In 1996, just after Louis Colavecchio was arrested by Secret Service agents and New Jersey gaming troopers at Caesars Palace in Atlantic City, New Jersey, he laughed.
His red Honda, loaded up with nearly 800 pounds of high-quality counterfeit slot machine tokens, had easily made its way into the casino’s winding parking garage because of modifications to its trunk.
The Buick of a New Jersey trooper, with the bogus tokens hauled into its trunk by the Secret Service, was not so lucky.
Under the weight of the coins, the rear of the car dropped when it hit a speed bump, knocking off its muffler and tailpipe, Colavecchio recalled in his memoir, “You Thought It Was More: Adventures of the World’s Greatest Counterfeiter.” He chuckled at the trooper’s misfortune from the back of the police car.
For Colavecchio, who was known as “The Coin,” it was one in a string of adventures, misadventures and criminal enterprises that drew the attention of law enforcement and the disdain of casinos everywhere, and started an unlikely friendship with a police investigator.
Colavecchio, 78, died at his daughter’s home in Cranston, Rhode Island, on July 6, his friend and a co-author of his memoir, Andy Thibault, said Sunday.
A cause of death was not immediately available but he had been under hospice care, and court records showed he had several health conditions, including dementia, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and hypertension.
He died only a few weeks after a federal judge granted him compassionate release from prison, where he was serving a 15-month sentence for a counterfeiting conviction. Details about survivors were not immediately available; his family declined to comment.
For Colavecchio, a craftsman and former jewelry maker, there was nothing more thrilling than creating counterfeit slot machine coins, which were so detailed that even federal officials and casino workers found it challenging to distinguish his fakes from legitimate ones under a microscope.
“He was charming,” Thibault said. “And I perceived him to be a real person, although I didn’t know the totality of Louis.”
Colavecchio, who was born Jan. 1, 1942, spent part of his early life in Warwick, Rhode Island, his childhood friend, Mary Ann Sorrentino, wrote in an opinion article in The Providence Journal. He graduated from Providence College in 1964 with a degree in business administration, The Journal reported. In September 2015, he enrolled at the Community College of Rhode Island, court records show.
He grew up with a sister and a brother, who later became a Jesuit missionary, Sorrentino wrote.
Casino officials were often too embarrassed to admit they were swindled by Colavecchio, said Franz Douskey, his friend and co-author. He was barred from every casino in the country, The Associated Press reported. Nonetheless, he had disguises, labeled in boxes and bins with the names of different casinos, that he used to fake his own appearance and outwit pursuers.
Though available court records give an incomplete picture, they show that, over the decades, Colavecchio faced a series of charges that included bank, mortgage and insurance fraud.
But counterfeiting was his calling card.
In 1997, he was sentenced to 27 months in prison for his phony casino coins, and in 2019, he was sentenced to 15 months, this time for producing thousands of counterfeit $100 bills.
“They call it a correctional institute, but they didn’t correct him,” Douskey said in an interview.
All of his work was meticulous, intelligent and done with a keen focus. He could toil alone under microscopes for days, spurred by a desire to trick the federal government and the casinos.
He never wanted the possibility of an error — each die had to be perfect.
“Making counterfeit items must have appealed to me in some way that I didn’t understand,” Colavecchio wrote in his book.
And he did it just for kicks.
“Just because he thought he could,” Jerry Longo, a retired Connecticut State Police sergeant, said Sunday.
Over about four years, Colavecchio perfected his craft, Longo said, making thousands of chips and slot tokens for 36 casinos.
At one point, the U.S. Treasury Department even sought his expertise, paying him $18,000 after he was released from federal prison in 2000, because his manufacturing dies outlasted those of the U.S. Mint, according to court records.
Federal officials can only guess how much Colavecchio swindled from the casinos, but it was probably several million dollars, based on the number of tokens produced and average slot payouts, Longo said.
He recalled that as he was investigating Colavecchio, he could see an industrial complex from his office in Meriden, Connecticut. It turned out that Colavecchio drove there to buy materials for his coins.
His tokens were masterful because he crushed the originals and got the exact breakdown of their composition, Longo said. Colavecchio purchased the material, bought a press and, using a laser-cutting die, made molds and copies.
“It’s like having access to the U.S. Mint on the weekend, printing your money and leaving,” Longo said.
He said he developed a friendship with Colavecchio after he turned himself in to the State Police. Colavecchio came with his lawyer, thinking that he was going to be thrown against the wall as news reporters watched, Longo said.
Instead, they had doughnuts.
“You like doughnuts? I like doughnuts. Let’s have a doughnut and talk,” Longo said he told Colavecchio.
He said he fingerprinted Colavecchio and handed him doughnuts and coffee.
Colavecchio later sent Longo a Christmas card at his office. “Merry Christmas,” he wrote. “You were one of the good guys.”
The two became closer during a college tour to promote Colavecchio’s book — Longo wrote the foreword.
The relationship was like two high school classmates catching up with each other years later, he said.
“I knew he wasn’t going to give up his lifestyle,” Longo said. “And I wasn’t either.”