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  “Get the hell back to work.”

  The joke was that Molony never took a day off. He prided himself on his spotless record. He wouldn’t miss work no matter what — trips, illness, all-night card games. One morning, though, a few weeks later, he felt so unwell with flu he couldn’t get out of bed. He waited till the last moment, hoping he’d feel better, before dialing the branch. For some reason Osborne himself answered the phone.

  “Mr. Osborne, Brian Molony.”

  Silence. Osborne could be chilling on the phone.

  “I’m calling to say I won’t be in today. I don’t feel all that well.”

  Silence.

  “OK?”

  “All right,” said Osborne, and hung up.

  Molony tried to sleep, but Osborne’s reaction haunted him. And he did have work on his desk. He made his way unsteadily to the bathroom. After a shower he felt better, put on his suit and drove to the branch. At his desk, trying to concentrate, he realized Osborne was behind him.

  “Miraculous,” said Molony.

  Osborne chuckled as he walked away, and the others had one more indication of the interest the new manager was taking in Tom Johnson’s credit officer. In a way, Molony was a young Alex Osborne — the dry humour, the glasses, the moustache, the propensity for putting on weight — and Molony encouraged the comparison by modelling himself after the older man. Osborne did not like fools. He did not like explaining twice. He did not like the assistant manager who took sandwiches downstairs and read Tolkien over lunch. He did not like layabouts or whiners or anyone slow on the uptake. Molony quickly grasped new concepts, worked hard, and was himself intolerant of laziness and incompetence. Osborne was deft at handling people — customers who’d been refused a loan left his office smiling — and Molony had a similar knack. One morning, when a particularly obnoxious customer had the securities girl on the verge of tears, Molony said something that got them both smiling. Osborne noted such things. Molony was not only learning the mechanics of credit, he was learning the more subtle nuances of dealing with people’s money.

  He wasn’t learning it from his own superior. Tom Johnson treated Molony the way many assistant managers treated their credit officers — as a serf — and it was clear to everyone that the two didn’t always see eye to eye. Johnson was a sour, sarcastic, pipe-smoking Englishman. He brought a strict, by-the-book mentality to his work, walking proof of the need for discretion. One day he told Molony to bounce a cheque, not realizing or perhaps not caring it was a restaurant’s cheque to the liquor licence board. Bounce it and the restaurant would have had to pay cash for its booze. Bounce it and you might have been putting the place out of business. Molony got the impression Johnson didn’t fully appreciate the consequences of his actions. He instructed Molony to bounce another cheque and, when the customer called to complain, said, “Did we talk about that?” After the girls had done the paperwork, Molony had to tell them, “Sorry, we’ve changed our mind.” We. Molony told another customer, “We’ll have a decision for you by eleven o’clock,” and Johnson put off making the decision until noon.

  Molony was careful not to join in the whining about Johnson. It would have been all over the branch in no time — “Brian thinks he’s a jerk, too.” For political reasons he had to stand up for his assistant manager. “You don’t appreciate the pressure he’s under,” Molony would say, when the gang went for drinks after work on Friday. If pressed — “Admit it, you don’t like him either” — he changed the subject. It was enough that, at Christmas, he got bottles of liquor from customers. Would have been nice to get recognition from Johnson, but that was the nature of the beast. Eventually he’d have a credit officer who would no doubt think the same of him.

  One day he got recognition from an unexpected source. A customer in the business of freight-forwarding was looking for a sizeable loan. Johnson wanted to make the loan at prime, but Credit Room rarely approved loans at prime. Molony did an analysis of the customer’s borrowing options. They could get money from their Swiss parent company at a good rate, in which case the CIBC would get no business. They could borrow at a good rate from a merchant banker in the U.S., in which case the CIBC would get no business. Or the CIBC could loan them money at prime, obtaining their business and, more important, showing them the bank would do everything to accommodate them. That attitude might have long-term benefits. Besides, the loan was fully secured. The credit went out under Johnson’s signature, but Osborne brought it to Molony’s desk and said, “You did this, didn’t you.” Not often did Osborne approve a credit without making changes. This one went out just as Molony had written it.

  Osborne was also impressed by Molony’s performance on the Visa campaign. The bank was promoting Visa cards. Osborne was politically astute, always eager to show off his branch in a good light. Knowing the results would be circulated internally, he offered staff members ten dollars for every approved Visa application they brought in. Molony took blank applications and a sack of silver dollars to the variety store, across from St. Michael’s College, where he had booked his bets in Grade 9. For every completed application, the owner was to give the applicant a silver dollar and keep one himself. It didn’t matter if the applicant already held a Visa card, so long as the card was with another bank. Molony did the same thing at his barber shop.

  Most employees brought in a single application now and then. Molony held onto his completed applications. On the final day Osborne threw in a lottery ticket with the ten dollars. Other staff members produced three or four applications. Molony walked in with forty-five. That earned him $450 in Simpsons gift certificates and forty-five lottery tickets. Osborne called a meeting to announce that the branch had exceeded budget. “And,” he told the sixty employees, “it’s thanks to Brian Molony. Why don’t you come up here, Brian, and explain how you did it.” Everyone applauded. Molony, though embarrassed, appreciated being singled out. He knew Osborne wanted to see how he handled himself.

  One of Molony’s Visa applications was rejected because the applicant was under eighteen. Tom Johnson, instead of offering congratulations, made some remark about Molony’s having padded his total. Molony realized he not only had no respect for Johnson’s work, he disliked the man. There was something about his pipe, his corrosive humour, his bitter defensiveness. One of Molony’s card games was in back of a hairstyling place, and the owner talked Molony and a couple of other players into getting perms, a fad at the time. When Molony walked into the branch there was a collective gasp. Alex Osborne stuck his head out to see what was going on. Molony liked his perm — you didn’t have to pay attention to it — but the reaction made him sensitive. Johnson, at exactly the wrong moment, took the pipe from his teeth long enough to say, smugly, “Get our hair done, did we?” Molony divided the English into two types, the kind you liked and the kind you didn’t.

  As it happened, Osborne felt the same way about Johnson. The two men had worked together at Credit Room. Johnson had preceded him to Bay and Richmond. When Osborne took the branch over, the buzz was that Johnson wouldn’t last. The two men had minor run-ins, but the incident that sealed Johnson’s fate grew out of a dispute with a customer. The customer — an accountant who represented an investment syndicate — had borrowed heavily to buy and lease airplanes. Since the assets weren’t fixed, it was a rather unusual account. Besides Johnson himself, only his credit officer — Molony — really understood it. Johnson and the customer argued. The customer went to Alex Osborne demanding that someone else handle the business or he’d take it elsewhere. Osborne turned it over to the senior assistant, Ralph Robinson. “Fine, I understand,” said Johnson. “Sometimes there are personality clashes. The man’s an ass.” Molony thought the remark inappropriate. There’s no such thing as an ass with a $6-million line of credit.

  Ralph Robinson was a likeable chap who commuted from his pig farm near Orangeville, northwest of Toronto, and aspired to one day manage his local branch. He got on well with customers and staff alike, roasting a pig each year fo
r the branch picnic. He knew little about the aircraft leasing account and told Osborne he wanted Molony to stay on it. Ordinarily this wasn’t done — Molony was Johnson’s credit officer — but Osborne agreed. “Fine with me,” said Johnson, “but only if my work gets done first.”

  The day soon came when Molony found himself in a delicate spot. Robinson had asked him to prepare a report for Credit Room on the leasing account, and Johnson had piled work on his desk as well. Johnson stopped at Molony’s desk and asked what he was working on.

  “A report that has to be downtown today.”

  “But you haven’t finished my work.”

  “This has priority. I’ll get to yours this afternoon.”

  Johnson hit the roof. His own credit officer telling him what had priority! He stomped off to Robinson’s office. After an exchange behind closed doors, he took the matter to Osborne. Molony was asked to join them.

  “Now,” said Osborne, “what’s the trouble?”

  “Mr. Osborne, this can’t continue. I find the arrangement unacceptable. The understanding was that my work would be done first. Molony is my credit officer. Robinson has his own credit officer. That credit officer should work on that credit.”

  “Tom,” said Osborne, “don’t be a child. We take a team approach at this branch. If you don’t feel you can be a member of the team, perhaps we’d better find someone who can.”

  The writing was on the wall. Molony had unwittingly challenged Johnson’s authority and Alex Osborne had backed him, showing up an assistant manager in front of his own credit officer. It wasn’t long before Johnson was transferred to another branch.

  Which left an opening at Bay and Richmond for an assistant manager. Molony fantasized about the appointment, knowing he didn’t have much chance. For one thing, promotions were almost invariably accompanied by transfers. One day the staff views you as a credit officer, a glorified gofer. The next they’re supposed to view you in a supervisory role? The bank also liked to keep you moving so you didn’t deal too long with the same customers: friendship might impede professional judgement or lead to a breach in security. The promotion would also have meant a tremendous leap in responsibility. Ordinarily a credit officer at a major branch would move to Credit Room, then perhaps manage a small retail branch, then do another stint at Credit Room, and then, perhaps, be appointed assistant manager at a major branch. If Molony did get the appointment it would represent a six- or seven-year shortcut in his career. The senior assistant said to him, “Alex thinks you’d make a good assistant, but don’t get your hopes up. No way it will happen.”

  One morning while Molony was on holiday his mother called him to the phone. The eldest of his eight sisters and brothers, Annemarie, was visiting from Ireland, and Molony had taken the week off. He was in the shower and his mother had to knock. It was the week before his twenty-fifth birthday.

  “Alex Osborne here.”

  “Sir.”

  “You might find it’s in your best interest to come down to the branch.”

  “Be there in half an hour.”

  When he got to Bay and Richmond, Osborne was with a customer. The senior assistant came over to shake his hand. “Congratulations, Brian.” Molony gave him a quizzical look. The senior assistant said, “I’d better let Osborne tell you.”

  When the customer emerged, Molony went in. Osborne’s oak desk was always tidy; he did one thing at a time. Bank appointments were announced by letter sent in care of the manager. The only thing on Osborne’s desk was something on CIBC letterhead. Without a word, he handed it to Molony. “Dear Mr. Molony, We have pleasure in advising you that you have been appointed an Assistant Manager at Bay & Richmond, Toronto, Ontario branch at a commencing salary of $20,700 per annum …” Molony was so thrilled he could barely finish the letter, which was signed by Des Hazelton, vice-president, regional general manager, and Osborne’s mentor.

  “Sir, I appreciate it. I’m sure you had something to do with this.”

  Indeed, the job was a plum and Personnel had insisted there were a hundred people more suited. To say nothing of the possible consequences at the branch. One of Osborne’s assistant managers had put in three years at Credit Room — how would he react if an inexperienced underling were made his equal? But Osborne had gone out on a limb. He’d insisted on Molony and used his pull with Hazelton to get his way. He extended his hand.

  “You’ve worked hard, Brian, you deserve it. I have no doubt whatsoever that you’ll make an excellent assistant manager.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Osborne. It’s a decision you won’t regret.”

  Molony tucked the sports section and the Mohawk program in his jacket pocket and went to the men’s room. He’d given the $22,300 bank draft to Beck and Colizzi. What’s done is done. The important thing was to replace the money as quickly as possible. Locked in a cubicle, he went through the night’s card, filling the margins with tiny calculations. Twenty minutes later he’d handicapped ten harness races. He checked the major-league schedule. He’d had success betting streaks, and five or six teams were on a roll. One big night and he’d have the money back.

  A big night was all he needed, but he needed it so badly that the something else — the unnoticed border between Michigan and Ohio — became suddenly clear. Yesterday he had gambled because he loved it. Tonight he’d be gambling because he had to.

  Over lunch he stayed at his desk, half expecting a call from the branch where Beck tried to cash the draft. Each time his phone rang he braced himself. Nothing happened until three o’clock, when Beck finally phoned. He seemed no more nervous than usual.

  “Ready?”

  “Go ahead,” said Molony.

  Beck rattled off the betting lines for all the major-league games. Molony scribbled them on an envelope. He’d intended to bet only streaking teams, but why not bet every game?

  “Give me the favourite, dog, dog, favourite, favourite, dog, dog, favourite, dog, favourite.”

  “All right. You got the Red Sox, Yankees, Jays, Orioles, Brewers, Dodgers, Cubs, Braves, Expos, and Cards. What are we talking here?”

  “The maximum,” said Molony. “All for the maximum.”

  “By the way, Banker, they did it.”

  “Of course,” said Molony, reaching for his pen. He began filling in the loan sheet. Name: Nick Beck. Occupation: Businessman. “Told you it was as good as cash.”

  “Don’t put my name on anything again. Hear me?”

  Purpose of loan: Investment. Repayment schedule: To be arranged, subject to periodic review.

  “I won’t have to,” said Molony. “I’m going to win.”

  2

  LAS VEGAS

  “Artistic creation is the adventure chosen by the best in man. Gambling is the art of the wounded and haunted and faithless.”

  – Robert Kalich, The Handicapper

  he day Alex Osborne returned from holiday and attacked the work that had accumulated on his desk, he marched into Molony’s office and said, “Who’s this?” In the backlog he had come on the application for a loan to Nick Beck. Because it fell within the branch limit, the loan needed no approval other than Osborne’s. Molony had hoped he’d sign it routinely. Not Osborne.

  “New customer,” said Molony.

  Virtually everyone who knew him thought of Molony as rigorously honest. Yet how easily the lies came when they were needed. In eighth grade, Molony used to tell his parents he was going to babysit and instead, with money from his papers, he took the subway and bus to Greenwood, the dingy, hundred-year-old racetrack in the east end of Toronto. It had an air of squalid destitution and it thrilled him — the anticipation of people clicking through the turnstiles, the exquisite suspense while PHOTO was up, the whoops and yells of the winners. A freezing wind blew in off Lake Ontario, and the ride home seemed to take forever, but the excitement affected him as nothing else did. He longed to be part of it. Too young to bet, he tugged the sleeves of people in line. “Sir, buy a ticket for me, please? Number five to win.”


  An old woman asked him, “Why you like the five?”

  “He ran fourth the last two times out,” Brian replied, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Both times he started from the eight hole and had the lead at the three-quarters, then tired. New driver today, better post. At seven to one it’s worth a shot.”

  One evening he had just left the house when Mrs. O’Reilly up the street phoned to ask if he could babysit. “Why, he’s on the way over there now,” said Mrs. Molony. Around eleven, as he was coming up the walk, his brother Joey tipped him off— “They know you weren’t babysitting.” Dr. Molony, who overcame a serious hearing impairment to become an ear, nose, and throat specialist, was affiliated with six different hospitals, taught at the University of Toronto, and maintained offices in Toronto and Mississauga. His schedule left him precious few hours at home. His knowledge of his children was mostly secondhand, but he was in charge of discipline. He sat his fourth child down at the kitchen table. “You weren’t at Mrs. O’Reilly’s, were you?” “No,” Brian admitted with a hangdog look. “Where were you?” “At a movie.” “Which movie?” “The Magnificent Seven.” “Where was it playing?” “At the Carlton.” “Why didn’t you tell your mother that’s where you were going?” “I didn’t think she’d let me go,” Brian replied, gaining confidence, the story seeming to invent itself…

  “New customer,” he told Alex Osborne. “Investment loan. Fully secured.”

  “He may be involved in that stock fraud.”

  Some months earlier the newspapers had been full of a swindle in which a stock promoter and the founder of a merchandising company had conspired to buy and shell shares to mislead the public into believing there was great market interest in the stock. One of the principals was named Teck, or Peck, or Beck. Osborne didn’t miss a trick.

  “Couldn’t be the same guy,” said Molony. “This fellow’s only thirty or so.”