As the bell officially signaled the beginning of the first day of class, Ms. Bartholomew set about gathering her new students in the front of the classroom. She called out names, directing students to their assigned seats. My name was called first, but for some reason I did not answer. Going through the rest of the roll, the teacher found that I was the only one left at the front of the room. She inquired, reasonably, “You didn’t answer when I called out your name. Do you have a nickname you would like me to use?”
“Well, my mom calls me ‘little bitch,’” I answered.
The astonished teacher, now red-faced, took me by the hand and led me to my seat. I spent the rest of the day getting familiar with the classroom and looking through my books. Immediately after class, Ms. Bartholomew announced that she would be walking me home, as she had something to discuss with my mother. Entering the store, Ms. Bartholomew filled my mother in on the “little bitch” incident and berated her for using such profane language in front of a child. Caught off guard, my mother was more than a little annoyed with my tattling. I am not sure why I decided to share such outrageous information with my teacher. Maybe I was annoyed at my mother and wanted her to get in trouble, or maybe I was just being mischievous. Either way, it was an interesting way to start my school career.
Bonnie was uncharacteristically at a loss with how to punish me for my outrageous behavior. Thankfully, I escaped physical punishment but did receive a tongue-lashing and lecture on my crime of revealing family business to outsiders. “Little Bitch” remained one of my mother’s favorite pet names for her youngest daughter.
While I was busy discovering the joys and hard work associated with being a student, my father’s gambling business found itself under threat from an unusual source. Al had always accepted police interference in the forms of raids or arrests, considering it part of his chosen profession. Now, however, he found himself the target of a new kind of police threat and Vanessa and I found ourselves caught up in a whirlwind of corruption and scandal. Our “zoo” was about to explode with vicious two-legged animals that made Larry’s shit-throwing antics look like child’s play.
Canary #1
“Man is the only kind of varmint that sets his own trap,
baits it, then steps in it.”
John Steinbeck
In the decades prior to the state’s entry into the numbers business—otherwise known as the lottery—bookies like my father made a good living. The runners they employed supplemented their incomes by writing numbers from which they would receive a percentage of the “book.” An industrious factory worker could augment his income by writing numbers while on the job. For those with an active factory book, the numbers business could easily provide an extra hundred dollars or more a week, plus the customary tip from winning customers. All of this money was free of federal and state taxes.
Jeannette’s labor force was the major client base for many of the bookies in town. Placing bets on the daily number was part of the factory culture, and in some factories, playing the number was seemingly as important as performance on the job. Those lucky enough to “hit” often shared their winnings by providing coworkers with delectable treats to consume during breaks. Those who lost were assured that their windfall was just around the corner. The hopeful idea of a life-changing “big hit” was comforting to the weary bodies who toiled in Jeannette’s factories.
For my father and other bookies in town, booking numbers was a lucrative business. Income generated from number writing was off the books—no earnings to declare and no taxes to pay. An occasional police raid was expected, but the penalty was minimal and well worth the risk. On the other hand, the long arm of the Feds—in particular, the Internal Revenue Service—was a threat that all bookies took seriously. Money laundering and living a seemingly modest life was a must for those desperate to escape the dreaded gaze of the Feds.
Jeannette was not alone in its penchant for gambling. As the 1960s came to a close, the federal government was gearing up for an all out blitz against organized crime in western Pennsylvania. In his autobiography, Where the Evidence Leads, former Governor of Pennsylvania and U.S. Attorney General Richard Thornburgh summarized the atmosphere in western Pennsylvania of the 1960s and 1970s:
Many in this country see a threat in what they term the “military-industrial complex.” In western Pennsylvania, I say they should direct their attention to the “politico-racket complex” which has a near stranglehold on a number of communities in our area.
To my mind, there is no more subversive element in this land than the corrupting influence of organized crime syndicates which seek to control whole sections of our government, economy, and community life. It can happen anywhere—in any community where the criminal conglomerates dealing in illegal gambling, narcotics, loan-sharking, labor-racketeering and the like are successful in efforts to “buy off” legitimate government.4
As U.S. District Attorney, Richard Thornburgh established a task force to combat the “politico-racket complex” in western Pennsylvania. Determined to employ the tools recently provided by the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970 (OCCA), Thornburgh and his assistants set about taking on corruption, great and small. Thornburgh explains the significance of the crime bill and the opportunities it created for law enforcement.
The year after I took office, the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970 vastly increased federal jurisdiction over racketeering. It defined new federal offenses in the areas of illegal gambling (which I called the “cash register” of organized crime) and public corruption; provided for witness immunity to compel underlings to testify against bosses; created the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act to reach mob fronts posing as legitimate businesses; lengthened prison sentences for racketeering; and authorized special investigative grand juries to concentrate on organized crime. These tools were to transform the role of the U.S. attorneys.5
Armed with the OCCA’s new crime fighting policies, Thornburgh’s task force awaited the opportunity to use their newly created might. Events unfolding in Jeannette would provide them with the opportunity and unleash a scandal that would shake the foundations of Jeannette’s City Hall.
While I was caught up in the excitement of first grade, my father was struggling to extricate himself from a sticky situation involving city officials who determined that Jeannette’s numbers business was going to be conducted according to their rules.
Sometime in 1970, the mayor and chief of police of Jeannette began to systematically “push” minor bookies to turn their business over to one specific individual, thereby creating a monopoly in Jeannette for their chosen “numbers boss.” My father at first refused to comply but eventually acquiesced after his arrest in October 1970. A few days after his arrest and subsequent bond release, he visited the chief of police and agreed to comply with their directive, turning over his book to “the numbers boss backed by the Police Chief and Mayor.”6 In short order, charges against my father were dropped and his bond was returned to him. Although guaranteed protection from legal action as long as he played by their rules, my father eventually balked at taking orders from government officials. After months of conflict, he decided to stop playing ball with City Hall. Big Al began to make inquiries at the federal level, which eventually led to meetings with Thornburgh’s task force.
My father, code named “Canary #1,” was about to become chief witness and unindicted co-conspirator in a federal case that would test the efficacy of the anticorruption component of the OCCA. In the interest of a full and accurate description of the events, I refer to the official 1972 United States Court of Appeals summary of the affair.
The government’s chief witness, Albert J. Abraham, was an admitted gambler, and an informer. His testimony discloses that prior to January, 1970 he conducted a numbers operation in Jeanette which employed more than five runners and that the same operation continued thereafter.
Beginning in January Rinaldi, the Chief of Police, began to harass his operation
in an effort to compel him to turn his numbers in to defendant Chick. Riehl, the Mayor, spoke to him about requiring all local numbers business to be turned in to Chick. Abraham yielded to this pressure and thereafter did business with Chick, and continued to do so until April 23, 1971. He also became an informer for a state law enforcement agency, and began surreptitiously to record conversations with the defendants. These recorded conversations corroborate his testimony that Riehl, Rinaldi and Chick were conspiring to facilitate Chick’s gambling enterprise. (Nos. 71-2133 to 71-2135)7
Although my sister and I were too young to understand the political and legal implications of the events swirling around us, we were nevertheless caught up in the scandal. Al the bookie was about to sing like a canary. Vanessa and I found ourselves targets of angry and ignorant adults who thought it appropriate to take out their ire on two young girls.
Two-Legged Animals
Anonymous threats began shortly after the public became aware of the arrests of Jeannette’s Police Chief and Mayor. We received a package containing a dead canary, a note soaked in a blood-like substance, and a multitude of threatening phone calls, many of which included descriptions of what would happen to my sister and me if my father continued to work with the Feds.8 The source of these threats was never identified. It is not my intention to put the blame on those who were indicted in this silly affair. There were many, some who were not even involved in this particular matter, who abhorred my father’s willingness to turn state’s evidence. After all, “ratting” was anathema to those who made their living on the wrong side of the law. Al’s long association with criminal elements and his free participation in illicit dealings made many of his criminal associates apprehensive.
In response to these anonymous threats, my sister and I were afforded the protection of undercover state police officers who accompanied us whenever we left our home. Having been raised in an environment that was often explosive and always an adventure, Vanessa and I rolled with the punches. We found our new “friends,” Travis and Dennis, to be delightful companions. Of course, we did have some explaining to do the first time they escorted us to school. Thankfully, after a few days, their presence became part of the routine, and Travis and Dennis ceased to be objects of curiosity for our classmates.
The anonymous threats and the mean-spirited actions of those irked by my father’s temporary marriage with the Feds remains most clearly in my memory. When the slain canary arrived at our apartment in a small box, its message was not just clear to my parents but unsettling for my sister, who opened the box with a squeal. I clearly recall the look of horror on Vanessa’s face, as she stood frozen in fear and confusion. I caught only a quick glimpse of the poor creature before my mother snatched the offending package and hurried off to berate my father for bringing such trouble into the family home. Thereafter, mail was treated as suspect; all packages were inspected by our professional “companions.”
The phone also became something of a menace. The once-merry ring suddenly became sinister. Anonymous male voices would taunt Bonnie about the welfare of her daughters. A “bloodied” note appeared mysteriously fixed to our doorframe in the middle of the day. Having spent the morning in the backyard playing under the watchful gaze of my grandmother, we returned to the apartment at my mother’s call for lunch to find the ominous note which consisted of one, telling word: “DIE.” To press the malicious intent of the note, the anonymous perpetrators dripped a red fluid over the message. The large butcher knife that fixed the note to doorframe of our apartment left no doubt as to the rage some felt at my father’s decision to “sing.”
Spitting Studda Bubba
My most vivid memory of this time involves a chance encounter with a raging studda bubba. “Studda bubba” is a Pittsburghese9 term used to describe elderly women, usually Italian or Polish, who dressed in widow’s weeds. The typical studda bubba “look” included a long dark-colored skirt or dress with a matching coat or smock, accessorized by clunky masculine shoes and a babushka covering their grey hair. Because of their traditional attire, normally quiet presence, and difficulty with the English language, studda bubbas were strangely anonymous and somewhat mysterious figures. A common presence on Clay Avenue, they quietly conducted their business and usually avoided attention.
My mother raised me to be respectful of studda bubbas, whom she saw as strong, hard-working women. These wise women were keepers of their native culture—the heart and soul of many families. So, I was not, at first, wary when the studda bubba approached me as I played hopscotch, just a few feet from the door of the family store. As she waddled toward me, I felt her stoic gaze concentrate on my face. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, I broke the silence with a big smile and the cheerful greeting, “Good morning!”
The studda bubba stopped, her stare deepening. She began to speak in a heavy Italian accent. “Whatsa you name?”
“Heather Abraham.”
“Whosa you fadder?” the studda bubba asked. She leaned nearer, as if she were hard of hearing.
“Big Al,” I responded proudly.
The studda bubba’s once-expressionless face contorted in rage and she began to scream in a mélange of Pittsburghese and Italian. Although I could not understand most of her tirade, I was aware that her anger concerned my father. I clearly understood the words “fadder” and “bastardo.” Before I could react, she punctuated the end of her tirade with a viscous load of spit that landed on my right eye and cheek. Only momentarily stunned by her outrageous attack, I reacted with fury and returned her aggressive actions with an all out assault.
Furious, I leapt at her, grabbing her dress on both sides of her hips. I began kicking hard at her shins all the while screaming, “You bitch!” I landed more than a few, good kicks before my astonished babysitter grabbed me around the waist and pulled me from her. Picking me up to protect me (and the studda bubba) from further abuse, she bellowed at the studda bubba to get going, and turned toward the store. I was still screaming as she dragged me inside. My mother hurried to the door and inquired as to the source of my hysterics.
“That bitch spit on me!” I screamed.
My mother’s face reddened as she saw the spit still splattered on my face. Grabbing some paper towels from beside the register, she moistened them with water and began to wipe away the disgusting emissions. “Who spit on you?”
“A studda bubba.” The events sinking in, my fury turned to confusion. “Why would she do that? Why, Mum? Why would she spit on me?”
“Because she is an animal!” Bonnie screamed. “Has everyone in this town lost their fucking minds?” My mother raged as she continued scrubbing my face. Finally satisfied that she had completely removed the spittle, she inquired, “Where did this happen?”
“Outside, while I was playing hopscotch.”
“Let’s go,” my mother ordered. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out onto the street. “Show me who did this to you. Where is she?”
Looking around, I caught a glimpse of the studda bubba as she disappeared over the Seventh Street Bridge. “There,” I pointed. “She’s on the bridge!”
My mother picked me up and began to run up the hill toward the steep stairs that led to bridge. As we reached the stairway, Bonnie put me down but kept hold of my hand as we raced up the stairs and across the bridge. The studda bubba was nowhere to be seen. She had disappeared into one the many homes that lined Railroad and North Seventh Streets.
Back at the store, my mother questioned me as to identifying characteristics of the studda bubba. Although I would have loved to have seen her properly trounced for spitting on me, I was still concerned with why she would do such a thing. “Mom, I don’t understand. Why would she spit on me?”
“This had nothing to do with you,” my mother explained. Kneeling down in front of me, she continued her assurances. “I need you to understand. She meant to hurt your father and you were a convenient target. Do you understand what I am saying?” She sighed, grappling to find the words to expl
ain the unexplainable. Then, frustrated, she blurted, “She’s just a crazy, old bitch.” Somewhat regaining her composure, she continued. “I know it seems like the whole town has gone crazy, but it has nothing to do with you or your sister.”
I understood my mother’s explanation but her words didn’t assuage my outrage, which erupted in a stream of obscenities. “She is worse than Larry the monkey,” I screamed. “I wish he were here so that he could throw shit on that bitch!”
Startled at the stream of vulgarities pouring from her seven-year-old, Bonnie admonished me. “Hush now. I know you are upset but it’s no excuse to use that kind of language. Your father would be horrified to hear you speak so.”
The Bookie's Daughter Page 7