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A former jewellery maker, he made fake slot coins that even officials had trouble distinguishing valid coins under the microscope.
For christina morales
In 1996, after being arrested by Secret Service agents and New Jersey players at Caesars Palace in Atlantic City, Louis Colavecchio laughed.
His red Honda, loaded with nearly 800 pounds of high-quality counterfeit slot chips, had seamlessly entered the casino parking lot due to adjustments in his trunk. But a New Jersey soldier’s Buick cruiser, now wearing the fake chips in his trunk, wasn’t so lucky.
Falling under the weight of the coins, the back of the police car fell when it hit the back of a donkey, and its silencer and exhaust pipe overturned. As he recalled in his memoirs, “You imagine more: the adventures of the world’s greatest forger” (2015), Mr. Colavecchio, sitting in the back seat, laughed at the soldier’s misfortune.
For Colavecchio, known as “The Coin,” it is one of a series of adventures, misadventures and corrupt companies that attracted the attention of law enforcement and the contempt of casinos around the world, and who began an unlikely friendship with a police investigator
Colavecchio died on 6 July at the age of 78 at the home of his daughter, Susan Taglianetti, in Cranston, Rhode Island. Andy Thibault, his friend and co-author of the memoir, showed death. He did make a case, but Mr. Colavecchio had gained palliative care and court records showed he had dementia, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and high blood pressure.
He died a few weeks after a federal approval ruling granted him compassionate release from the federal medical center in Butner, North Carolina, a criminal for inmates with special fitness needs. He served a 15-month sentence for a forgery conviction.
For Mr. Colavecchio, a craftsman and former jeweler, there’s nothing more exciting than creating pieces of imitation slot devices. The portions he made were so detailed that even federal officials and casino workers discovered that it was difficult to distinguish his fakes from those valid under the microscope.
“It’s lovely, ” said Mr. Thibault. “And I saw him as a genuine person, though I didn’t know Louis’s total.”
Mr. Colavecchio was born on January 1, 1942 and spent some of his youth in Warwick, R.I., his formative-year friend, Mary Ann Sorrentino, wrote in an opinion piece in The Providence Journal. He graduated from Providence College in 1964 with a degree in business administration, the Journal reported. Court records show that, in September 2015, he enrolled at Community College in Rhode Island.
He grew up with a sister and a brother who have become Jesuit missionaries, Sorrentino wrote. (Survivor data available without delay).
Casino officials were too embarrassed to admit that they had been defrauded by Mr. Colavecchio, Franz Douskey, his friend and the other co-author of his memoirs said. He was excluded from all casinos in the country, the Associated Press reported. However, he had costumes that he used to outwit the pursuers.
While the court records that are given an incomplete picture, show that over the decades, Colavecchio has faced a number of charges, adding bank, loan and insurance fraud. But forging his business card.
In 1997, he was sentenced to 27 months in prison for his fake casino coins. In 2019, he was sentenced to 15 months, this time for generating thousands of counterfeit $100 bills.
“They call it a correctional facility, but they haven’t corrected it,” Douskey said in a phone interview.
All of Mr. Colavecchio’s paintings have been meticulous. You can simply paint under microscopes for days, driven by the preference to lie to the federal government and casinos. I would not tolerate the option of a mistake; Every day had to be perfect.
“Making counterfeit pieces must have pleased me in a way I didn’t understand,” Colavecchio wrote in his book.
And he did it for the kicks.
“Only he thought he could,” said Jerry Longo, a retired sergeant with the Connecticut State Police.
Colavecchio has perfected his illicit trade for about 4 years, longo said, making thousands of chips and slot chips for 36 casinos. At one point, the Treasury Department even sought his experience. According to court records, the branch paid him $18,000 after his release from the federal criminal in 2000 because his production had survived those of the United States Mint.
Federal officials can only guess how much Colavecchio let casinos down, but probably several million dollars, based on the amount of chips produced and the average bills of slot machines, Longo said.
He recalled that by researching Mr. Colavecchio, he could see from his workplace in Meriden, Connecticut, the commercial complex where Mr. Colavecchio buys fabrics for his parts.
Their tokens were masterful because he crushed the originals and were given the precise distribution of their composition, Longo said. Mr. Colavecchio bought the equipment, bought a press and, a laser cutting matrix, made molds and copies.
“It’s like going to the U.S. Mint. On weekends, print your cash and leave,” Longo said.
Mr. Longo stated that he befriended him after Mr. Colavecchio surrendered to the state police. Mr. Colavecchio, he recalls, arrived here with his lawyer, thinking he would be thrown in front of the wall in front of reporters.
Instead, they had doughnuts.
“Do you like doughnuts? I like doughnuts. Let’s have a doughnut and talk,” Longo told Mr. Colavecchio.
He took his fingerprints and gave him doughnuts and coffee.
Mr. Colavecchio then sent a Christmas card to Mr. Longo. “Merry Christmas,” he wrote. “You were one of the boys.”
The two came here in combination on a college tour to announce Mr. Colavecchio’s book. Mr. Longo wrote the prologue. The relationship, he said, is like that of two superior classmates who catch up years later.
“I knew he wasn’t going to give up his lifestyle,” Longo said. “Neither do I.”
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