“Are you crazy?” I yelled. “I’m in my bathing suit!”
Undaunted, Al explained that he didn’t have time for me to change. There was a short window of opportunity for him to grab a large shipment of M-80s. Seriously needing some alone time, I dug in my heels, ignoring his command.
Desperate to get moving, Al pleaded, “Come on, Heather. Daddy needs you. There is no one else around. I promise, we will be back in two hours and you won’t have to get out of the car. I’ll even give you an extra fifty dollars for that ‘escape fund’ of yours. Come on, I really need you. Don’t make Daddy beg.”
“Shit!” I screamed as I slammed the book shut, grabbed my shear sarong, and tied it around my waist. “Fine, I’ll go. I want the money before I get in the car, but it’s not for this run. I’ll take it for being locked in the hidey-hole during last week’s raid. And drop the sarcasm about my escape fund. I’m serious about leaving home. Just you wait until I turn eighteen. Gone!” I snapped my fingers. “I’m out of here, just like Vanessa!” I shouted, referring to my sister’s recent departure from the family home.
Peeling off two twenties and a ten, Al handed me the money as I headed up the hill toward the station wagon. “You know, young lady, you need to watch that mouth of yours. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” He chuckled victoriously.
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around to face him. “I’m not in the mood for one of your lectures. You need to stick to our agreement. I don’t think it is too much to ask to have one uninterrupted day off work. I’m fed up with this shit!”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll wash it out with soap!” Al warned.
Throwing my hands up in the air in exasperation, I shouted, “You’re taking your fifteen-year-old daughter on a run to pick up illegal merchandise and you’re worried about my swearing? Somebody has his priorities screwed up! If you want me to go, no more lectures. Now, are we going or not?”
Annoyed with being chastised by his daughter but unable to argue, Al joined me in the car. We sped off towards our criminal rendezvous. I fumed silently while Al tried to coax me into conversation. I ignored him, speaking only when we approached a traffic light: Go! Yellow! Stop!
Uncomfortable with my continued silence, Al finally inquired, “Okay, what’s going on with you? Why are you so angry?”
“First of all, it is my day off and here I am. I really need a day every week, Dad. You love this life—the adventure, the danger—but I’m tired of all of it. I would like to have some normalcy in my life. And, then there’s your forgetting me in the hidey-hole last week. I can’t believe you left me there for hours! How could you forget to get me out after the police left?”
Chuckling, Al replied, “I’m sorry, that was my fault. I was so caught up in the raid that I didn’t think about where you were. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Jumping on the chance, I made my demand. “How about two days off next week? Here, take this.” I handed him back the money. “I don’t want it. I’m just in a pissy mood.”
“No, you keep it. You earned a little extra this week. Pick which days you want off next week and I promise to leave you completely alone. How about we go to the movies tonight, just us?”
“Yeah, that would be nice.” The tension was temporarily broken.
An hour after my attempt at relaxation had been disrupted, we arrived at the prearranged destination. There we met up with a scruffy-looking gang of runners who had brought the merchandise in from New York. Moving quickly, Al packed the station wagon with cases of M-80s and we took off for home.
Fifteen minutes later, we were stuck on the side of Route 30, hood up, with a dead battery. We were sitting ducks in a car that held ten thousand dollars worth of class A fireworks. Their explosive value was sufficient to blow us and the station wagon to kingdom come—if we were not arrested first.
Surveying our surroundings, Al spotted a bar across the highway. He promptly ordered me to go ask for help. Well, as you can imagine, this lead to a massive argument.
“Dad, are you crazy! You want me to go into that sleazy bar dressed like this? No. I’m not crossing Route 30 in a bathing suit and I’m certainly not going into that bar!”
“Oh, yes you will! We have to get this car going for before a State Boy comes along,” he said, using his nickname for state troopers. “I’ll stay with the merchandise. You go get help.”
Incredulous, I refused. “No, I’m not getting out of the car! You go, or wave someone down!”
Annoyed with my continued refusal, my father roared in frustration, “Heather, get out of the car, go over to the bar, and tell them that we have a dead battery and need help. Go! Now, now, now!”
“Shit, shit, shit!” I screamed back in a rage. Jumping out of the car, I pulled the flimsy sarong tightly across my waist. I headed across the highway murmuring my mantra, “They’re all fucking crazy, they’re all fucking crazy...”
Behind me, my father bellowed, “I heard that. I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap as soon as we get home!”
Livid, I turned in the middle of the highway and screamed back, “Maybe, but you’ll have to explain why to Bonnie! The whole story! I can’t wait to hear that!”
Turning back toward my destination, I stormed across the remaining lanes, dodging oncoming cars, and approached the bar. I angrily ripped opened the door and stared through the smoky, blue haze. Even as my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I was barely able to discern the patrons perched on stools around the horseshoe-shaped bar.
Stepping just inside the door, I yelled, “I need a jump!”
The barely discernible bar patrons suddenly became very clear as they began to swarm in my direction.
“Shit!” I screamed, realizing my blunder.
Turning back into the sunlight, I ran for my life. The next thing Al saw was his bathing suit-clad daughter running across Route 30 with a half-dozen, half-drunk boozehounds in hot pursuit.
Seeing the panicked look on my face, Al shouted, “What did you say to them?”
“What else? I needed a jump!”
I whizzed past him and jumped into the safety of the car, leaving my father to contend with the inebriated brood. He offered a royal compensation to anyone that could get the car up and running tout de suite.
Angry but strangely relieved to be back in the potentially explosive car, I settled in and began to read my book while Al and his “helpers” set about determining the fastest way to get the car back on the road. The least booze-soaked patron offered to get his truck from the bar parking lot and give us a jump. As he disappeared across the highway, my father opened the door and sat down, a strange look on his face.
“Listen,” he said. “A state trooper just pulled up behind us. If he notices anything suspicious and searches the boxes, you have to insist that you didn’t know what was in them.”
Aghast, I responded, “Dad, didn’t you notice that the boxes are marked ‘Caution: Explosive’?”
“Okay, stay calm. If he arrests me, deny you knew anything. You’re a minor, so he’ll take you with us to the station. Play dumb and call your mother to come get you,” my father whispered.
Well, the thought of having to call my mother from a police station, dressed like this, made me forget my anger and my fear. Survivor’s instinct kicked in. I jumped from the car before Al could say another word and approached the state patrol car. I was pleasantly surprised to see a young, handsome trooper exit the vehicle. An experienced trooper would have been much harder to deceive. The fact that this one was handsome—well that just made my task more pleasant. Rather surprised to see a young woman in a bathing suit, the trooper inquired about our car.
“Oh, officer, I am so glad you came along. Our battery died and it will be a few minutes until we get going. We have been sitting here for a while, waiting on help. I am on the verge of heat stroke. Please, please, please,” I asked sweetly, “can I sit in your patrol car while they do their mechanic…thing?”
He gallantly opened the passenger door for me. I settled into the seat, actually quite thankful for both the air conditioning and the opportunity to escape the lecherous gaze of the drunken brood. Winding the window halfway down, the officer shut the door and stood by the side of the car.
Since he looked as if he might venture towards Al and the brood of inebriated men, I engaged him in conversation. I hoped to keep his attention until the station wagon sputtered back to life.
“Thank you, officer. My father was taking me to a pool party at my aunt’s house when the car died. To tell the truth, I am a little frightened of the men who are helping my father.” I motioned toward the bar patrons hooking up the station wagon’s battery to a large pickup that had moved into place. “I am mortified at being caught on the road with almost nothing on. I really appreciate your saving me further embarrassment and making me feel safe.”
The officer, a real cutie, unexpectedly blushed. I felt some remorse for my part in the con, but one thought of having to call my mother put an end to my guilt. I continued to keep the officer engaged in a slightly flirtatious conversation. He was a real charmer: sweet, tall, chestnut hair, green eyes, and an amazing smile. I allowed myself to enjoy the attention and briefly let my imagination run wild. Reality slapped me in the face when drunken laughter, coming from the station wagon, pulled me from my fantasy. An idealistic state trooper was no match for the daughter of a notorious, albeit bungling, criminal. Three more years, just three more years, and I would start a new life. In the meantime, I would enjoy a few moments of daydreaming.
Minutes later, Al and the bar patrons had the car running. My father handed the men some cash and waved for me to come along. Thanking the officer for his hospitality, I hurried toward the car and joined Al in the front seat. We were quiet for the first few miles, both lost in thought about the day’s adventure and our narrow escape. My father was the first to break the silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a serious voice.
“Yeah, me too,” I sighed. Wanting to lighten the moment, I inquired, “Are you still going to wash my mouth out with soap?”
“You know Daddy’s bark is worse than his bite.” Al chuckled. “That took a lot of guts, what you did back there. It wasn’t necessary. Arrests are to be expected. It comes with the territory. You did good,” he said, with pride in his voice, “but don’t ever put yourself in that position again.”
Laughing off his concern, I quipped, “Better than having to call Mom to come get me from the police station. You know, Dad, Bonnie’s bark is as bad as her bite.”
We both burst out laughing. All the anger and tension of the day’s events were released in a marathon fit that lasted most of the way home. As we approached Jeannette, my father made his usual request. “Please don’t tell your mother.”
I agreed, not wanting to hear the fight that would ensue, but also because I knew he would tell her anyway. He did and she was furious. Bonnie accused my father of “pimping [his] daughter to a cop.” Coming to his defense, I explained that he had nothing to do with my talking to the cop. I had done it on my own accord, without his foreknowledge. She would not listen, however. Al took one hell of a tongue-lashing. Exhausted from the crazy events of my “day off,” I retired to our apartment, ran a bath, immersed myself in lavender bubbles, and rejoined Brandon Scofield’s adventure.
Later that evening, Al took me to The Nest, a Jeannette eatery famous for its cold water lobster. Once ensconced in the tranquil atmosphere, I eagerly ordered the lobster tail, relaxed into my chair, and noted the tension in my father’s face. It wasn’t until that moment, that I realized our madcap day had also been stressful for him. Knowing his love of adventure, the realization was somewhat a surprise, nevertheless, we were soon engaged in our final argument of the day. While awaiting our entrees, we perused the movie listings to determine which movie we would see. I opted for Barbara Streisand in The Main Event, but my father insisted on Clint Eastwood’s Escape from Alcatraz. Fully prepared to stand my ground, I thought of the day’s crazy events. After our unexpected adventure and the verbal assault my father received from my mother, I decided that Escape from Alcatraz was a most appropriate way to end the day.
Not Just a Family Affair
Exploits in dealing fireworks were not limited to family members, but often involved employees and friends as well. Over the years, most of our employees and many of our friends had, at one time or another, found themselves caught up in the excitement, or dread, of a raid. The summer of 1980 produced a raid big enough to make the Pittsburgh evening news. Even though Jeannette was facing an economic downturn due to its quickly disappearing glass factories, the fireworks business was booming. The store was bulging with tens of thousands of dollars worth of the illegal explosives. The extraordinary demand kept Al running almost daily for new shipments.
Short of able-bodied and strong-nerved employees—no more newbies!—Al hired one of my high school friends who was up to the challenge. With Kenny on duty for daylight runs, I stayed at the store trying to fill the orders that kept pouring in. On the day of the raid, Al and Kenny left early to pick up a huge shipment that included the hundreds of M-80s I needed to fill back orders. Ensconced in the basement packing orders, I heard my father’s booming voice and knew they had returned.
Within minutes of Al’s arrival, the state and local police swarmed the store. Determined to escape a repeat of the previous year’s imprisonment in the hidey-hole, I jumped from the tiny room, threw a couple dozen filled orders in behind me, and secured the door. It was then that I noticed several dozen call-in orders, filled earlier in the day, resting on the basement floor. In particular, the order slips attached to the bags, drew my attention. I quickly pulled the slips off and stuffed them down my pants.
Although they were coded, the police might be able to match up the initials with the partial phone numbers—and police visiting customers at their homes would not be good for business. Seconds later, the police entered the basement to find me sitting on a chair drinking a can of Dr. Pepper, surrounded by boxes of sparklers, Roman candles, fountains, Gemini missiles, jumping jacks, parachute rockets, firecrackers, Phoenix tail howlers, and other class C fireworks. Although the most dangerous were hidden in the hidey-hole, there were enough fireworks left in the basement for the “State Boys” to make a huge haul.
“Anyone want a Dr. Pepper?” I offered sarcastically.
The startled boys in blue came to a halt in front of me. Breaking the tension, one of the local cops greeted me in a friendly manner and asked the State Boys’ permission to send me upstairs. They consented, and I made an uncomfortable ascent up the basement stairs with the crinkled order slips in an awkward position. Customers were rounded up and sent on their way, and the raid proceeded routinely. My father and I watched as box after box of explosive merchandise was carted out and loaded into a waiting police vehicle.
Kevin, a Jeannette officer who had worked for my father as a kid, kept apologizing for the raid, “Sorry, Al. We didn’t know they were coming until they got to the station.” My father, who never faulted a member of law enforcement for doing their job properly, assured him that he was not angry.
Al remained cool during the raid because he knew that the felony-rated merchandise was well hidden in the hidey-hole. He was also trying to keep the police in the store and away from the station wagon outside. Parked a few spaces away, it contained enough M-80s to cause him big trouble. It was not until after the police had departed that we noticed the station wagon was gone. Al and Bonnie panicked until they realized what happened. I, on the other hand, was busy fishing the order slips from my pants.
After their run, Al had entered the store just ahead of the raid, but Kenny had gone off up the Avenue to pick up lunch. Returning, he saw the raid in progress and took actio
n. A half-hour later, Kenny reappeared in the store and explained that he had hidden the vehicle on the far side of town. Quite rightly, Kenny was hailed as the hero of the day. My father made a quick phone call and ten minutes later, one of his friends pulled up and honked the horn. Al and Kenny jumped into the car and sped off to retrieve the station wagon.
I believe it was the afternoon of this particular raid that a news reporter from Pittsburgh arrived on scene to interview Al. Having just finished unloading the station wagon, Kenny and I watched as the film crew entered the store. Heading the crew was an attractive news reporter who introduced herself and then gracefully perched atop a stack of boxes that were loaded, of course, with fireworks. After settling in, she signaled for the cameras to roll and spoke with my father about the raid.
Later that night, we watched the news report and broke into hysterics on seeing that the cameras had partially captured the boxes on which the reporter was perched. They were labeled “Caution: Explosive.” Thirty minutes later, two Jeannette police officers entered the store on the pretense of purchasing some cigarettes. We had already moved the boxes into the hidey-hole, so we were not concerned with their presence. Al offered them a soda and joked with them about the earlier raid.
The Bookie's Daughter Page 16