The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  Let’s Blow Up City Hall!

  Al had a strange relationship with the Jeannette Police force, many of whom had worked in our stores during their high school years. Some officers were so fond of my father that they were uncomfortable when discharging their duties. Al understood their obligation to arrest him. He never had a harsh word to say about any officer who ethically discharged his duties. On the other hand, Al despised crooked cops and politicians. In our world, it was often difficult to recognize the subtle differences between the good and the bad. Reality television cop shows fail to capture the relationship between law enforcement and law offenders, which is complex and symbiotic. Reality is made up of many shades of grey.

  Although accepting of raids and arrests as part of doing business, one particular raid left my father in an uncharacteristic rage. The objects of his ire were a few of Jeannette’s boys in blue. I was at first unaware of the events that had my father in an uproar. Consequently, when he demanded my presence on a late night run, I was unprepared for the darkly comedic adventure he had planned.

  On the night in question, I closed the store at nine pm and returned to the basement, intent on catching up on the backlog of orders that awaited me. Finishing up close to midnight, I was surprised to find that my father had returned from God knows where and was waiting for me in the storefront. I collapsed into the chair next to him and began to watch The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. After the show ended, Al jumped up and announced that we were going on a run. He threw a paper bag in my lap and headed toward the door.

  Following him to the car, I jumped in for what I thought, on account of the paper bag, was a run to pay a gambler his winnings. I soon found that we were on our way to what my father called “a revenge run.” Peeking into the bag, which I expected to be filled with money, I instead found a nest of M-80s.

  Apparently, Al had heard a rumor that some of Jeannette’s finest had not destroyed the confiscated fireworks they had taken from us in a raid a few weeks before, as required by law. Instead, rumor had it; they had used them as entertainment during a party at a rented weekend mountain retreat. He was furious at what he considered a betrayal of their duties. While driving the few short blocks to City Hall, he briefed me on the rumors and explained that we were going to “play with those hypocrites on the hill.”

  A few minutes later, we reached the top of Clay Avenue, turned left onto Second Street, and pulled up in front of the Police Department, which was located in City Hall. My father then removed the bag from my lap and extracted the nest of M-80s. Handing them to me, he instructed me to light the fuse and throw the nest towards the City Hall doors. I refused.

  “No way. I’m covered with gunpowder! There is no way I’m going to light anything.”

  Resolute in his desire for revenge, my father lit the fuses and tossed the nest over the roof of the car onto the steps of City Hall. Landing with a smoky thud high on the steps, they fell short of the doors. Screaming “Wahoooooooo,” something he did when excited, Al floored the car, made a u-turn, and parked across the street eagerly anticipating the coming explosion and ensuing chaos. Exiting the vehicle, he leaned casually against the door and motioned for me to do likewise. I leapt from the car, thinking how lucky I was that I could easily walk home if they arrested my father. I perched on the hood of the car, elbows resting on knees, and awaited the coming blast. From our vantage point, we could see that the nest of M-80s had separated and scattered on landing. Instead of a simultaneous giant blast, they went off in a series of explosions that sounded like a run of gunshots.

  In short order, three police officers came running out of the building, encountering a thick cloud of smoke. Seeing their figures through the haze, Al called out, “Hey, officers, have any fireworks for sale? I am a little low on merchandise and thought you might have some extra lying around. That is, if you didn’t shoot them all off at your party!”

  Not amused, the police nonetheless seemed reluctant to encourage a confrontation. Although my father’s uncharacteristically aggressive behavior was definitely out of line, I think there were several possible reasons for their reluctance to arrest him. If the rumors were true, arresting my father would ensure that the transgression would become public knowledge. The press would have a field day and the city of Jeannette would face another City Hall scandal involving my father. Another possibility is that we were lucky with the police on duty that night. All were on friendly terms with Al, and most were regular customers at the store. Then there was the Bonnie factor. Even if the rumors were false, arresting my father would ensure my mother’s presence at the station, as well as her calls to the family attorney and a local newspaper reporter. Thus, if Al were arrested, the story, whether it was true or not, would most certainly be splashed on the front page of the newspaper.

  Quickly grasping the problems associated with arresting my father, Kevin stepped forward and diffused the situation with a common sense suggestion. “Al, it’s late. Maybe you should take Heather on home.”

  My father remained in his casual posture against the car. “I’ll take my daughter home when it suits me,” he snapped. Moving from the car, Al walked toward the police, stopped in the middle of the street, and revealed the purpose of his bizarre visit. “I want you to spread the word up and down the chain of command. I expect compensation for the fireworks that were stolen from me.”

  One of the police officers began to object to the use of the word “stolen” but was quickly hushed by Kevin, who knew my father well enough to know that he was dead serious with his accusation. “I’m not sure what you are referring to, Al, but I will make inquiries. Let’s talk about this in the morning. I’ll come have coffee with you after I get off work.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” Al growled. “Make sure the right people know my position or the next time, I will blow the doors off City Hall. In more ways than one.” Al motioned for me to get in the car and I complied, waving to the police officers as we pulled away.

  Although a little disappointed with their subdued reaction, my father felt confident that he had made his point. His mood lightened as we coasted down Clay Avenue. Approaching the store, Al looked over and asked, “Are you up for a run into Pittsburgh?”

  “Sure, Dad, let’s blow this town.” I did insist, however, on stopping at the store so that I could change into clean—non-explosive—clothes and wash up.

  A half-hour later, we pulled up at the Primanti Brothers restaurant in the Strip District, where we feasted on giant corned beef sandwiches stuffed with fries and coleslaw. After our enormous middle-of-the-night splurge, Al and I headed for the wholesale section of the Strip District and purchased fresh produce for the store. Arriving home with the sunrise, we unloaded the station wagon. I then made my way, utterly exhausted, to our apartment to catch a few hours of sleep.

  Over the next few days, Al met with several members of the police force, but I was not privy to their conversations. When I inquired as to the validity of the fireworks rumors or the possibility of compensation, my father gave me his maddening standard answer, “There are some things you’re better off not knowing.” I found this laughable, considering he did not think twice about involving me in the feud and making me a witness, or perhaps an accessory, to their childish battle. In my eyes, they were all juvenile delinquents. Like most squabbling children, they apparently made up. All went back to “normal.”

  For all of Al’s involvement in illegal activities, he had an ethical code that included an idealistic view of law enforcement. Time and again, this idealism was tested, and he often ended up disappointed. He understood the raids and arrests as a fulfillment of duty on the part of the police. In his mind, however, breaking the law was not an option for anyone who carried a badge. My father saw this as the ultimate form of civic betrayal.

  In this particular instance, he understood the use of the confiscated fireworks by off-duty police officers to be a form of theft. They were using the power of the law to break the law. Yet he never had a probl
em with the numerous off-duty officers—city, county, and state—who regularly frequented the store to play numbers, bet on sporting games, buy fireworks, and even purchase bootleg alcohol. For Al, that was just part of life—of getting by. Still, once a uniform was donned, he expected the police to live up to his standards.

  My father’s ethical code was not something the average citizen would understand and I still struggle with it today. Al did not see his own criminal dealings as having an adverse effect on society. He was just simply trying to “make a living and have a little fun.” For those who knew him well, it was apparent that he not only thoroughly enjoyed being bad but also fully accepted the consequences of his actions.

  In Al’s mind, there was bad, and then there was Bad. In other words, he understood some crimes to be acceptable and others not. Bad, with a capital B, included the criminal acts of sex peddlers, drug pushers, sexual predators, murderers, crooked cops, corrupt politicians, and strangely, what he called “Wall Street bookies.” In my father’s mind, these types of crimes were unacceptable and those who indulged in them were a menace to the public. The first four on the list he called “the dregs of society.” He scorned the last three as “protected by a veneer of legitimacy.” Al particularly loathed anyone involved in the drug business. His passion for seeing drug dealers behind bars may have prompted an attempt to kidnap me, but I will get to that later.

  Explosive Beauty

  Compared to the crimes above, running fireworks, in Al’s opinion, was unworthy of police attention. Ultimately, even with the long arm of the law always looming, fireworks were just too much fun. Al would not allow fear of the consequences to get in the way. He never lost his childish enthusiasm for pyrotechnic play. He was attracted to their unpredictability, beauty, and danger—a trinity that was a recurring theme in the mad adventure that was his life. My father continued to run, deal, and gleefully enjoy fireworks up until the week before his death. I always thought it appropriate that he passed from this world in July, a month that for him inspired new beginnings.

  Certain images conjure up different aspects of my father’s personality in my mind. Cards, dice, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and sports remind me of the dark side of my father’s addictive personality. Fireworks, however, always remind me of the fun-loving boy, desperate to escape the trappings of adulthood.

  I last participated in a Fourth of July celebration in 1983, the year of my father’s death. Afterword, the holiday’s meaning was too personal to share with others. Since Al’s passing, the Fourth has been a day of personal reflection—the one day of the year that I allow myself to fully contemplate the magnificent, tortured life that left such a profound mark upon my soul. Living in the city, I cannot escape the public celebrations. I catch glimpses of the celebratory aerial blooms, hear the choreographed explosions, or feel their vibrations. Although still too raw to join in the celebration, I feel my father’s presence. I know that Al lives on in every beautiful explosion.

  Nine

  The Bible Thumping Bookie

  “With the perverse logic of a degenerate gambler, he figured God was testing his faith.”

  Mario Puzo, Inside Las Vegas

  In addition to gleefully defying the law with his love of gambling and high explosives, my father also illegally traded in wares that put him into direct competition with the state of Pennsylvania. Although keeping a constant flow of money coming into our family coffers was most likely the primary motive for getting into the alcohol business, my father also enjoyed “sticking it to” Pennsylvania’s formidable Liquor Control Board (LCB). Created in 1933 in response to the repeal of Prohibition, Pennsylvania’s Liquor Control Board enjoys total control over all alcohol distribution, sales, and the licensing of restaurants and bars within the state. The state’s control and taxation of alcohol resulted in limited hours for purchasing spirits at LCB stores, a higher cost for consumers, and thus, a customer base for anyone who dared to offer the same products at discount prices and expanded hours. The opportunity to cut into the state’s revenue base was most definitely part of the allure, as was the excitement of adding yet another layer of potential danger to our already complicated lives.

  Seeing the opportunity for a new revenue source, my father began to run illegal alcohol sometime in the mid-1970s. Because storage space in the store was limited, we stocked only the basics. Brand name vodka, rum, whiskey, and gin were available in fifths and half-gallon bottles, while low-end “fortified wines,” such as Red Lady, Thunderbird, and Ripple, were available in smaller quantities. Ripple, made popular in the sitcom Sanford and Son, was the cheapest buy at two dollars a bottle. Half gallons of brand name spirits were a steal at six to nine dollars.

  As with our other illegal activities, the alcohol business was conducted in the open, with little concern for its moral or legal implications. Case upon case of alcohol was unabashedly stacked up in the far corner behind the service counter. Customers could play a number, bet on a game, buy cigarettes, and purchase a bottle of their favorite drink. It was one-stop shopping for the addicted and a convenience for those who imbibed “socially.” Business boomed. It began with those on the lower end of the income scale and eventually attracted more affluent customers, who enjoyed being able to stock up at a discount. Those in the bar business were soon placing bulk orders. Although my father dealt openly in illegal alcohol, he never sold to those under the legal age of twenty-one. We sold only to adults we knew personally or if they had references, we carded them to ensure they were of legal age. Even criminals have an ethical code.

  Customers who enjoyed the low-cost spirits were concerned with losing their wholesale opportunity if my father were to be arrested. They devised code names for the coveted merchandise. To customers not “in the know,” their seemingly nonsensical utterances were baffling. For example, if a customer wanted to purchase a half gallon of vodka, he would ask for a “halfman Russian.” Rum became a “halfman Jamaican,” whiskey a “halfman Kentucky,” and gin a “halfman Gee.” If looking for Red Lady, customers would ask for “a Lady,” while Thunderbird was “T-lady.” Ripple was called “a Freddy,” after the main character on Sanford and Son.

  Although the spirits business was lucrative year round, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year comprised the high seasons. Hundreds of cases were sold in the days approaching the most popular party holidays. Unlike the madcap runs for fireworks, most of the booze was delivered to the store by a sweet, soft-spoken Armenian man who was something of a mystery. I do not know where my father made his acquaintance or even if he knew his real name. “Gamo” made his regular delivery on Wednesday evenings after the store closed. My sister or I would stay late with our father and wait for Gamo to arrive in a black truck bulging with spirits. Unlike many of the shady characters Al dealt with, Gamo always insisted on unloading the merchandise himself and never caused any trouble.

  During the high season, Gamo’s merchandise was supplemented by regular runs to Ohio, where we would meet up with a group of unsavory booze runners. I never officially “met” these seedy creatures, because my father thought them too dangerous for introductions. Al would order me to stay in the vehicle to “keep a look out” for the boys in blue or other trouble, while he supervised the loading of the merchandise. Thankfully, running alcohol was never as adventurous as the fireworks business. With the exception of the Ohio gang, there was little danger involved in securing the merchandise.

  Apart from our regular customer base, our discounted alcohol was in high demand from many bars in the Pittsburgh area. Several times a month, I would accompany my father on deliveries to bars in Westmoreland and Allegheny counties. Delivery was only one of the “services” we offered. After unloading the illegal booze, I would often set up shop in a back storage area and transfer the illegal booze into clean, empty LCB-stamped bottles, which were recycled over-and-over again. Although this was not, at first, a planned service, I was often compensated for my efforts�
��an unforeseen but welcome supplement for my escape fund. While Al enjoyed a meal in the comfort of the bar, I toiled with the transfers in the storeroom. After several episodes that left me soaked with booze for my efforts, I began to carry various sizes of funnels. Even properly equipped, I would still have a spill or two. Between the gunpowder from the fireworks and the alcohol from these bottle transfers, I think it is safe to say that my sister and I spent much of our teenage years soaked in one flammable substance or another. After completing the messy task, I would reload the now empty illegal bottles into our car, leaving the bar free of evidence in the event of an LCB inspection.

  To my amazement, our liquor business never drew the attention of the police or LCB. Even when raided for fireworks or gambling, the liquor remained out in the open and untouched. Of course, there were troublesome episodes, most dealing with drunken customers demanding more booze. Belligerent customers did not fare well, as my mother was always ready to slap the shit out of anyone who got out of line. In the case of one customer, denying alcohol was another revenge move in my mother’s repertoire.