The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  Leaving one officer in the kitchen with my mother, sister, and me, the others quickly spread out into the apartment in a destructive rampage. They tore pictures from the walls, ripped out the contents of the closets, and overturned furniture. The officers ran amok, stripping the beds, scattering record collections, and tearing through bureaus, books, and toy boxes. By the time they returned to the kitchen to continue their search, they found us sitting with a visitor the guarding officer had permitted entry into our home.

  Father Habibi, the warmhearted Syrian Orthodox Priest from our family church, happened to be on the Avenue when the raid commenced. Inquiring after my sister and me, he was informed by the city police that we were in the apartment with the raiding Feds. He hurried to the apartment, where he demanded and was granted entry. Father Habibi sat calmly holding Bonnie’s hand and talking about plans for the next Syrian Festival while the Feds conducted their intrusive search of the kitchen, carelessly smashing dishware and throwing food from the pantry and refrigerator. His comforting presence deterred any further confrontation between my mother and the object of her fury.

  The Feds found nothing in the apartment and finally gave up the search. My mother was fond of saying, “they left as they came, with their dicks in their hands.” By the time of their departure, Vanessa had developed the early signs of bruising on her shoulder and hip. The gash on her elbow did not require stitches, but Bonnie took her to see the family doctor to ensure that nothing was broken. Returning to our apartment, which was in shambles, my mother spent the rest of the day cleaning up broken glass in the kitchen and setting the house straight.

  Bonnie filed a complaint against the brutal officer but, unfortunately, he died of a heart attack before he could be held accountable for his savagery towards my sister. I would have been little more than two at the time and have no memory of this particular event, but I have heard the story many times from my mother’s lips and it is forever seared in my mind. Even decades later, Bonnie would become enraged when she spoke of the heartless way Vanessa was treated. She bemoaned the officer’s early death, which denied her the justice she sought for her daughter.

  Raids were not just a family affair, as many of our playmates were often caught up in the drama of a raid on the Abraham stores or apartment. Tina Louise, my friend from first grade onward, holds the honor of being caught up in at least three raids. Her first occurred shortly after dawn during a sleep over. As the police charged into our bedroom and began tearing through our closets and overturning dresser drawers, Tina Louise, totally unprepared for the commotion, sat in the middle of the bed, still in her pajamas, screaming, “What’s happening? Mrs. Abraham, what’s happening?”

  For my sister and me, raids were a normal part of our life and, so it never occurred to us to prepare our friends for the possibility. Bonnie, who always treated the officers with contempt, calmly replied, “No worries, Tina Louise, these bastards will be out of here soon enough. Stay put and you’ll be fine.” Tina Louise complied but was more than a little anxious with what was, for us, “normal” procedure.

  My sister and I became so accustomed to raids that we often went about business as usual. On one occasion, another childhood friend was shocked to see me calmly finishing breakfast as household items flew through the air all around us. On another, hearing the police stomping up the alleyway that led to our apartment door, my sister quickly darted into the bathroom and began to run the shower. Tina Louise, pounding on the door, screamed, “Vanessa, what are you doing in there? The police are coming up the stairs!”

  Vanessa replied, “Yeah, I know. They won’t bother me in here.” If we had any contraband in the house, the bathroom was the safest place. For some reason, none of the dozens of police who raided us over the years ever searched the Kotex box.

  Although we went through the motions of a raid with composure, my mother often went on the attack. Cigarette dangling for her lips, her face contorted in rage, Bonnie would assail the officers with a stream of obscenities and threats. When given a few minutes advance notice of a raid, Vanessa or I would most often gather up my mother’s guns and put them in the closet. Not to hide them from the police, the guns were legally registered, but to thwart any temptation Bonnie may have had to shoot them.

  On more than one occasion, she threatened to do just that. Hanging out the front window of the apartment, Bonnie would taunt the police, who just raided the store. “Come on up here boys, I’ve got something waiting for you! I’ll show you pricks a real good time. I’ve got bullets with your names on them.” Vanessa and I have often wondered why our mother was never arrested and concluded that she knew just enough dirt to make the police wary. She would often taunt the police about her knowledge of their dirty secrets. Of course, her crazy factor and unpredictability were also, I am sure, taken into consideration.

  Not all raids involved excessive violence, nor did they all lead to my father’s arrest. Having many contacts in police forces throughout the county, Al was sometimes tipped off to an impending raid. Tips would range from “sometime this week” to a few minutes heads-up, but surprise raids were most common.

  In the event of a raid, Vanessa and I were trained, at a very young age, to destroy or hide evidence. During the first half of our childhood, Al “wrote” on rice paper, which dissolves completely when placed in water—a very practical way for bookies to quickly and thoroughly destroy evidence. Our father would practice with us the proper procedure of “tricking the police” by throwing rice paper in the galvanized buckets of water that sat next to his “writing” areas in the storefront and in the basement. The magic of Al’s buckets was a delight but we were cautioned repeatedly not to play with them unless supervised—or if there were police rushing into the store. Although we did not understand the broad picture, we knew that the paper and magic bucket kept Daddy out of trouble with the police. As the years passed, Al became less concerned with gambling raids and began to write his book on a legal pad, periodically destroying the pages as they became outdated.

  Old Stock, New Stock and Nick’s Triple Six Fix

  Once we were old enough to “know our numbers,” Al would have us perform the task of taking daily number bets from customers. For many gamblers, we were at first an oddity but they soon became used to our involvement and began readily making bets with us, even when not under our father’s supervision. Writing numbers became a natural part of our life and our parents had no apparent unease with involving us in the complexities or legalities of the “family business.”

  As Pennsylvania did not have an official state lottery system prior to 1972, the daily number was determined by the outcome of the New York Stock Exchange. The end-result of the day’s dealings of “legitimate bookies” on Wall Street would, in a fashion, determine the winning numbers for illegal bookmakers nationwide. Eager players would await the evening edition of the newspaper to find the winning three-digit “old stock” and “new stock” numbers. Payoffs for “hits” did not occur until the local paper’s data was confirmed in the next morning’s Wall Street Journal, the official authoritative voice for stock investors and bookies alike.

  Even as children, Vanessa and I were responsible for computing the daily numbers. The old stock number was determined by combing the last digit of the Advance, Decline, and Unchanged columns. For example, if the last number of the Advance was 5, the Decline 8, and the Unchanged 3, then the old stock winning number was 583. The computation of the “new stock” number, on the other hand, was a little more complicated. The first of the three digits was determined by the last number of the sum total of the three numbers from the “old stock.” Take our earlier example of 583. If you add these numbers together, the sum is 16. The last digit, the number 6, would then be the first number of the new stock. The second and third numbers were determined by the fifth number, counting from right to left, of the day’s volume of stock sold and the volume of bonds sold, respectively. Whew! Even today, I am amazed that my sister and I were expected to work
out this complex formula, but master it we did! After Vanessa or I deciphered the winning numbers, Al or Bonnie would confirm them, and we would then post the winning numbers on the door of the store.

  For decades, the daily number emerged out of the chaos and dealings of Wall Street. For many bookies, this system would stand until individual states realized that in keeping gambling illegal, they were losing millions of dollars in prospective revenue.

  The Pennsylvania State Lottery began with the enactment of Act 91 on August 26, 1971, with revenues slated to provide property tax relief for Pennsylvania’s senior citizens. The first official lottery tickets went on sale in March of 1972, with a weekly drawing leading up to the ultimate million-dollar prize. As the official state lottery was met with enthusiasm by the general populace, bookmakers were concerned that the government lottery system would cut their profits and eventually put them out of business.

  Surprisingly, when the state began the daily number drawings in March of 1977, they did not match or exceed the payout given by most bookmakers, who depending on the specific bookmaker, paid between 540 and 600 to 1. With the state paying 500 to 1, bookmakers lost only a marginal amount of business. The biggest change in the system, once the state joined the game, was the source of the daily number. The state now determined the winning numbers. For numbers junkies, the daily buzz concerning the New York Stock Exchange closing became a relic of the past.

  With the state now the authoritative source for winning numbers, bookmakers and the public depended on the legitimacy of the State Lottery Commission. This legitimacy would soon be called into question as a scandal unfolded that rocked both the state of Pennsylvania and the underworld numbers business.

  To ensure transparency, the Pennsylvania Lottery Commission began the daily-televised drawing on March 1, 1977. Tuning in to watch the evening news now afforded the public with a live drawing that provided instant access to the winning numbers. Wanting to put a familiar face to the drawings, the Pennsylvania Lottery Commission eventually settled on Nick Perry, a popular Pennsylvania radio and television personality, who hosted the long-running Bowling for Dollars, as the face behind the nightly lottery drawing.

  Thursday, April 24, 1980 began as any other but by seven that evening, bookies in the know were in a gleeful uproar over the realization that the state’s daily number had been “fixed.” Up before dawn for a prearranged trip to Pittsburgh to collect merchandise for the store, Al and I returned in time for me to make the morning school bus. That afternoon, as I emerged from school, I discovered Big John waiting in the parking lot. A long-time employee and family friend, Big John was a fun-loving giant of a man who outsized my father in height and weight. Although a regular presence in our life, Big John would periodically disappear from Jeannette to go on the road as a circus strongman under the stage name of “Titus the Terrible.” When not on tour, he could be found working in the legitimate side of our family business.

  Jumping into the front seat of the car, I inquired as to what was happening at the store, as I was not aware of a scheduled pick up. John laughed at my perceptive inquiry, explaining that Al had a job for me to do and wanted me home as soon as possible. When we arrived at the store a few minutes later, my father explained the situation. “Something may be going on with the state lottery and I need you to answer the phones until the book closes. If anyone wants to bet triple 4s, triple 6s, or any combination of the two, tell them that the book is closed and that I will explain later.” Curious, I asked for additional information. Al explained, “We’ve received several calls from friends in Pittsburgh indicating that tonight’s number is fixed. The winning numbers will be 4s, 6s, or a combination. I don’t know if this is true, but I don’t want to take a bath if it is.”

  “Did they say who’s involved?”

  “From what I gather, someone inside, but I find it hard to believe that anyone would think they could pull this off without getting caught. We’ll have to wait until the number is drawn. If not a rumor, it’s certainly the worst-kept secret in the state.”

  I took my post beside the phone and went about business as usual. The gossip mill was in full swing as gambler after gambler came into the store to see if Al had an update on the fix. He did not provide details but made clear that he would not accept bets on 4s or 6s just in case his sources were right. I took only one call in which a long-time player, Sneaky Pete, wanted to bet on the suspicious numbers. He was not happy when I told him the book was closed and demanded to talk to Al. I replied, “I am following his orders. If you want to play another number, I will take it. Otherwise, this conversation is over.”

  Angry at my refusal to accommodate him, he threatened to take his business elsewhere. Sneaky Pete was a skilled manipulator but I was not in the mood to listen to his whining. Accepting his challenge, I told him that I would make note of our conversation and inform my father that he was no longer a customer. Furious, Sneaky Pete let lose a string of expletives that would have horrified most people my age, but he only succeeded in making himself persona non grata when I passed along his comments to Al.

  As the evening wore on and the lottery drawing drew near, the store began to fill up with regular gamblers who, on a Thursday, would normally be home with their families or gearing up for the weekend’s poker game. Tuning into WTAE-TV, a hush fell over the store as Nick Perry appeared on the screen and began the ritual leading up to the nightly drawing.

  The balls danced in seeming chaos, but as predicted, the winning numbers slowly revealed themselves, and the fix was confirmed. Thereafter, 666 would be known as the “Nick’s Triple Six Fix” or a “Nick Perry.”3 One of the more superstitious gamblers in attendance that night began to chant, “the mark of the beast, the mark of the beast, they did a fix with the mark of the beast.” In all actuality, I doubt very much that Nick or his conspirators gave much thought to the theological significance of the triple sixes. According to the website US-Lotteries.com, triple sixes have been drawn twenty-two times since the daily lottery’s inception in 1977. Apparently, the beast runs amok in Pennsylvania.

  With a record payout of 3.5 million dollars and a rash of unusual betting patterns, the state lottery, and those bookies who had not received the warning, soon realized that something had gone terribly wrong. Bookies holding the suspicious bets quickly put the word on the street: they would not be paying out. In short order, an official investigation ensued and by summer, Nick Perry and his accomplices were arrested and formally charged. The Pennsylvania State Lottery Commission learned the valuable lesson known to bookies worldwide: know your runners but never trust them.

  The state lottery scandal greatly amused the bookies and gamblers who, for so long, had felt the hostile gaze of the state’s law enforcement. Seeing the state “take a bath” and scramble to convince the public that the system was legitimate made many long for the “unfixable” outcome of the New York Stock Exchange, but progress marches on. The state remains to this day the authoritative daily number source for bookies statewide.

  Lady Luck

  Aside from numbers writing, my father and I spent many hours playing cards. Most often, gin rummy was our game of choice. Al had an amazing ability to count cards, and was determined to impart his talents to his daughters. Vanessa, never a card aficionado, typically passed on the opportunity, whereas I jumped at the chance. I loved playing cards with Al, who became deadly serious once he picked up a deck.

  Memorization and card counting were constant themes of our games. When not playing a card game, Al would take a deck, face up, and count ten cards out in quick succession. I was then expected to accurately repeat the order of the cards. Once I mastered ten, he increased the count to fifteen and so forth, until I could correctly identify, in order, every card in the deck. Although I became proficient in this technique, I still had to learn how to accurately analyze the movements of other players. What did they throw away or pick up, and what did that tell me about what they were holding? It took years of practice before I
mastered these techniques, but once I did, Al set me loose on the “nonprofessional” players who would periodically find their way to our store in the hopes of joining my father’s poker games.

  I was thirteen the first time I engaged in a game of gin rummy with an “outsider.” Through various connections, a wealthy, arrogant, and adventurous middle-aged Pittsburgher, found his way to our family store in search of a high stakes poker game. Al, slightly annoyed with Mr. X’s aggressive insistence, took his name, address, phone number, and references, explaining that he would be contacted after inquiries were made and his references confirmed.

  A few weeks later, Mr. X returned to the store uninvited and begged to be allowed to join the upcoming poker game. Unexpectedly, Al agreed, but only if he could beat me in three hands of gin rummy. He accepted the challenge, until I appeared on the scene. Aghast and insulted, he refused to play with a child. My father repeated the offer and told him to take it or leave it. Mr. X grudgingly accepted and my father put up my stake: fifty dollars a hand. After I won the first two hands, Mr. X became irate and stormed out of the store. Over the next few months, the scenario repeated itself until my father finally allowed him to participate in a game. He usually lost but apparently enjoyed the excitement of occasionally joining Al and his merry band of gamblers at table.