A life on thin ice

Sporting News, The, March 18, 1996 by Michael J. Goodman

The evening after his departure from the Los Angeles Kings, Wayne Gretzky returns a phone call and reminisces about how he laughed politely eight years ago when Bruce McNall leaned over at a Lakers-Celtics game and wisecracked: "I'm gonna get ya, Wayne."

What a hoot. Gretzky was house hunting in Canada at the time, in preparation for his wedding to actress Janet Jones later that summer of 1988.

Gretzky chuckles good naturedly at the reminder of a USA Today report predicting a "smooth summer ahead" for Glen Sather, general manager of the Edmonton Oilers whose "biggest decision might be choosing a wedding gift for (Gretzky)."

In Los Angeles, recalling the article, Steven Nessenblatt, once McNall's second in command, says, "I cut out the story to show Bruce." He grins. "We were all laughing about it, because we were already stealing Gretzky."

Gretzky laughs halfheartedly as I recount Nessenblatt and McNall's glee. The conversation two weeks ago turns to McNall's imminent but yet undetermined prison sentence for defrauding six banks of some $240 million.

Stubbornly, Gretzky refuses to offer a hint of criticism, despite the numerous reports that he too was victimized financially and repeatedly by McNall's deceit.

"I have no complaints," Gretzky says, his undying loyalty coming through. He continues, "Well, I just loaned Bruce money again about a year ago. It was personal, between friends. He's going through tough times. I try to call him every two or three weeks."

Gretzky pauses. His voice is halting. "I think Bruce feels that people he thought were his friends have abandoned him. I haven't. (Hockey) owes the man a great deal."

To a considerable crowd in the non-puck world, though, Bruce Patrick McNall is a consummate huckster who found no lie too outlandish to tell, no friend too dear to fleece.

Short and circular, with a hurried, raspy voice punctuated by now understandable nervous giggles McNall disarmed one and all with shameless flattery and a cherubic smile.

His style was simple: He stole from Peter to pay what he stole from Paul and stole it again.

During his decadelong fling, McNall, 46, owned or had an interest in more than 300 race horses two short-lived film companies and a hoard of (sometimes) ancient coins and artifacts. He had homes or retreats in Los Angeles, Malibu, Palm Springs, Hawaii, Utah and Trump Tower. His cars and aircraft included a Rolls-Royce, a Bentley, a Range Rover, an Aston Martin, a 727 jet, a Jet Star cruiser and a helicopter. He spent $50 million or so to buy a hockey team in Los Angeles and import a superstar (Gretzky) from Canada, and to buy a football team in Toronto and export a twinkling star (Raghib "Rocket" Ismail). In the end, all for naught.

"Everything I built has crumbled," McNall says after Gretzky's trade to the St. Louis Blues.

And most if not all of the money he spent, it turns out, was most likely never really his free and clear.

McNall's motivation, friends and former employees agree, was to please, to be accepted, to erase his "fatty fatty two by four" boyhood.

"My insecurity is so great People have no idea how insecure I am," a friend says McNall confided last year. "In a sentence," says a former business partner, "Bruce is a kid who never grew up."

Joel Malter stares unseeing out the window of his cubbyhole antiquities gallery in Encino, a suburb of Los Angeles. Then, ignoring phone calls, Malter, 64, speaks in relieved bursts of hurt and bewilderment pent up repressed, lo these 20 some years since "Bruce used me ... discarded me."

Malter pauses for air and starts at the beginning -- 1964. "I'm teaching history in high school and selling coins out of my garage. ... Up drives a woman and out hops this fat lithe ball -- 5 foot, 180 -- of a kid about 13.1 showed him a collection worth about $3,000, figuring he'd pick one or two for five or six bucks." Malter's voice deepens dramatically. "Bruce wanted the whole box ... came back with a check from his grandmother."

Five years passed, Malter says, before he saw McNall again By then, Malter had opened a gallery. "Bruce walks m with one of those long-hair Beatles haircuts and tells me: 'I just graduated from Oxford ... going back to UCLA to get my doctorate ...I came right from the airport to see you first for a job to help me through school.'" Malter forces a brittle laugh. His voice turns hollow. "All lies I found out, but his timing was perfect. I needed help. I hired him for about $30 a week."

Whoa!!! Say what? Eighty bucks a week? But the whole McNall mystique is forged on the seemingly historical fact that he was a teenaged coin baron who drove a Jaguar while ordinary kids bagged groceries and putted around in jalopies.

Malter senses his blasphemy. Quickly, he says: "I still have the payroll records. Bruce's salary was less than $200 a week for years (1968-72). I gave him money to rent an apartment. I bought him a little car ... a red Mustang."

Malter's son, Michael, 40 joins us. "Bruce never had any money to speak of. We were best friends ... spent a lot of time together. We made three or four trips together to Europe to buy coins."