“Shut up, bitch,” she would say to me while flipping me her Italian arm gesture for ba fungul, or sometimes she’d just tell me “ba fungul,” which means to fuck off in Italian.
Chris thrived on this self-defense stuff, along with physical conditioning, running, muscle toning and everything that I personally looked upon as a waste of time.
Rick commented after several sparring matches that, “Chris knows enough about self- defense to get her hurt. She doesn’t understand that women are not built the same as men, they lack muscle and weight, and for a woman to think she can take on a man in a fight is just plain stupid.”
I respected Rick’s knowledge on self-defense. Not only was he a black belt in Goju Karate, but he was also a New York City cop for many years in between singing gigs with the Drifters. When he was not working as an entertainer, he was a seasoned, highly decorated New York cop who didn’t drink or smoke.
I managed to save up around three hundred dollars to hire an attorney to file for child support, but Rick was from New York and the process was tedious. The first thing that happened was the paternity part of the case. Rick denied he was the father, so I had to take my son to a public clinic for a blood test, which infuriated me. Watching my small toddler have a huge needle stuck in his arm by a shabby clinic worker made me wonder if all this was really worth trying to obtain any child support money. The paternity test was a ploy by Rick to delay the case. He knew my son was his child, but anything he could do to delay the process was in his favor. The test was a positive match, of course.
This process took over a year, and from there it was court delay after court delay, as Rick learned how to manipulate the child support system.
I never received much money at all in this effort, and it took up so much of my precious time away from working and caring for my child that I wanted to give up and quit.
Ultimately, it would go on and on for years and years and never accomplish the goal of a monthly child support payment. It came in spurts. The system would pop some-thing into my mailbox in the form of a child support check, but then there would be long vacant periods of nothing but letters from the court saying the check had been delayed again.
I loved this Riverview apartment that sat on the edge of a massive public park where people were busy daily with picnics and other activities. However, in the evenings and well into the late night, the park turned into a haven for underage beer-drinking thugs.
How could I have known this before moving here? I was seriously starting to get depressed and frightened at the white North Side gangs that were hanging out on the side of our building late at night.
For some reason, they chose the right side of the building, directly under my front bedroom window—probably because it was closest to the park side—and the late night drinking sessions were escalating into fights and bottle breaking outside my window. I didn’t like calling the cops, but I had to.
Once I did that, the harassment got personal….
I was sound asleep in my bed with my little boy next to me—he liked sleeping in mommy’s bed sometimes and this was one of those nights. There was a huge crash. I sat up in my bed like someone had yanked me up on a puppet string, and saw a blurred vision of something big that flew over my head and hit the floor with a loud bang.
At the same time, I looked at the window that was completely smashed and saw a young white boy standing outside of it, like he had just thrown something; he quickly turned and ran from the scene.
Glass was everywhere. I grabbed my son, who was asleep, and took him into the living room where it was safer. I was shaking and scared; I felt my whole body go numb with fear as I sat in the living room with my child in my arms and called the police.
When the police arrived they went into the bedroom and discovered the empty beer keg that had been thrown through my window. They told me we were very lucky to have not been injured, but I knew from that moment that I was moving out of Riverview Park as soon as I could find another place.
The cops filled out a report, and they knew who these boys were because they were the same boys who I had called the cops on before. They were local boys from the North Side area who everyone knew.
I called my dad the next morning. He, too, had been raised on the North Side—on Leland Street near Perry and Charles streets. He had friends there that he grew up with, including the local Sheriff, Gene Coon; they had gone to school together. I knew my dad would know what to do.
Dad stopped by my apartment a few days later and sat me down in the dining room to talk. He said he had called some friends, and was told that the boys that ruled the park were part of a local softball team that was endorsed and valued by the local magistrate, Baldy Regan—and that these boys could do no wrong in Regan’s eyes, so it was a waste of time to try and do anything that involved the local authorities. However, my dad added, “the cops suggested that I use a baseball bat if I wanted results.” I immediately got the picture and knew that there was no hope with the law.
Baldy Regan was Mr. North Side according to every single authority in Pittsburgh, including the Mayor, and was considered a good person by everyone. Our family was also related through marriage in some remote way to Baldy, but there was a bitterness there that my dad didn’t want to explain, he just said, “Listen honey, you’ve got to move right away.”
Pittsburgh as a city had various areas where people had their own government. I knew this, and I understood quite well that there was no way to fight it. It was fixed; it was bought and paid for by clans of certain people in those areas. And yes, the fix went all the way to the top of the chain. Fighting these fixed areas of Pittsburgh was a losing battle, as they would destroy you if you went against them. You couldn’t go against the ruling clan on the North Side of Pittsburgh, nor could you go against them if they existed in other sections of the city.
I called my landlord the next day and told him I wasn’t renewing my lease, and I started looking for apartments outside the city in the suburbs of the North Hills of Pittsburgh.
But my reality was that I had to finish out my lease for the next few months in this nightmare location. I called Rick and told him the entire story from beginning to end, including the advice my dad had received from the cops that there was nothing to be done about the thugs who were terrorizing my child and me.
I had expected things to escalate since the empty beer keg came crashing through my bedroom window, but now I was ready to turn the situation over to Rick. I knew that Rick would protect us, no matter what. He wouldn’t allow harm to come to us.
I discovered shortly after the incident that some of the friends of the boys who were drinking outside my window, were living in the small basement apartment underneath mine.
They made sure I knew who they were by taunting me every day that I took my son out in his stroller to the park, and my anxiety and fear began to interfere with my work. I didn’t want to leave my son home with the babysitter during the day for fear that these thugs would bother her and she wouldn’t know what to do.
I called Rick and he stopped over one afternoon with Anthony Capizzi Jr., Wango Capizzi’s son. Rick had developed a close friendship with Anthony Jr. and the two of them were inseparable at times, it seemed. They had secrets.
Rick said, “Listen, we’re going to be coming over here some evening to handle this problem. We will knock on your door when we arrive, then you must stay in the apartment no matter what you hear and remember to tell your friend Chris upstairs to do the same. Stay in your apartment and lock your doors, both of you, no matter what.”
I wanted to ask what they were going to do, but I didn’t ask. I just agreed to do what they said.
A week later Rick and Anthony banged on my door. When I opened the door they both seemed tense and serious. Rick told me to go upstairs and tell Chris to stay in her apartment. I ran up the steps and knocked on Chris’s door and said, “Rick’s here; stay in your apartment no matter what you hear.”
Chris wanted
to know what was going on, and I came back quickly with, “Shut up Chris, don’t ask me questions right now, just lock your door and stay in your apartment.”
Chris agreed, and as I walked away, I could hear her locking the door.
I returned to my apartment, locked the door and sat on the sofa waiting. I heard thunder. I had to get up off the sofa and peek out the sun porch window to the front street.
I saw Rick and Anthony standing outside while three gigantic Samoan males burst through the front door. I couldn’t see beyond that point so I sat back down on the sofa, wringing my hands and starting to sweat.
I recognized the Samoans as the fire dancers from the Hukelau and for an instant wondered where their costumes where.
I heard a crash that sounded like a door being busted down. Then I heard loud thuds like furniture being tossed around, and the screams followed. I don’t know how many people were in that apartment at the time, but I knew they were all getting beat up. Once I realized that by listening to the screams coming upstairs through the floor of my apartment, I put my feet up on the sofa and lit a cigarette to calm my nerves.
It was over in an instant it seemed, thunder came up the steps and out the door, and they were gone. Five minutes later an ambulance came screaming down Riverview Avenue and parked in front of my building.
Chris was banging on my door and I let her in. She was laughing hysterically, and by now she knew what had happened. I was still nervous and shaken.
We both stood by the sun porch window and watched as the paramedics brought a young male out on a stretcher. He looked up at us and pointed. We both ducked back into the living room and fell on the sofa together laughing.
Needless to say, there were no more incidents of drinking and breaking bottles outside my bedroom window. Peace was all around me, but I knew I still had to get the hell out of the North Side forever.
I loved and respected Rick for protecting me and my child and returning us to feeling safe in our own home. There is much to be said for a man who makes you feel no fear in your life.
I believed these young thugs had to have learned a hard lesson about the real world of pay back and retribution. I thought that maybe someone had failed to inform them that when you go around picking on strangers, you should also prepare yourself for the possibility that these strangers may have connections. I decided to take that to heart and from here on in to live my life never assuming that I knew what could possibly happen with total strangers. Strangers are strangers, and you never know who they are or where they came from, so why the hell would anyone want to mess with a stranger they didn’t know?
I called my dad the next day and told him the story. He said, “North Side justice honey; you should be fine now, but please get another place as soon as you possibly can so I don’t have to worry about you.”
THREE: LAS VEGAS VACATION
“Las Vegas was and is a hard town that will make you pay for your inability to restrain your desires.... If you have a weakness, Las Vegas will punish you.”
–Hal Rothman
A.I.W.F. (Alan I.W. Frank) Corporation was filing for bankruptcy and I knew I was going to lose my sales rep job soon. It also meant that my company car would go away, and I’d have to buy another vehicle on my own.
I immediately started job hunting, but I knew I was months away from finding another job as a manufacturer’s rep. I thought it would be nice if I could take my time and look around for my dream job of working for a major fragrance company, such as Estee Lauder or one of the other famous brands. The food service industry was bland and felt like an aluminum pot to me. I wanted the glamour of a real sales rep that dressed the part and traveled in style. Un-fortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for anything to happen in my life; I had to find a job as quickly as possible.
The company’s demise was swift, and I was left jobless, but I knew that in bankruptcy there would be no urgency in returning the company vehicle, so I kept mine until they came and towed it away months later.
It is now May of 1982. I hadn’t seen Chris in months since I moved out of the Riverview apartments—we spoke by phone when we could, but it wasn’t often. I felt safe and settled in my new location at the White Oak apartments on McKnight Road in the suburbs of the North Hills of Pittsburgh. They had a swimming pool for my son and the area was completely different from the North Side. I also found the perfect babysitter for my son, an older freckled-faced black lady named Mrs. King, who was a Christian and lived two doors down from my apartment. She was wonderful, and she loved watching my son. He loved her, and never complained when I had something to do that meant leaving him with the babysitter. Mrs. King was truly a blessing for me, as she exuded a constant stream of positive attitude because of her Christian faith. She often prayed over me and my son, and I thought it was adorable. I cannot think of one moment in time that Mrs. King ever expressed unhappiness with her life. Her husband, Ollie, was the same way; they were eternal optimists, and I liked them the minute I met them.
In one of my brief conversations with Chris I learned that she was no longer seeing Chuck Werner. When I asked how he was doing she said, “Chuck has a new girlfriend and I don’t see him anymore.” I didn’t inquire further.
Chris was talking about taking a trip out to Las Vegas to scout for jobs, and she wanted to know what my plans were. I really didn’t have any, and I started entertaining the possibility of relocating to a bigger city with more opportunities.
I knew this was a whim though, because I was attached to my family now. They loved their grandchild, and it was the only life he had for Christmas Santa’s and Easter baskets, all the things that children look forward to. I wanted him to have the same Ozzie and Harriet life that I had had, complete with dinner as a family every single evening at five and a family structure that was strong and consistent. I never doubted that these were the things that made children grow up to be strong adults. My mother was at home with my two brothers and me daily, and dinner was on the table promptly at five when my father walked through the door after a hard day as a crane operator. There was never anything but a hot, wonderful meal served at our family dinner table, and when we all gathered for meals it was to sit and review the day. Funny how we decide at some point in our lives that our family life was not the way life should be and we leave, only to realize that we had it all and didn’t know it at the time we had it—or we grow bored with it and think there’s something more than what was right there nurturing us all along.
I knew I would never move from Pittsburgh; however, I wasn’t ready to admit that to myself yet—I still had that tiny little voice in my head that whispered the dream life, the glamorous life, the life of a cosmetic sales rep where I traveled in style and met exciting, worldly people. It was tough admitting to myself that I still craved the excitement and glamour of such things, but I did, and since returning to Pittsburgh in 1979, pregnant and alone, the struggle was sometimes too hard for me. Since my departure from Pittsburgh in 1975, I had discovered there were bigger cities to explore and places I wanted to see.
Chris called one afternoon and said she’d found a vacation package that was cheap for round trip airfare, five days in Vegas and two rooms on the Strip at the Holiday Inn. She had asked her friend, Francine, to go with her but she had refused due to family problems, so I was her next choice. It sounded exciting and glamorous, and the thought of a vacation in a place like Vegas was enticing—I hadn’t been anywhere outside Pittsburgh since the birth of my son, close to three years ago. I was starting to entertain the thought, but I didn’t have a lot of money saved up and that weighed on my mind. I was collecting unemployment benefits, and accepting gifts from my parents to survive and pay my bills while searching for another sales rep job.
If I had had a conversation with Chuck Werner at this point in time, I feel certain that I would have declined Chris’s invitation to vacation in Las Vegas.
I had never been to Vegas, but Chuck had taken Chris out there in 1979 to an ins
urance convention. I had no knowledge of this story during this time period; it was told to me by Chuck in July of 2008 while interviewing him for this book.
During the convention in Vegas with Chuck, Chris asked him to rent a car so they could drive out to see the Sleeping Indian Mountain, which was technically known as Sunrise Mountain, a popular tourist attraction. Once there, Chuck said Chris jumped out of the car and informed him that she was going hiking in the mountains. Chuck sat there shocked and horrified, wondering why or how she could suddenly decide to do this, and the rest of the day turned into a nightmare for him.
After hours and hours waiting for her return from the mountain, Chuck had to call the police, who put a search party together to go look for her.
She was dehydrated, exhausted and delusional when they found her.
I decided to go with Chris to Vegas. The thought of a vacation at this point in time was too enticing; I couldn’t resist it. I told my parents we were going out there to scout for jobs and possible relocation, but I knew in my heart that this was a vacation.
Chris, on the other hand was interested in scouting the area for opportunities in the health field, and had her heart set on finding a business partner for a health club, which was her dream come true—a health club with a sports massage studio. I believed she dreamed of this daily, but I never took her seriously because to me she was not the type to be that focused on such a big goal.
Who Killed Chrissy?: The True Crime Memoir of a Pittsburgh girl's Unsolved Murder in Las Vegas Page 4
