By 1996, Reshke was losing so much money that his gambling addiction required repeated cash advances on his monthly salary. The government had a special program to provide employees with two-week cash advances for emergencies, and Reshke tapped into it continuously. “No one in the government was alerted to the problem or became concerned,” recalls Reshke. With 1996 vlt revenues exceeding the take from health-care premiums, fuel, liquor, and tobacco taxes, and rivalling the tally from corporate income taxes, government attention was elsewhere.
Desperate, Reshke started using his government MasterCard. By the time he had eaten up $7,038.50, a subordinate reported the abuse to Reshke’s superior and friend, Ed McLellan, the deputy minister of Alberta Infrastructure. An embarrassed Reshke promised to pay back the money (which he did) and said he would get help. Reshke attended Alcoholics Anonymous and received counselling, but now admits that “nothing came of it. I was good for a six month period then fell off the wagon.” Reshke often went to bars with coworkers and clients, and drinking and gambling were part of doing business; vlts were everywhere. “You couldn’t avoid them,” he says.
Although public pressure had forced Klein’s government to cap the number of vlts at 6,000, the machines still made headlines throughout 1998. The government and hotel lobby argued that machines represented freedom of choice and that “no one was forced to play the machines.” Church groups and civic leaders called the machines a regressive tax on the vulnerable and accused the government of conflict of interest by being promoter, profiteer, and regulator of the gambling industry. Klein, a consummate gambler and drinker, wouldn’t allow a provincial referendum but reluctantly permitted local plebiscites. Seven of thirty-seven communities voted to remove the machines. Even though Klein promised the machines would be gone in a week, vlt retailers from the nay-saying communities tied the matter up in court until April 2003. In some cases the removal didn’t amount to much. While the government pulled ninety-seven vlts out of Fort McMurray in 2003, the number of slot machines at the casino shot up from twenty-five to two hundred.
Reshke held onto his job by juggling alcohol, debt, and vlts. On several occasions he got caught shoplifting, and was nailed for drinking and driving, but the thrill of the machine suspended all shame. “vlts ended up being a source of escapism for a least a few hours,” recalls Reshke. “And then I’d wake up in the morning and say, ‘My God, what did I do? ’ And then I’d go back to the bar and have a drink and gamble. It was a vicious circle.” He now owed friends and relatives more than $100,000.
One of Reshke’s good friends, David Lamash, got particularly antsy about his debts. Lamash owned a small company, ldj Project Management, which did consulting work for Alberta Infrastructure. He was also one of Reshke’s hockey and ice-fishing buddies. According to Lamash, the civil servant would borrow a sum, pay back a portion, and then make an excuse for not paying the rest. Reshke owed Lamash $10,000. “I tried to talk to him. I doubt if his bosses knew about this,” said Lamash later in a court statement.
Reshke had the authority to sign contracts up to $100,000 and to approve invoices from government suppliers. “Look,” he said to his long-time friend, “I can do some work for you and you can consider it a repayment for your loans.” Lamash agreed to a kickback scheme that involved taking money from Alberta Infrastructure and spending it on vlts, thus enriching the newly created gaming ministry and, of course, helping to fund services provided by Alberta Infrastructure.
Between 1998 and 2002, provincial vlt revenues increased from $460 million to $575 million even though the number of Albertans playing the machines remained roughly the same. People like Reshke were playing harder, longer, and for more dollars. Believing that he could eventually beat the machine and pay people back, Reshke had become a desperate chaser.
In 2000, Reshke’s friend and boss, Ed McLellan, retired and was eventually replaced by Eric McGhan. Reshke started to use an assistant’s government MasterCard for cash advances of $300 or $400. “That’s when things went downhill. I should have got out at that time.” Most days Reshke couldn’t wait to get out of the office to gamble, but miraculously he continued to be praised as one of the government’s best senior financial officers.
McGhan, however, had his suspicions and ordered an investigation into Reshke’s activities. Alberta Gaming investigators followed Reshke into bars, where he used the Alberta MasterCard to obtain cash advances from the ubiquitous abms — “the machine that always pays off,” as players call them. The investigation uncovered the kickback scheme with David Lamash, and after thirty-one years of service Reshke lost his job in February 2002. The government sued and demanded repayment of the fraudulent credit-card charges. Reshke declared bankruptcy.
While Reshke awaited trial, two of Canada’s foremost gambling researchers, Garry Smith and Harold J. Wynne, released a damning report on vlt gambling in Alberta. It concluded that the province had the highest percapita gambling losses ($781 in 2002) in Canada, and that Alberta vlts had the highest daily sales. In Fort McMurray alone, just ninety-one vlts produced a $20-million profit in 2003. The report noted that Alberta would have to raise taxes by $214 a person to replace gambling income and claimed that more than half of all vlt players in the province were probably addicted.
