Stung

by Gary Stephen Ross

  “Stopping for coffee.”

  The driver was already slowing — how could Molony tell him no? Ahead, on the left, was a dilapidated diner set off by itself. The driver parked around the side, asked if Molony wanted anything, and said he’d be right back. The moment he stepped out, Molony locked the doors. He looked all around — nobody in sight, just a few parked cars — and began stuffing cash under the front seat, between cushions, anywhere he could. Would it be horrible, something out of The Godfather? Where would they come from? The back of the diner? One of the parked cars? Would another car pull up alongside?

  Two men emerged from the diner, hesitated, and headed his way. One wore work clothes; the other carried an oversized briefcase. Terrified, Molony crouched on the floor and prayed they’d walk by. They could have it all, he’d fish it out for them, but what if they didn’t stop at robbery? How could he have been so idiotic, packing sums that people would kill for? This was his last chance to bail himself out. If they took his money he wouldn’t even be able to report —

  Crack! Crack-crack!

  Molony nearly jumped out of his skin. Someone was knocking on the windshield. They knew he was in there, no use hiding. He peeked over the seat, expecting to see a gun. It was the driver, pointing at the locked door and shrugging.

  Molony didn’t say a word the rest of the trip. When they got to Atlantic City he retrieved the money he’d hidden. Still shaken, he hurried into Caesars. He hadn’t counted the money and realized he might have left a bundle under the passenger seat. He hurried back outside but the limousine was gone. At the cage he pulled cash from every pocket and piled it on the counter. Signing the customer-deposit receipt, he could barely grip the pen. He was racked with convulsive shudders and pretended he was chilly. Was he losing his grip? Was this what happened when you had a nervous breakdown?

  He headed for the baccarat pit and asked the floorman for a marker. The computer printed it out. Molony signed the marker and was issued chips. He fondled the chips a moment, deliberating, then bet the bank. His panic had subsided, he felt better. He felt fine. Actually, he felt great. He’d stay with baccarat until he’d won half a million or else lost three hands in a row. He was waiting for the shuffle when Jess Lenz sat down beside him.

  “Nice to see you, Brian. Have a good trip?”

  “Not really.”

  “That so? Anything I can do for you?”

  Yes, said Molony, there was. He worried about carrying so much money, frankly, using the same procedure each week. People knew he brought large parcels of cash. He also disliked taking money through customs. Was there a way of transferring funds directly from Toronto?

  Lenz said he thought so, but wanted to speak to the attorneys. He went off to find Larry Woolf. Woolf had just been promoted again, to senior vice-president, which made him responsible for the hotel and the food and beverage departments, as well as casino customer development, casino administration, and casino operations.

  Woolf took the matter to Bill Hessel and Linc Ebert in the financial department. Like Lenz and Woolf, Hessel and Ebert were Nevada hands who had moved east when Atlantic City got going. Hessel, a thin, nervous, chain-smoking man, was the casino controller. Ebert, whose glasses, moustache, and corpulence gave him a certain resemblance to Molony, was director of cage operations. They said a transfer procedure was already in place. Molony could wire funds directly to the Caesars account at Midlantic Bank in Atlantic City.

  Jess Lenz went back to the baccarat pit and, at the next shuffle, informed Molony of the procedure. “All you have to do is take the funds to your bank, Brian. They’ll wire them to our bank.”

  Never. American law required banks accepting cash deposits of $10,000 or more to obtain identification. The bank would want to know who was wiring the money. Besides, Canadian banks got skittish when American currency showed up. There had been a rash of counterfeit U.S. bills in Toronto. Walk in with pots of U.S. cash and the next thing you’d feel a tap on your shoulder.

  Molony mumbled something about tax problems.

  Jess Lenz got the picture. Maybe Mr. M. was concerned about anonymity — lots of heavy hitters were. Maybe Mr. M. had his own reasons for not liking the idea. That was Mr. M.’s business. Lenz said he’d look into it further.

  Molony, stifled at baccarat, gathered his dwindling pile of chips and headed for the dice pit.

  March 20,1982. Caesars Atlantic City. Frank Hines.

  12:45. Craps 9. Brian Maloney on game. Betting real good. Laying 4 and 10, Don’t Place, 6 and 8 or 5 and 9. Also betting $2,000 in Come, up to $5,000 in Field. Switches between Don’t and Pass Line. $2,000 double odds. Was up to $70,000. Now has $45,000.

  When Mario Colizzi told Molony he was going to Las Vegas for a few days, to get away from the cold and pick up a suede jacket, Molony asked him to make some bets at the Barbary Coast. Colizzi stopped by the apartment on his way to the airport. Molony met him in the lobby.

  “You should come with us,” said Colizzi. In the freezing cold he was wearing white slacks and a Hawaiian shirt. “You work too hard. You don’t look good. You need to relax.”

  Two men Molony didn’t know were waiting in the Seville. “Some of us have jobs, Mario.”

  “Few days, big deal.”

  “Sir, phone me when you get there,” said Molony, handing him an envelope full of U.S. cash.

  “I’m not taking that,” said Colizzi. “Want me to bet, send me the money.”

  Molony had to add another stop to his noon-hour circuit. On Monday he hurried down to CNCP Telecommunications on Front Street. The office was cramped and understaffed; there was a lineup. He waited restlessly while the clerk prepared the wire transfer. Molony had arranged, through Michael Neustadter, a complimentary room for Colizzi at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. The funds were sent in care of Caesars, to be released on presentation of Colizzi’s Ontario driver’s licence. Molony paid with a CIBC bank draft, drawn on Roger Oskaner’s account — since it had got by the audit inspector he was able to use it again — and then hurried up to Richardson Securities.

  He was no longer dealing only in stocks and bonds. He had moved into options and commodities, speculating on copper, tin, soybeans, pork bellies, and the Canadian dollar. To Jim Surgey, who was having an excellent year, it seemed a natural enough progression. Options and commodities meant feverish action and greater risk, of course, but also the possibility of substantial profit. Brian’s people were more active than ever in their stock and bond dealings: the monthly statements for the “Brian Molony in Trust” accounts — one in U.S. dollars, the other in Canadian — sometimes ran to ten pages. Brian himself was remarkably cool, considering the sums involved, and had a keen understanding of the connection between interest rates and the value of the dollar. He seemed quite at home dealing in dollar futures. Indeed, as Surgey remarked to his secretary, he had something of a flair for it.

  “Enclosed herewith are five demand promissory notes in favour of your bank. You or any officer designated by you are hereby authorized and requested to complete one or more of these notes by filling in the date and rate of interest …”

  The letter was the standard assignation form provided by customers opening a loan account. Molony had applied for an authorized credit of $3-million in the name of a fictitious company called 499726 Ontario Ltd. Every new company in Ontario is assigned such a number; most convert the number to an operating name. Molony had looked up the most recent numbers, to be in the ballpark. Signing the assignation, purportedly on behalf of 499726 Ontario Ltd., he didn’t even bother disguising his distinctive signature. He was taking the corners on two wheels now, almost out of control, claiming the loan was secured by the liquid assets of a wealthy retired fellow whose account he didn’t even handle. Insanity, but he had to do something and couldn’t imagine what else to do. He had run the fraudulent Leo Sherman loan account over its $1-million limit. He’d created another fictitious account in the name of Kernwood Limited and made loan advances of $920,000 and $490,000.
There was still tremendous heat on the Brydson loan account. Interest was coming due on all the outstanding loans. And Harry Buckle was about to return from holiday. If he could just make it back to the casino…

  Using two of the fraudulent promissory notes, Molony put through loan advances of $1.8-million and $1.1-million to the numbered company. He placed the money in term deposits. If downtown refused to approve the $3-million credit, he’d be guilty of having advanced the money prematurely. At least he’d be able to say yes, true, but it’s in term deposits: it hasn’t left the branch.

  The term deposits served another purpose. Molony intended to use the 499726 money to pay down the Brydson loan. Having claimed that the Bank of Montreal had assumed part of her loan, he had to get the balance down. He couldn’t simply take money from one customer’s loan account and apply it against another customer’s loans. That would surely arouse suspicion. Rolling over the term deposits for a couple of days would open up a bit of room between the two transactions.

  Then, abruptly, the retired man whose assets were securing the 499726 loan moved his business. Evidently he’d found a less busy branch where the staff could spend more time humouring him. Disastrous: the security for a huge, fraudulent loan had evaporated. Molony could only hope that Buckle, going through the backlog of work after his holiday, wouldn’t notice. In another way, though, the customer’s departure was a blessing. At least he would no longer be in the branch. There was less possibility that a chance remark to him, or by him, would expose the fraud.

  As soon as downtown authorized the 499726 loan, believing it fully secured by assets now with another branch, Molony cashed the term deposits and applied the proceeds against the Brydson loan. He also phoned Atlantic City to say he’d be coming down on Friday night. Jess Lenz said he’d book a suite and see to the transportation.

  “Have you found out how the funds might be transferred?”

  “We have, Brian, but I don’t want to talk on the phone. Don’t worry about your trip — you won’t have to take the limo. We’ll have a plane pick you up at La Guardia.”

  On Friday Molony put through another loan to the numbered company, for $300,000. He used the proceeds to pay down the Roger Oskaner loan, buy U.S. cash for himself at Friedberg’s, and send more money for sports bets to Colizzi, whom he’d talked into staying in Las Vegas. Again he went to CNCP and waited while the girl prepared the wire transfer. The largest sum Western Union would transmit was $2,000. Colizzi, in Las Vegas, had to sign for receipt of forty-five separate telegraphic money orders. Each bore the slogan: “Western Union — Fastest Way to Get Money Around.”

  Molony returned to the branch, worked into early evening, then raced out to Pearson International, just making his flight. On arrival at LaGuardia he phoned Sportsline for the basketball scores, then got a taxi. When the driver found out he was only going to the private terminal, he wanted a flat five bucks. Molony was outraged.

  “I’m only going half a mile.”

  “Leave here, man, I got to go all the way around and get back in this line, understand?”

  “Extortion,” said Molony.

  The aircraft was a chartered Cessna 200. To take off, the pilot had to cross the runways used by the commercial airliners. Molony peered out: a jumbo jet seemed about to land on top of them. The pilot didn’t even flinch. Molony crouched down, terrified. Was he losing his marbles? He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.

  It was a half-hour flight to Pomona Airport, where a stretch limousine was waiting. When Molony walked into the lobby at Caesars, one of the credit executives greeted him and accompanied him to the cage. Molony pulled bundles of cash from his pockets and signed a customer-deposit receipt. Jess Lenz approached him by the baccarat pit and said he had good news.

  The casino had an even faster way to get money around.

  7

  APRIL FOOLS

  “There’s a little more to the casino business than the play at the tables. First and foremost, we have to be objective. By that I mean this business is about money, and all money looks alike. Am I right?”

  – Elmore Leonard, Glitz

  he Manulife Centre, at Bay and Bloor Streets in Toronto, occupies a prime city block and includes three levels of underground parking, three floors of retail outlets, sixteen floors of offices, fifty floors of apartments, and a rooftop bar that commands a fine view of downtown. The apartments attract well-heeled urbanites; the retail floors attract shoppers from Bloor Street and the nearby Yorkville district to its forty boutiques, agencies, theatres, restaurants, and banks.

  One of the banks with a branch in the Manulife Centre was the Bank of Montreal, Canada’s third largest (after the Royal and the CIBC). The branch maintained two accounts — one for Canadian dollars, the other American — in the name of California Clearing Corporation. The company was incorporated in 1966 and was also licensed to do business under the name Charles K. Peterson. Branch records showed the account holder’s address as 3570 Las Vegas Blvd., Las Vegas, Nevada.

  On the Las Vegas Strip it’s not easy spotting street numbers, but somewhere behind the computerized fountains and neon arpeggios and mock-Roman facade of Caesars Palace you may find 3570, or perhaps MMMDLXX, bolted to a stucco-and-chicken-wire column. California Clearing Corporation was a dummy company set up by Caesars for casino patrons wishing to deposit cash for future use or pay down gambling debts. Caesars maintained such accounts in many places, including San Francisco, New York, Chicago, Houston, Mexico City, Hong Kong, London, and Singapore. Think of Caesars Palace as a kind of central vacuum system, sucking in lost bets through concealed outlets in the world’s major cities.

  New Jersey law prohibits Atlantic City casinos from maintaining bank accounts outside that state. As alumni of Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, Jess Lenz and Larry Woolf were aware that Nevada had so such prohibition. In the baccarat pit at Caesars in Atlantic City, Lenz told Molony about California Clearing Corporation. To forward money, Molony had only to alert the Caesars office in Toronto that he was making a deposit in the CCC account at the Manulife branch of the Bank of Montreal. The money would be credited to Caesars Palace in Nevada, which would transfer it to the sister casino in New Jersey. Once the deposit was confirmed in Toronto, the money would be made available to Molony in Atlantic City.

  Molony thanked Lenz and spent the weekend gambling in Atlantic City. “Brian,” Lenz said to him, shaking his head, after watching a feverish run at the crap table, “you’re worse than the Arabs.” Colizzi was still betting sports for Molony in Las Vegas. On Sunday afternoon, when Molony ran out of cash, he called Colizzi, who was about to return to Toronto. Molony asked him to stay in Nevada, the only place in North America where you can gamble legally on sporting events. The NCAA college basketball championship would be decided in New Orleans the next night. Molony wanted to bet the game — North Carolina versus Georgetown — and told Colizzi he’d wire more money.

  On Monday morning, at Bay and Richmond, Molony instructed that $200,000 be advanced to Roger Oskaner and $120,000 to 499726 Ontario Ltd. He picked up bearer bonds at Richardson Securities, sold the bonds to the securities department of his own branch, bought U.S. cash at Friedberg’s, and went down to the CNCP Telecommunications office on Front Street. There he sent off more money to Colizzi, this time in care of the Barbary Coast. He paid for the transfer with a CIBC draft, showing the money as being sent by Roger Oskaner.

  A day survived moved him a day closer to the casino. He stayed late at the branch, locked the doors and picked up Brenda at her branch. They drove out to the townhouse of friends in Scarborough. Phil and Louise had invited them to play hearts. Brian, as usual, insisted on Swiss Chalet — Phil and Louise rolled their eyes. Shortly after everybody had taken their places at the table, Brian glanced at his watch. “Mind if I turn on the TV? There’s a game I wouldn’t mind following.” Out the corner of his eye he watched basketball. North Carolina had been favoured by 1½ points over Georgetown, and he’d given the
points to bet the Tar Heels. North Carolina had to win by at least two points for Molony to win his bet.

  The game was as tight as the spread; the lead shifted back and forth through three quarters. Molony was outwardly indifferent, as usual, but rum and Coke loosened him and as the final minute ticked away he couldn’t restrain himself. His enthusiasm was infectious; the others cheered when the Tar Heels took the lead, groaned when they fell behind. With fifteen seconds to go, Michael Jordan hit a jump shot that put North Carolina ahead, 63—62. The others clapped and hollered.

  Not Brian. The Hoyas would work the ball up court, playing for the final shot, running the clock down. They’d win or lose by one point on the last play of the game. He was sunk. Then, unbelievably, Georgetown turned the ball over. James Worthy intercepted a pass, giving North Carolina possession with only a few seconds left. He was saved! Georgetown had to foul intentionally, giving North Carolina two free throws. Sure enough, one of the Hoyas fouled Worthy, the Tar Heels’ best player and a 90-per-cent shooter from the line.

  Worthy had to hit only one of two free throws for the Tar Heels to win by two. He dribbled, set, and lofted the ball. It caught the rim, rattled the backboard, circled the rim, and rolled out.

  “No,” said Molony.

  The referee bounced the ball to him, and Molony knew he’d miss again. He knew as surely as he knew his own name. Worthy dribbled and shot. The ball hit the front rim and bounced back.

  “Fuck! I can’t believe it!”

  None of them had ever heard Brian swear. Not even Brenda had seen him express anger. Phil wondered how much he’d bet on the game — must have been hundreds.

  Worthy and the other North Carolina players were jubilant. Their team had won the NCAA championship by a point; by a point, Molony had lost $250,000. The closing spread added salt to the wound. If he’d waited until game time, he could have bet the Tar Heels even. He would have won by a point. A half-million-dollar reversal. Unbelievable. Why him? Why, in the midst of the most gruelling test of his life, had he been singled out for misfortune? He fought an impulse to drive his fist through the tabletop.