3:50 a.m. Maloney betting as before. Had $790,000 and returned to Craps 11 with $90,000.
3:55 a.m. Maloney betting as before. Left game with $90,000. Took $897,000 back from Baccarat 1.
At six-thirty in the morning, about the time Molony stepped off the Learjet that returned him to Toronto, Ron Andrews stepped off the streetcar that took him to work. He bought two bran muffins and a coffee, walked down to Richmond Street, signed in, and unlocked the little room with the picture of a window on the wall. Each night, before the Uher 4000s went on automatic, the last man set the counters at zero. Andrews checked the counter on Colizzi’s line and found it had been a busy night. He opened the log book, put on his headphones, and played back the tape.
The first call was incoming. The machine did not record the hour — sometime after 8:12 p.m. The old man answered. The operator told him she had a collect call for Mario Colizzi from Brian Molony. “Mario, telefono!” Colizzi came on.
“How are you?” said Brian Molony.
The hair stood up on Andrews’ neck. That voice. He’d heard it a hundred times. Mr. Brown!
“Not bad, you?”
“Not so good. I’m in Atlantic City. Trying to get you some money.”
“I thought you weren’t gonna go no more.”
“Well, you know what tomorrow is. What I have to do, remember the, ahh, I really can’t talk to you on this line.”
Sure you can, Mr. Brown. Brian Molony. Come on, keep talking.
“Call me at the hotel. Room 4800. In five minutes. Can you go outside?”
“Am I gonna reverse charges to you?”
“If they’ll accept it.”
“In the payphone?”
“Room 4800 in five minutes.”
“Did you talk to Nick?”
“No,” said Molony.
“He said he didn’t give me nothing, he says you’re going to give me money, you’re gonna give his. I says, ‘You’re all wrong, Nick, it’s something else that we’re doing, me and him.’ ”
“I gave you yours,” said Molony.
“But how about the other thing with him, I was a partner with him too, wasn’t I? Why are you gonna give me half?”
“Twenty-five,” said Molony. “Another twenty-five.”
“He didn’t give me half.”
“Why?”
“Because he says you’re gonna give mine to me and yours to him, he told me, he says —”
“No,” said Molony.
“OK, I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“Phone me in five minutes.”
You don’t need to go to a payphone, Mario. Stay where you are. Talk to Mr. Brown.
“Is it very important?”
“Very!” said Molony.
Andrews phoned The Bulldog to tell him he’d put a name to Mr. Brown, hoping it might ring a bell. The Bulldog said no, he’d not come across a Brian Molony that he could recall. Andrews stretched his legs — his bad knee was stiffening — and ran the tape ahead. The next call was Colizzi phoning Molony in Room 4800.
“Everything’s OK.”
Damn, he had gone out to phone. Now he was back home.
“I know,” said Molony. “They just phoned.”
Molony apologized for having wakened Colizzi’s father. He said he’d tried to page Colizzi at the airport. Colizzi said he’d already left. Molony said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Who’s the “they” who had phoned Molony? What had Colizzi been doing at the airport? Why had Molony phoned Colizzi’s father? Why was Molony meeting Colizzi that day? Was Molony bringing something back, maybe?
Andrews logged the calls and put red stars beside them. On the Canadian Police Information Centre terminal in the Intelligence Bureau he keyed in “Maloney, Brian,” tapping into an Ottawa data bank, available to police across the country, of information on several million Canadians, from murderers to secretaries with outstanding traffic tickets. The computer wasn’t yet programmed to kick up alternative spellings. Even if Molony had had a criminal record or an outstanding parking tag, Andrews would have drawn a blank.
In mid-morning, Colizzi’s line kicked in with a live call. Incoming. Andrews hit the “record” button and slipped on headphones, not wanting to miss a word. The old man answered. “Mario, telefono!” Molony tried to apologize for having woken him the previous night. “Telefono! Mario!” When Colizzi came on, Molony asked him to apologize.
“That’s OK, my father, he’s got no place to go.”
“I feel bad about it. One-thirty in the morning, nobody likes to be woken up.”
“Where are you, at home?”
“At work,” said Molony. “I’ve been here two and a half hours.”
“They were two ugly broads come up here.”
“Two of them?”
“Two, really ugly, had to sign something, ugly broads, one was about seven feet tall, she says, ‘He told us you were a good-looking Italian.’ What do they want, good-looking Italian, you tell them I was a good-looking Italian?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, were they ugly, two old, ugly broads. One was worse than the other.”
“They thought they were in Disneyland,” said Molony. “They loved it, flying to Toronto. On the way back they got picked up in the limo. The driver said they tried every button in the damn thing.”
“The two old broads? That tall one, was she rough!”
“She would have eaten you!”
“Eaten me! She looked like a man. Ugly man, too. See what I do for you?”
“Well,” said Molony, “I appreciate it.”
“The things I do for love. Did that other creep call you?”
“No, I haven’t, I won’t, I won’t phone him.”
“Guy thinks I’m going to rob him.”
“You know, he just wants.”
“I’ve been mad all week, too,” said Colizzi.
Molony said he’d cancelled a lunch so they could get together. Colizzi offered to make the reservations.
Why had Colizzi been mad all week? Who were the two women? Why had they flown up to Toronto? What had Colizzi signed?
Andrews entered the call in his log. He was putting a red star beside it when the line kicked in again. Incoming.
That jumpy voice. Nick Beck, phoning to tell Colizzi, “I just spoke to him now. So I says to him, like I says, I thought since it was such a small amount I couldn’t believe you weren’t going to give us each one, right?”
“This’ll be two today,” said Colizzi. “I’ll keep this one today.”
“Yeah, you get that, I was going to tell you yesterday you should get it. I’ll talk to you after.”
Andrews put a red star beside that call, too, then thumbed back through his log. Busy day. Busy month. Red stars galore. Sit wires eight hours a day and you get a feel for when something’s about to break. You know, the way fishermen know when the weather’s about to change. You don’t know what’s coming, exactly, but you know it won’t be long.
Molony had left $190,000 on deposit at Caesars when the casino closed on Tuesday morning. Better to look at it that way than to dwell on the $730,000 he’d lost. On Wednesday morning he phoned Atlantic City, billing the call to his home, and told Michael Neustadter he’d be down again that night. Neustadter said they’d send the jet to Toronto. What time would he be at the airport?
“Six,” said Molony, then remembered it was bowling night. He’d missed the past couple of weeks and Brenda would hit the roof if he missed again.
“Make it eight,” said Molony.
“Eight o’clock,” said Neustadter. “Look forward to seeing you.”
After work Molony drove to the bowling lanes. He hated bowling. Brenda loved it — she kept her bowling and softball trophies on the sideboard — and it was something they could do together. How had he got himself into this? He’d gone one Sunday afternoon with Brenda and her parents. Brenda, an excellent bowler, had whipped him. Not one to take such things lightly, he said that if he put his
mind to it he’d beat her within three months.
“Why don’t you join the team and prove it?”
So Molony found himself part of the bank’s bowling league. At least it was Wednesdays and there was usually hockey on the TV in the adjoining pool room. The early league started at seven o’clock. Ten teams, six players per team. The evening was as much a social exercise as a competition. Ordinarily everyone bowled quickly but this night not quickly enough. Molony urged the others to speed it up; he launched his own second ball before the pins had settled from the first. The Caesars people had no way of getting in touch with him. What if the plane didn’t wait? What if he got out there just in time to see it take off?
What if he couldn’t gamble tonight?
The moment he’d finished his last frame he said, “I have to go.”
“Don’t you even want to know the scores?”
“Can you get a ride with your brother?”
“Mom was talking about going out afterwards. She and Dad suggested we all get something to eat.”
“I’ve made plans, Bren. Sorry.”
Tears brimmed in Brenda’s eyes. She gave him a wounded, searching look. There was something else in her now, despair, perhaps, at her growing certainty that he would never give this a proper chance. Such a shame because they could share something rare, she was sure, if only he would allow it.
Molony knew she was about to say they needed to talk, but talk was the last thing he needed. He had a chartered Learjet at the airport and money in his name at the casino. He unlaced his rented bowling shoes and felt for his keys.
“I may be late. See you in the morning.”
April 21, 1982. Caesars Atlantic City. Frank Hines.
10:40. Baccarat 1. Maloney received over $500,000 in markers. Lost it all. Bets up to $60,000. Went to Craps 11. Received another $100,000. Lost that. Back to Baccarat 1. Started to win some back. Now has $250,000 on table. Cards are changed after every shoe.
On Thursday morning Molony was flown back to Toronto on the Learjet. He got home just in time to shower and go to work. On Friday morning he arranged to return to Atlantic City that evening. He’d left $635,000 on deposit — a relief to think he could gamble again without having to use Friedberg’s or Richardson’s or the bank’s own securities department. Though he was operating on almost no sleep he felt energized and cheerful.
He was on his way out, to check progress at the Elmwood Club and have lunch with Sherry Brydson, when he bumped into Jim Surgey, his broker. Surgey occasionally stopped in at Bay and Richmond to drop off bonds or pick up a draft. Molony, fearing he might say the wrong thing, hustled him out of the branch. Surgey, a tall fellow who seemed to regard the world from a long way behind his glasses, inquired after Brian’s health. He mentioned a stock he liked and invited Brian to lunch at the Military Club. Molony wondered why he’d dropped by. Was he fishing for an explanation of why his activity at Richardson’s had dropped off? Molony apologized that he was in a rush. Surgey took his leave, then stopped, reaching in his pocket.
“I almost forgot, Brian. I’d like you to have this.”
He handed Molony what looked like an antique medallion.
“Very generous of you, sir. What is it?”
“It’s from the 1880s, when all the banks used to print their own money. That particular coin was minted by the Bank of Montreal. I enjoy antique coins, but I thought it would be more appropriate for a banker to have that. A little token. I hope it brings you luck.”
April 23, 1982. Caesars Atlantic City. Frank Hines.
1:15 a.m. Craps 11. Brian Maloney on game. Came with $60,000 in purples. Has up to $40,000 on layout at any given time. Lost whole $60,000. Went to Baccarat 1. Received over $500,000 in markers. Losing pretty good. Lost over $350,000 while I observed game.
8
THE LAST TIME
“Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.”
– Matthew 6:34
n Sunday night Molony couldn’t sleep, and his fitfulness kept Brenda awake. Toward dawn she dropped off. When the clock-radio woke her he was already out of the shower. She stepped in, and by the time she stepped out he was leaving. She hated that he couldn’t get out fast enough. She thought of him tossing in bed — he had moaned aloud — and asked if anything was wrong. He paused, agitated, and for a moment she was hopeful. But he avoided her eye, looking for his keys, and said, “Meeting.” She cinched her towel, enraged, exhausted. What was the point? She said, very calmly, “We need to talk.”
“Right now is out of the question.”
“Why is it always out of the question?”
“We’ll talk soon,” he said, slapping his pockets. If he got out before she started crying he could pretend not to have noticed. “Not changing the subject, but have you seen my keys? Here they are.” Again he paused. “Oh, poor thing. Think we’ve got problems? Had a look at Mexico’s foreign debt lately?” He kissed her cheek. “Talk to you later.”
In the parking lot Molony found that his car had been burgled. Someone had jimmied the lock and forced the glove compartment. He kept money there for the racetrack; they’d got $15,000 U.S. Had other cars been burgled? He reminded himself to phone the police from the bank and snapped Man of La Mancha into the tape player. On the way downtown he turned it up so loud it was almost painful. To fight the unbeatable foe. To soothe the unbearable jitters. He parked in the Eaton Centre and joined the hurrying crowd on Queen Street. The mere thought of the branch knotted his stomach. Rounding Simpsons and catching sight of it made him gag with pain. Ulcer? Should maybe see a doctor, pay attention to what he ate. Through the glass he sought unfamiliar faces. One of the girls unlocked the door for him.
“How are you today, Brian?”
“Fine,” said Molony, instantly better, as if here, inside, the air were pure oxygen. All weekend the data centre had been updating loan-status and customer-status lists. There was a deluge of interbranch mail and head-office directives. Securities people were preparing to meet with messengers, and tellers were moving cash from the safe to their drawers. Molony took the stairs two at a time, hung up his jacket, and answered his ringing phone. His stomach had subsided. He reviewed his accounts, dictated correspondence, huddled with Steve Richardson. By ten, when the doors opened, he’d done half a day’s work. Between meetings and loan-activity approvals and cheque approvals he took calls.
Could I come see you, Mr. Molony? A mutual friend said you’d be the person to talk to about an investment loan. Morning, Brian, OK if I’m a day late with my car payment? What if I drop it off before lunch tomorrow? Hi, Brian, any word from downtown about the $600,000? If I don’t have the deposit Friday I could lose the building. Mr. Molony? Credit Room here. About the Kaminsky application. Hey, Brian, I’ve got a pair for Texas and the Blue Jays — interested?
Molony said no thanks, he had other plans. He phoned Atlantic City, asking the operator to bill the call to his home. He reached Michael Neustadter.
“It’s Brian. I’m coming down tonight.”
“What time do you want the plane?”
“Six o’clock.” Molony swivelled his chair and lowered his voice. “Million four this time,” he said, half expecting Neustadter to express alarm, or the need for authorization. What would he do if it happened?
“Fine,” said Neustadter.
“Can you send somebody? It’s in Colizzi’s name again.”
“We’ll have someone on the plane. Listen, why don’t we do a blanket power of attorney? Save a lot of trouble.”
“Just bring paperwork for this one. Blank. Probably be the last time we do it this way.”
“Shall I call when we receive notification of the funds?”
“More convenient if I get back to you,” said Molony. “I’ll call later on.”
A million four, had he said that? A seven-figure draft was daunting, so he instructed the girl in the discount department to advance two sums, $900,000 and $520,000, to
the U.S.-dollar loan account of Elm Street Holdings. He had simply renamed the fictitious Sherry Brydson loan account, in order not to have to create new documentation. The girl asked about notes.
“Do dummy notes,” said Molony.
When she brought him the loan forms and dummy notes, Molony took them down to the foreign-exchange department. The clerk was a middle-aged black woman. They joked back and forth as Molony told her he needed two drafts. “Here are your debits. Bring me the drafts and all the documentation.”
She prepared the drafts in favour of California Clearing Corporation, signed them, and took them up to Molony. He countersigned and, when she took her break, slipped back down to her desk. On the top left corner of the negotiable copy of each draft he typed: “b/o M. Colizzi.” He sealed the drafts and a covering note in an envelope, addressed it to Tim Rochford, and had the messenger take it to the Bank of Montreal.
The messenger, an old fellow in a maroon jacket, dropped it off across the street. Rochford recognized Molony’s cramped, backhand writing. The procedure had become so routine he passed the envelope to the girl who did telephone transfers without even opening it.
“Good morning, Mr. Molony’s office.”
“Good morning. Is Mr. Molony there, please?”
“I’m sorry, sir, he’s with a customer.”
“Tell him Mr. Colizzi phoned.”
“I will, sir. Goodbye.”
The call was outgoing. In the tiny room on Richmond Street with the drawing of a window on the wall, Ron Andrews had a new number to trace. Over the years he had monitored bookmakers talking to people from just about every profession — doctors, lawyers, elected officials, other policemen. The moment he discovered who the subscriber was he got on the phone to The Bulldog.
“You know that fellow Mario’s always talking to? Guess where he works. Not three blocks from here.”
In the midday twilight of the casino, Michael Neustadter found Linc Ebert by the baccarat pit. He told Ebert that Molony was going to deposit a million four in the Toronto account. It was in Colizzi’s name, he said, so somebody had to get signatures again.
Ebert phoned Claire Lodovico at her little bungalow in Margate. How would she like to go back to Toronto? Fine with her — she was learning to enjoy limousines and Learjets. She said she’d be at the casino in an hour.
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