The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  By the dawn of my sophomore year in high school, my father’s addictions were greedily consuming him. With Jeannette’s factory economy under siege and many once prosperous workers in permanent layoff status, the legitimate side of our family business was in steep decline. Illegal dealings were the only hope for bearing my father’s extensive and ever intensifying gambling losses. To finance his compulsions, he increased his criminal activities, but only managed to temporarily fill the family coffers. Like all consummate gambling addicts, he increased his risks and dreamed of a grandiose payoff that would save his family from financial ruin and his wounded soul from the lapping flames of an addict’s living hell. His bets became monstrous, each increasing his mountain of debt. Although his winnings were frequent, they only encouraged him to take larger risks. Ten, fifteen, even twenty thousand dollars would be lost or won on a single game and his once occasional casino excursions to Atlantic City, Las Vegas, and the Bahamas became regular occurrences. The sights and sounds of the casino beckoned seductively, as Lady Luck’s siren call simultaneously promised glory and warned of despair.

  Where the Fuck Is Lady Luck?

  To feed his ever-increasing need for action, Big Al joined forces with a junket company. He organized 24 and 36 hour excursions to Atlantic City, the East Coast’s gambling mecca. Gambling junkets required a predetermined number of commuters, so if my father’s recruitment fell short or if a gambler dropped out at the last minute, Vanessa, my mother, or I were often recruited to fill empty seats. To qualify for the free roundtrip airfare, complementary hotel rooms, meals, and tickets to headline shows, each passenger had to commit a predetermined gambling stake up front. Upon arrival, the money was then returned to the client in the form of casino chips. My father would provide the stake for each of his family members and then use the chips at the tables himself. Of course, Vanessa and I were given a nominal amount with which to amuse ourselves. I was just fifteen the first time I accompanied my father to Atlantic City.

  Even though I was far below the legal age, no one questioned either my presence in the casino or my playing of the slots. By my second trip, I was confident enough to perch boldly at the blackjack tables and gamble for a few hours while sipping a complementary martini. My father would periodically stop by to check on my progress, provide tips on my betting style, and remove any alcoholic beverages I was enjoying. Big Al frowned on mixing booze with gambling, but had no problem with his fifteen-year-old daughter skipping school and spending the day in a casino.

  Unlike many who joined us on the excursions, I would give myself a hundred dollar limit and quit if my losses reached this fixed amount. I would generally spend the remaining time reading in the casino lounge, attending a show, or taking advantage of the services offered at the casino spa. On the occasion I found myself flush with winnings, I would seek out my father and have him cash in my chips. I may have been able to get away with gambling, but my age and lack of identification made it impossible to cash in substantial amounts. If on a losing streak, Al would grumble throughout the process. When he was winning, he would slap me on the back in excitement.

  In addition to filling seats on the plane, I was also a safe place for gamblers to place their winnings. Several of the regulars took advantage of my presence, giving me a percentage of their winnings to safeguard until our return trip home. Of course, a few would end up losing their balance and would beg for the money they left in my care. No matter how much they pled, I stubbornly refused to return the money until we reached the safety of the plane. One gambler became absolutely irate when I refused to return the thousands he had given me a few hours before. I stood my ground and once we reached the plane, turned over his money, only to watch as he lost the entire amount playing cards on the short flight home. On subsequent trips, I held onto the money entrusted to my care until we reached Pittsburgh, feeling somehow victorious that I had temporarily delayed at least some financial losses.

  It still amazes me that no one thought it odd to entrust thousands of dollars to a young girl, or given that several of the gamblers had children my age, thought it inappropriate for me to be a spectator to their shenanigans. Trained from childhood to keep secrets, I never revealed their activities to their children. On more than one occasion, I would run into a school chum who would mention that their father accompanied mine to Atlantic City. I would nod and quickly change the subject. Even though I could still hear the clanging of the winning slot machines in my ears, I never revealed that I too had been on the trip.

  Although I had been around gamblers since birth, my trips to Atlantic City drove home the irresistible pull of the addict’s demons. I was astonished at the staggering amount of money that was virtually thrown away at the gaming tables. I witnessed the highs associated with winning and the devastating lows, sometimes leading to complete financial ruin, through the glazed-over eyes of addicts caught in the orgiastic throes of their monstrous compulsion. Although my family life revolved around the gambling world, these trips to Atlantic City were nevertheless educational. They expanded my knowledge of the horrors of addiction and the absurd deeds of irresponsible adults.

  While learning more than I ever wanted to know about the pitfalls of gambling, my formal education was all but ignored. The family businesses took priority over my school career. Given the late night runs to pick up illegal merchandise, the forty-plus hours I worked in the store each week, and my emotional exhaustion at dealing with a seemingly unending supply of looming predators, my school attendance was abysmal. By the time I graduated in the spring of 1982, I had missed 147 days of high school, many of which were unexcused. To make matters worse, my parents insisted that I sign up for the work release program in my senior year. On the days I did go to school, I attended for just a few short hours, leaving shortly after noon to work in the store. While many of my friends were preparing for the SATs and pouring over university brochures, I was struggling with the realization that for me college was a dream relegated to the distant future.

  My parents, who once encouraged my thirst for knowledge, seemed unconcerned with my scholastic future. I was unable to concentrate on homework, let alone the angst and joys of being a teen. Instead, I spent most of my time with criminals learning the complexities of the con du jour and staying one-step ahead of the boys in blue. Any chance I had at a legitimate life, once I graduated high school, depended entirely on me. The adults in my life were too entrenched in their own misery to focus on my future.

  To counteract the seedy, chaotic world in which I lived, I jumped at any chance to spend constructive time away from Clay Avenue and my parents’ dysfunctional lifestyle. One such opportunity followed a lecture given by a local state senator who spoke at my school about the importance of being politically active. After the lecture, I approached the senator and inquired about volunteer positions on his campaign. He gave me his office number and told me to give him a call, with my parents’ permission of course.

  Desperate to obtain some type of experience that would benefit me once I left the family businesses, I was determined to follow through on the opportunity. I knew that discussing the subject with my parents would be difficult. My father detested politicians, seeing them as criminals that used and hid behind the powers of the state. My mother’s support was questionable, as my absence would mean she would have to pick up my time in the store. Knowing that neither would be thrilled with the prospect of their daughter’s absence, or the company she would be keeping, I lied. I told them that volunteering was a mandatory part of a school project. Reluctantly, they agreed.

  My first campaign was thrilling. I absolutely loved the challenge and the tedious work involved in a political campaign. Thankfully, I found that I was adept at whatever task I was assigned. Soon, other officials and candidates looking for help in their campaign office or needing someone to work the polls on Election Day called upon me. I was fast and efficient, had great social skills, and could think on my feet—attributes I ironically accrued during my unconvent
ional childhood.

  My parents balked at my continued political involvement but acquiesced after a few screaming matches. I was defiant, refusing to give up my newfound passion. If they wanted my continued assistance with the family businesses, they had to compromise on this matter. By the time I graduated high school, I had worked on campaigns for the US House of Representatives, Pennsylvania State Senate and House of Representatives, and various county and local positions. My determined efforts would eventually help pave the way for the bookie’s daughter to enter the “legitimate” world.

  Al’s Shadow Life

  By my junior year of high school, I had become a master at handling disgruntled gamblers, drunks, degenerate criminals, political intrigue, and my addicted parents. Or so I thought. As my father’s addictions intensified, I suddenly found myself dealing with the dark side of Al’s pain. As the one closest to him, I bore the brunt of his increasingly fluctuating moods. Of course, his disposition was directly related to his gambling successes and failures. When winning, he was full of merriment and on constant lookout for childish adventures. Unfortunately, the highs were always followed by dark lows that would erupt suddenly and without warning. Any imagined slight would send him into a vicious rant. His sniping behavior, which before had surfaced only on rare occasions, became all too routine. Although I knew that his losses were at the root of his dark moods, I was entering a stage in which I was fed up with the chaos and angst of our family dramedy. I had little patience with my father’s asinine behavior, and we would often wind up in intense arguments that would end with my being fired.

  Grateful for the reprieve of not being on duty in the store, I would escape to the family apartment and dive into a book only to be called back to work before the day’s end. I am mortified to admit that in my desperation for free time, I learned quickly what would set him off. I instigated fights that I knew would end with me being thrown out of the store. Being “fired” became a way for me to get some downtime, a few coveted hours away from my parents to breathe.

  Unfortunately, a peaceful escape was not always possible, as my brooding mother was often home. Since Vanessa’s departure from the Avenue a few years before, my mother had become increasingly withdrawn. In addition to guarding her solitude jealously, she refused to speak to me for days and even weeks on end. When in the store or the presence of a friend, she would revert to her normal mode. Once alone, however, she would resume her silence. At first, I found this treatment disconcerting but eventually concluded that silence was an improvement over the sarcastic stabs she so effortlessly threw in my direction. The tone of our relationship swung wildly, depending on her mood. Of course, her temper was often influenced by my father’s. My parents were wallowing in their addictions, unable to perceive a future with any hope of happiness. Their increasing misery left me little chance to find “safe space” in which to regroup from their chaos and misadventures. After all, at this time I was still caught up in my dangerous dance with Colton Copperhead, one of the most harrowing events of my life.

  In the midst of this domestic un-bliss, my father began to disappear for hours and sometimes days at a time. Most of his absences appeared to be triggered by visits from a tall, dark, and handsome outsider who had periodically appeared since I was in grade school. Although I had seen him on occasion, I never knew his name and simply referred to him as my father did: “the Fed.” The Fed was a mystery I never fully cracked. My father was absolutely tight-lipped about their dealings. He deflected my inquiries with his standard response: “The less you know, the better.” The Fed’s visits most often occurred late in the evening, typically coinciding with the closing of the store at nine pm. He would enter the store, ask for Big Al, and then disappear outside to await my father.

  Although my father called him “the Fed,” I do not know what agency he worked for or whether he was actually in the government’s employ. Al would speak with the attractive stranger for a few minutes on the side street, reenter the store, and instruct me to close up shop. He would then disappear into the night along with his visitor. I knew from experience that he would be gone the entire night and possibly the next few days. Although I did not, at first, worry unduly, I did wonder about what my father was up to and whether his dealings would ultimately give rise to more sinister visitors. My unease increased as the Fed’s visits became regular occurrences.

  A mysterious, handsome man, the Fed was average height, with dark chestnut hair and brown eyes. He always dressed in a casual but stylish manner, which consisted of blue jeans with a button-down shirt, a sports jacket sporting suede elbow patches, and curiously, cowboy boots. Intrigued by him, I repeatedly tried to engage him in conversation to no avail. Although never rude, his terse responses conveyed a sense of secrecy that only heightened my curiosity.

  At times, I sensed a mixture of unease and barely contained excitement in my father’s manner. Regardless, whatever adventure he was cooking up with the Fed left me anxious about the outcome. The mystery of his regular contact with the cowboy Fed grew as I began to notice my father’s interest in criminals he once considered anathema. Although Big Al despised drug dealers, he suddenly began taking calls from several drug runners who were beforehand considered persona non grata in our criminal world. When I questioned his involvement with them, he would quote his hero, Michael Corleone of the Godfather movies: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Enslaved by his need for adventure and perhaps desperate for a temporary escape from the financial turmoil of his gambling debts, my father for once committed himself to a game without knowing the odds or the stake.

  This shadow side of my father’s life caused me much anxiety. Knowing that there was always the possibility of a police raid or looming predator was one thing, but his association with men involved in other branches of the criminal world was disconcerting. The secrets of this side of my father’s life were forever lost with his death in 1983, leaving me with few facts and many questions. I have always wondered if his dealings with the Fed and the drug runners were the catalyst to an incident that occurred late in the summer of 1981. The incident I call “the rockin’ van” occurred just weeks before I began my senior year of high school and mere months before I reached the liberating age of eighteen. This episode put the Abraham family on full alert.

  This Van’s A-Rockin’

  Danger found me on a beautiful late summer morning as I arranged and tidied the mini-farmer’s market that surrounded the storefront on most sunny days. Placing wooden crates upside down and arranging them along the underside of the storefront window, I proceeded to set up the produce, an array of fruits and vegetables brought in fresh from an early morning run to Pittsburgh’s Strip District. I was fanatical about the display. I sorted and arranged the produce to ensure that only the most beautiful were offered to our clientele. Once satisfied with their presentation, I began to tidy up the sidewalk area around the store, sweeping debris into the road for the street sweeper to claim during the coming night. As I swept, I moved closer and closer to the curb.

  Lost in my morning ritual, I was only partially aware of the arrival of a white van, which pulled into the bus stop in front of the store. This was nothing out of the ordinary as vans arrived most mornings to deliver beer and sundries to the bar next to our family apartment. Continuing with my chores, I heard the van’s side door slide open. I instinctively awaited the telltale sound of the hand dolly clanking on the sidewalk, signaling the arrival of cases or kegs of local Pittsburgh beer. Undisturbed, I continued my task, sweeping my way to the left, away from the van’s door. Suddenly, I realized that the van was in motion—slowly inching backwards—in sync with my movements. Before I could retreat, the side door slid further open and I found myself airborne, clutched by my upper right arm and jerked halfway into the van. I was held by a large scruffy man who seemed as startled as I was.

  I went into survival mode. I began to scream at the top of my lungs as I grabbed the man by the ears and dug my nails deep into the fl
esh behind them. Holding on tightly, I pulled his head toward me as I slammed the top of my head into his face with enough force to draw blood from his nose. Temporarily stunned, my attacker had no time to react before my mother appeared on the scene.

  Noticing the curious movements of the van from inside the store, Bonnie sprang into action when she realized that the van was following my movements. While I was busy digging into my attackers ears, she charged the van. Seizing the broom from the sidewalk, she wielded it like a spear, stabbing at the now bleeding man. With one hand, she grasped my belt, while thrusting the broom at my attacker with the other, hitting him in the throat, chest, and finally, squarely in his balls. While my mother repeatedly stabbed him with her wooden sword, I bit savagely into his arm. Concerned with his own well being, the man released me with a wounded howl, sending my mother and me sprawling backwards onto the sidewalk. As our bodies hit the concrete, I could hear my attacker screaming to the driver, “Go, go, go!” The van took off down the Avenue with the side door still open. Although the terrifying incident happened in mere minutes, its consequences would reverberate for months to come, enveloping my last year on the Avenue in a fog of gloom and mistrust.