Molly's Millions

A sun-bleached boardwalk fortune-teller foresees riotous gold for seaside dreamer Molly Malone, whose name already smells of salt, song, and myth. The prophecy lands like a coin in a jukebox: suddenly every gull seems to sing of oil tycoons, every tide brings in a yachtsman drunk on possibility. Enter James Liddy’s card-sharp drifter—part huckster, part romantic lightning rod—who catches the scent of money like ozone before rain. Together they ricochet from pier arcades to cliff-top villas, trading futures on whispered stock tips, forged treasure maps, and the shimmer of each other’s pupils. Frank Roland Conklin’s script keeps flipping the wager: is love the swindle or the prize? Each time Molly’s purse swells, her grin grows sharper, more canine; each time Liddy’s promises swell, his smile goes softer, more boy-saint. Their tango of con and confession accumons a parade of side characters—aging magicians, Prohibition rum-runners, a child accordionist who only plays in B-minor—until the boardwalk itself feels like a roulette wheel spinning toward an eclipse. When the final bet is called, the fortune-teller’s booth is ashes, the gold is revealed to be 24-karat longing, and the only jackpot left is the bruise-blue dawn over an ocean that refuses to pay out.