looked like the Michelin man.

  “How’s everything at Bay and Richmond?”

  “A bit hectic lately.”

  “Thanks again for your information.”

  The two had stayed in close touch. Molony had mentioned on the phone that a Keele and Lawrence customer had turned up at Bay and Richmond, looking for a loan. Osborne had been after a personal statement from the customer for some time, and was surprised Molony had been able to obtain it. Molony had passed along the financial information Osborne had been looking for.

  “Glad I could help, Mr. O.”

  “I’ve told Ross Brady at Commerce Court that he should get you transferred down there. I can’t get you up to Lawrence and Keele. Our friend Buckle won’t oblige.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Molony. “Where are you off to?”

  “Just a little holiday. How about you?”

  “I have a sick aunt in New York. I’m kind of the family representative, I guess. My mother and father are tied up this weekend. I’ve been to see her a couple of times. She’s not at all well. I thought I should spend some time with her.”

  “That’s very good of you.”

  “I think that’s my flight,” said Molony, shaking Osborne’s hand.

  “Have a good trip. Speak to you when you get back.”

  When Molony’s plane put down at LaGuardia he hurried through the terminal and down the escalator. The limo would be directly outside. Instead of going all the way to the exit he pushed through a safety door. He’d misjudged. He was in a maintenance area. Three men sat by a forklift, passing a reefer. Molony was suddenly aware he was white. He turned to go back through the door, but it had locked shut behind him. The men were eyeing him. One stood up and said something. The others, unhurriedly, got to their feet. Molony started walking in the other direction, so quickly the bundled money made his pockets flap; he held his suit jacket tight to his sides. He emerged at the cab stand and found himself facing two lanes of oncoming traffic. By the time he’d made it back to the limousine he was soaked with sweat.

  The driver opened the door for him, as if passengers did this every day.

  “Mr. Molony?”

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  Molony locked the doors and gazed out the tinted window. He was looking not at the Manhattan skyline but at nearby cars, peering inside, memorizing licence numbers. Many of them had New Jersey plates. A grey Oldsmobile followed the limousine off one freeway and onto another. It pulled out to pass when his driver did; it seemed to be keeping a steady distance. What if it was someone from the casino, an employee or another gambler? In New York twenty dollars was worth killing for. What wou
ld someone do for a quarter million?

  Before long the limousine was tearing along a deserted stretch south of Newark. The Oldsmobile had been left behind. Molony was all for getting there, but this was ridiculous. Something didn’t seem right. The driver was nervous and preoccupied. He was a man Molony hadn’t seen before — a big, black, handsome, unhappy fellow, a movie star stuck behind the wheel. When he glanced at Molony in the mirror, Molony wondered if he knew about the cash. Everybody must have known. The casino executives knew, and word got around. Toronto. Glasses and a bushy moustache. Cash player, pulls it out of his pockets. They were in the middle of nowhere, a stretch of decrepit warehouses and factories. What if he’d been set up? The driver would pull off, claiming engine trouble. He’d open the hood, his buddies would appear, all over in ten seconds. Molony felt the cash and tried to think of the money he was going to win at Caesars. This was going to be the big weekend. Monday he’d square himself with the bank. At the very least he’d win enough to pay down Brydson. The awful feeling was sheer paranoia. He was getting as bad as Beck. He’d start at baccarat, five thousand a hand, stay until he lost three in a row, then move to craps —