Al was a spectacle at feast and he loved to invite people to dine with him. Often, he would take anyone who was in the store as he prepared to leave. He frequently took Vanessa and me along, as well as any friends with us at the time. The neighborhood kids loved to hang out at our house because he always included them in any adventure he was cooking up, whether legit or not. If he wanted to go to the movies, which he loved to do, he would fill up the car with neighborhood kids and buy out half the theater’s popcorn and candy.
My father also loved amusement parks. A friend of his ran an amusement park near the Pittsburgh Airport, where my sister and I—and our friends—thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and were always accorded special treatment. The manager, Dave, would shut down the bumper car ride to the public and let us race around smashing into each other for thirty minutes or more. The bumper cars and roller coasters were his favorites, and he delighted in sharing the experience with his daughters and our friends.
Life was never dull around my father, who always seemed to be looking for the next thrill. Bonnie, on the other hand, was more of an introvert and would often opt out of the merriment, much preferring to stay at home with a good book, the family dogs, and a bottle. She said that she hated people, and she meant it. In contrast, her husband’s goal in life was to live as much as possible every day and not worry about the consequences. His urgency to have fun was contagious but also unsettling, as he could not be serious when times warranted.
Although enjoying himself was a priority for my father, his relationship with my mother was at times downright hazardous. In our home, fun was fleeting and violence loomed a constant threat. Blood is prominent in my earliest memories and was a regular feature throughout my childhood.
Mommy Stabbed Daddy
I clearly recall my first memory of a parental fight that ended in bloodshed. Asleep in the bedroom I shared with my sister, I awoke with a start at the sound of crashing glass. Raised voices soon joined the barrage of plates my mother hurled in fury; Bonnie was great at throwing dishes and usually hit her mark. The screaming reached a crescendo that peaked at the same time I heard a loud thud, as if one had thrown the other into a wall. A momentary silence ensued before Bonnie began to shriek. “How dare you! You tore my dress. I’ll kill you, you black bastard,” my mother screamed, referring to my father’s Arab descent.
“Good,” my father replied. “Where were you planning to go all dressed up at this hour? You’re staying home! I’m tired of you running out at a whim.”
“You can’t tell me what to do! I will come and go as I please and don’t need your permission. Get out of my way, or you will be sorry.” Shouting was her characteristic response to frustration.
A scuffle ensued and then silence. A few moments later, the light came on in the hallway leading to our bedroom. Al appeared in the door and walked over to my crib. Although four at the time, I still slept in a crib and would do so until the age of seven. Caught up in mortal combat with their demons, neither of my parents thought anything amiss with my sleeping arrangements. Each night, I would crawl into the crib and pull the safety rail up behind me. It was rather comforting, in a kind of “yes, I’m in prison” way. I used to imagine that the bars possessed magical qualities that would protect me from the outside world. It became my “safe place,” although I longed for a big girl’s bed like my sister.
I stared up at my father, wondering at this new twist in their regular fights. Why was he standing there?
“Heather. Wake up. I want to show you what Mommy did to Daddy.”
Leaning up on one elbow, I inquired, “What’s wrong, Daddy? What did Mommy do to you?”
Al bent over and showed me his arm dripping with blood. “Mommy stabbed me. She’s crazy. You know that, don’t you?”
I stared at his wound, and then replied in my high-pitched voice, “That’s not blood, Daddy. It’s red, silly sand.”
My father looked disappointed. I don’t know if he wanted sympathy or an ally, but I did not give him what he needed. “You don’t care that your mother stabbed me?”
“Yes, but that isn’t blood, Daddy. You are just being silly. Go to bed and everything will be better in the morning.”
Al stood and walked to the door, looked back and wished me a good night. A few minutes passed and I heard him leave the house, leaving his four-year-old daughter bewildered and his wife sobbing in another room.
Flying Meat Cleaver
Our parents never bothered to shield us from their fights, which were always verbally brutal and all too often escalated into violence. Al would taunt Bonnie and she would fly into a rage, attacking him with anything she could grab. One such argument occurred while my mother was cutting pork chops from a large loin, which you would think my father would have taken into consideration. Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, Vanessa and I ignored our fighting parents, who stood at opposite ends of the table. We concentrated on the dominos we were tediously setting up for the big “knockdown.” Of course, the knockdown came, but it was not the dominos that put on the show.
The argument began when Al announced that he was leaving to attend a weekend poker game in Pittsburgh. Given their volatile relationship, you might assume that my mother would enjoy a weekend without her watchful husband. Instead, she began to mock him with the same arguments he used against her every time she wanted to go out unaccompanied. As the argument escalated, Bonnie began chopping erratically at the loin. Without warning, she raised her arm back over her head and flung the meat cleaver directly at my father. Vanessa and I forgot the dominos as we watched the cleaver spin through the air, over our heads, finally coming to rest with a squishy thud. It entered my father’s body where the shoulder meets the chest.
The house became very quiet. I was amazed to see only a slight flinch from my father, who calmly reached up and pulled the cleaver from his shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound as the steel left his body. Bonnie, who had stopped shouting, showed little concern. She simply threw a kitchen towel at him with an angry growl. Al grabbed the towel and squashed it to the oozing wound. Blood squirted between his fingers as he tried to determine the most urgent opening. Placing the towel effectively, he turned and left the house. He went to the nearby hospital where he was cared for by one of his cousins, who asked no questions.
Hearing the door slam shut, my mother started, as if awakening from a dream. Inspecting the mess on the table, blood-soaked dominos, and a pork loin that looked like dog meat, she exclaimed, “Well, this won’t do at all. How about I get this cleaned up and take you girls out for ice cream? Isaly’s is still open. Or do you want to go to the DQ?” Not bothering to wait for response, she pulled the garbage can over to the table and began scraping the bloodied dominos and pork into the can. My sister and I sat in silence, which we had learned from experience was the safest option, until she finished scrubbing the table. “There, all cleaned up and everything in its proper place. Well, what will it be? A Dilly Bar or Isaly’s?”
Vanessa and I looked at each other and decided a Dilly Bar sounded just right.
Bonnie’s practice of taking us for ice cream or other treats after a bloody battle became so common that I would often find myself trying to decide on what treat I would request even while the fight ensued. Ice cream and violence—a strange combination, indeed.
Shoot the Gas Tank, Mommy!
Another parental fight that remains all too vivid in my mind earned Bonnie bragging rights for putting the first bullet holes in Clay Avenue, whose brick roadway had been paved for the first time a decade before. My mother and father were arguing about a mystery man who Al thought had become too friendly. She denied any wrongdoing and insisted that my father’s jealous nature saw evil around every corner.
Al persisted with his accusations, all the while glancing periodically at his watch. At one point, my mother asked sarcastically if he had somewhere to go.
“Yes,” he replied. “I’m going to the track with the guys and then to a poker game.
I’ll be back in a few days.”
Well, that pushed Bonnie into a tizzy. “You’re what? You accuse me of fooling around, and then announce you are going God knows where and won’t be back for a couple days! Get out of my sight before I put a bullet between your eyes, you no-good son-of-a-bitch.”
Al, not knowing when to leave things alone, bellowed, “Yeah, I’m real scared of you and your threats. I’m leaving, and I better not hear you went out while I’m gone.”
His taunts set my mother off and she raced to the closet to get her rifle. Al, realizing his mistake too late, ran down the steps and out onto the Avenue only to find his wife hanging out the window taking aim.
My mother fired off a shot before Al dropped to his hands and knees, taking cover behind cars parked on the Avenue. Considering that she was an avid hunter and known as a crack shot, he was lucky that his wife’s love of Jack had dulled her accuracy. Concerned for our father, Vanessa and I took up positions in the window next to our mother. We watched as Al scampered from behind one vehicle after another, trying to make his way to his parked car. After a few more blasts and reloads of the rifle, my sister, pragmatic and used to violence, thoughtfully suggested, “Why don’t you shoot the gas tank, Mommy?”
Although this event stands out in my mind, it is not so much on account of my mother’s insane actions but rather because this innocent child, no more than eight, was so disgusted with her parents’ constant shenanigans and so resigned to the violence that filled our lives. My sister loved my father dearly and would never wish him harm. She was simply fed up with the never-ending drama that held us constantly on edge.
In response to Vanessa’s childish but astute observation, Bonnie turned and looked at her daughter with embarrassment. I think this is one of the few times I actually saw shame upon my mother’s face. Vanessa’s utterance brought her back to her senses and she put down the rifle just as the police pulled up in front of the apartment. I do not know what excuses my father gave them but they accepted his story and quietly left the scene. Al crossed the street, got into his car, and true to his word, came back in a couple of days. All was back to normal—normal that is, for the Abraham family. Ice cream, anyone?
Three
The Family Businesses:
“General Merchandise and Gambling”
“You know what luck is? Luck is believing you’re lucky...to hold front position in this rat-race you’ve got to believe you’re lucky.”
Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire
The title for this chapter comes from my father’s testimony during a trial in 1971. At the onset of his testimony, he was asked to state his occupation. Al, never one to deny his fondness for breaking the law, answered unabashedly, “General merchandise and gambling.” His statement was short and to the point, but also representative of the atmosphere in which my sister and I were raised.1
Our domestic life revolved around the family store, the primary stage for my father’s legitimate and illegal trade. Although he ran successful retail businesses, his main interests were in the gambling industry. There was no escaping the crazy existence my father created for his family or our participation in his criminal endeavors. I was a child of crime, not by choice but by birthright.
My sister and I were introduced to the family “business” at a very early age. In fact, both Vanessa and I knew how to “write numbers” before entering the first grade. Al got a kick out of having his two, tiny daughters take numbers from the regular colorful characters who frequented the store to place their daily bets. To ensure we recorded the correct numbers, we were taught to repeat each number and the amount of the wager back to the player before accepting payment. Taking parlays, booking sports games, and learning the card business would come later as we studied the complicated business, not as outsiders, but organically, from the ground up. Simply put, we were immersed in the gambling business from infancy.
Al did not specialize in any one aspect of bookmaking. Beginning with the numbers business in the early 1950s, he quickly branched out to include professional and college basketball, football, hockey, and baseball. He dabbled briefly in horse betting, but eventually dispatched that part of the business to an out-of-town bookie who specialized in local and national track races. In addition to the seasonal ball games and numbers business, Al also often organized daily and weekend poker games that could run up to three days.
In the early 1960s, my father opened a small casino in the back room of the store that included a roulette table, several poker tables, a craps table, and curiously, a chuck-a-luck table. The poker tables were positioned to the right of the other gaming tables to afford the privacy players needed and to cut down on the chance of a team-tag con. Cheaters were not tolerated and anyone involved in a cheat was quickly encouraged to leave the premises and barred for life. Some of my earliest memories are of being in the back room and watching energized gamblers playing roulette or craps while others engaged in the serious business of poker.
Until my school years, I spent the bulk of my time in the storefront with Bonnie and store employees, busy with the retail side of the business. Occasionally, however, I would find myself in the back room when my mother had to run an errand or make an outside appointment. Before leaving, she would make a little play area for me in the corner behind the poker tables. Deposited on a blanket and surrounded with toys and books, I would quietly amuse myself or take a nap until she returned.
I vividly remember the smells, sounds, and energy of the room, with gamblers puffing away on cigarettes and cigars, and the piles of money at the tables. I loved the constant action and urgency of the room. Watching the gamblers, some of whom blessed themselves or rubbed a lucky talisman before throwing the dice or placing a bet, was exciting. I could not wait to grow up and participate in this magical world.
Although the majority of the gamblers were men, a few women would occasionally join them at play. I found them most impressive. One in particular always caught my attention. A tall redhead with piercing black eyes, Erika commanded attention with her beauty and natural prowess at the gaming tables. Although skillful at her chosen game, she was also, I would later find, an object of scandal. Beautiful and obsessed with gambling, she was considered a double danger. Many players found themselves constantly losing when she was in attendance—some because of her skill, others because they could not overlook her considerable charms. The gambler’s wives were also unhappy about Erika’s presence. Eventually, she was banned from playing. Most, if not all, of the gamblers were happy that they would no longer have to suffer her presence, but I missed her dearly. I often wondered how I would ultimately fit into this male-dominated world.
I would eventually grow to deeply dislike my father’s gambling business, and the drama, chaos, and sorrow it caused our family. As a child, though, I was fascinated with the constant action. Unfortunately, this action would attract the attention of the law and trigger regular police raids, which began sometime in the early 1960s, shortly after my sister was born.
Let the Raids Begin!
Life in the Abraham family was, for the most part, a roller coaster. Vanessa and I learned quickly to roll with the punches and never to allow ourselves to completely relax. Being on guard was necessary to our survival. The close of a relatively uneventful day was always welcome, but we were acutely aware that tomorrow held the potential for continued anxiety. Police raids often occurred without warning, and depending on whether local, state, or federal agents were conducting the raid, could be quite violent.
The first raid Vanessa remembers vividly occurred sometime in 1966, in the months following her fifth birthday. On this occasion, the “Feds,” as my father referred to the suits who most often conducted the earliest raids, perpetrated an early morning simultaneous raid on the store and our family apartment.2 Looking for gambling paraphernalia, the Feds broke into two groups and stormed our apartment and business at the same time. Al, hearing their impending entrance into the store, promptly threw th
e rice paper booking slips into a bucket of water, always on hand for just an occasion. Thwarted by his “magic bucket,” the annoyed but well dressed officers began to ransack the store, confiscating only a few dozen punchboards and strip tickets.
The agents assigned to raid the apartment interrupted our morning meal by breaking down our apartment door and rushing up the steep stairway. My curious sister, hearing the commotion from the kitchen, ran to the top of the stairs, peered over the gate my mother had installed to ensure our protection, and saw the on-coming barrage of officers. Before she could move to safety, the lead officer smashed through the gate and violently shoved my sister out of the way. Flying through the air, Vanessa crashed into the wall behind her. Bonnie rushed to protect her child and found Vanessa bleeding from the elbow. Picking up her frightened and wounded daughter, she placed her into a chair next to my highchair and turned her considerable fury on the offending officer. Grabbing her coffee cup from the breakfast table, she smashed it into the officer’s head and quickly jumped on him in a full-blown assault—quid pro quo, blood for blood. Other officers, pouring into our apartment, pulled her from their colleague and forced her back into the kitchen. A stream of obscenities and threats poured from my enraged mother’s lips as she was forced into a chair.
The Bookie's Daughter Page 4