Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story

by Foreman, Jamie

  My motel was quite a way back, and there was no way I could have walked there. I would have frozen. I asked the bus driver where I could get a cab.

  ‘You’ll have to drop a dime and call one,’ he said, nodding towards a phone booth. ‘There should be a sign with a number in there.’

  It was my first time in an American phone booth. Feeling like an actor in my very own road movie, I fumbled for the ten cents and punched in the number. The wind picked up and whipped a flurry of snow around the booth, and someone answered. Through chattering teeth I asked how long the wait for a cab would be. The answer came right away: two hours. Bollocks. This was certainly no swinging metropolis – more like a one-horse town.

  I hurried back to the bus stop and asked the driver if there were any buses.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked casually.

  I hesitated. Throughout my journey I hadn’t told a soul where I was heading. ‘Trust no one’ was my motto. But what was I to do now? Reality was biting along with the cold, and if I wanted to avoid frostbite I’d have to take a chance. Besides, I thought, what did a bus driver care who I was?

  As I suspected he might, the driver said there were no buses running this late. Then, just when I was about to tear my hair out, I was served a slice of American goodwill. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’m heading back to the depot to pick my car up, but I’ll drop you off after. Jump back on.’

  Hailing from London, it came as a real shock that a bus driver would bother helping me out. But sometimes the kindness of strangers can really take you by surprise. That night, out of the goodness of his heart, a man saved my bacon. It was a lovely thing to do and I’ll never forget that touching moment. It was quite a drive to the depot and we had a good chat. I bluffed my way out of the inevitable ‘so what brings you here?’ and, by the time we bid each other farewell outside the motel, I realised there was no way I could have made it there under my own steam.

  I was at the end of the road. Thousands of miles were behind me and I was exhausted. I checked in. Hats off to the chaps – they’d found me a corker of a motel. It was a beautiful, lodge-style building, with a huge, welcoming fireplace and a dark-wood lounge. There was a bar and a restaurant and even a heated indoor swimming pool. I’ll be using that in the morning, I thought. But right then all I wanted was rest. I ordered a couple of sodas, took them to my room, flopped on to the bed and switched on the telly. The first programme that came on was Soap, an American sitcom I’d been watching in the UK – a strange reminder of home. I flipped channels. There was a Sinatra film playing. How many times had I watched my hero Frank on TV back home? I reckoned it was a good omen. I smiled to myself. Welcome to America, Jamie, I thought, and drifted off.

  It is really draining when you have been living on your nerves. After a much-needed sleep, I awoke the next morning and headed to the dining room for my first American breakfast. I’d not eaten since that hot dog, and I was ravenous.

  I ordered eggs, bacon and some lovely-looking potato hash. The waitress called it ‘scrapple’.

  ‘How do you want your eggs?’ she asked.

  ‘Over easy,’ I said, just like in the films. I didn’t have a clue what it meant, but had always loved the phrase. It turned out I loved the eggs when they came – ‘over easy’ meant cooked on both sides and nice and runny. Perfect.

  This is the life, I thought, and dipped my toast in the yolk. I smiled at the waitress as she topped up my coffee. Ensconced in a motel in the middle of nowhere, I felt safe for the first time in days. All I had to do now was wait a day or two to be collected. I had plenty of dollars left, so there was nothing to worry about on that front. The only drawback was I couldn’t leave the motel in case I was contacted, but at least it was a comfortable place to sit tight.

  I didn’t want to talk to many people, but there was a pretty girl on reception and I couldn’t resist having a little flirt with her. She was full of that apple-pie friendliness and told me all about my new surroundings. Turned out Allentown wasn’t such a small place after all, but more of a small city of a couple of hundred thousand. The motel was on the edge of town, and the nearest big cities were New York to the north, Philadelphia to the south and Atlantic City to the east.

  Known as ‘The Little Apple’, Allentown had everything you’d expect from a small city, and Billy Joel had even written a song about it. Unfortunately, I’d have to wait before I ventured into it. Still, I told the receptionist – sadly I can’t remember her name – I would love her to show me around. She didn’t say no. Interesting, I thought.

  Nothing much happened on the first day. I took a swim, sat around and had myself a good lunch. In the afternoon I had a couple of drinks in the piano bar while listening to a half-decent jazz singer. It was good to be relaxing a bit, and since I had the cash I didn’t feel bad when I treated myself to a good dinner later that evening. After another little flirtation with the lovely receptionist, it was TV and bed.

  The next day was basically a repeat performance. But there is only so much sitting around on his own a man can do. By the afternoon I was starting to hope they’d pick me up sooner rather than later. Wherever he might be, I wanted to be with Dad and know all was well.

  Day three. Still I didn’t hear anything. I was bored as hell by now and starting to go a little stir crazy in the motel. I felt a little hint of anxiety start to creep in, but boredom can do that to you. I kept reminding myself that the chaps had said it might be up to four days. By mid-afternoon I was convinced nobody would be along that day and thought I might as well take a trip into town in the evening. Then I thought about the receptionist I’d been getting on so well with. She was heading off to see her folks the next day she told me, so it was now or never.

  ‘What time do you finish your shift?’ I asked her. Early enough, it turned out. She seemed as keen as me and readily agreed to let me take her out for dinner. It was a date. ‘Fantastic,’ I said. ‘I would be broken-hearted if I didn’t get a chance to buy you dinner. Let’s go to your favourite restaurant,’ I said. And that’s what we did.

  Allentown looked lovely that night. She told me the Dutch had settled there a couple of hundred years back and I noticed some of the houses and buildings reflected that European look. It was heaven to get away from the motel and be distracted by a beautiful American girl. It turned out she was an aspiring artist. The job at the motel was only a means for her to indulge her passion for painting. We had a gorgeous meal – clams, broiled lobster tails and a not bad American Chardonnay – before ending the night at the motel. A very welcome little fling that ended the next day when she headed out of town.

  Day four passed. Nothing. Same story on day five. By the time I put my head down that night, the anxiety was really starting to kick in. They know I’m here, I thought, so why leave me so long? Is something wrong? More frightening still, is it on me? Do the police know where I am? I consoled myself with the knowledge that the chaps always have their reasons. There was no way I would ever be abandoned. Never.

  The next morning I had a roll-call on my finances and realised I was beginning to run out of money. Because I hadn’t thought I’d be waiting around so long, I’d treated myself to a good few expensive meals. That would have to stop. No more lobster and steaks. From now on it would have to be pizza or KFC. But food was the least of my worries. It had been nearly a week now and I was starting to wonder what the fuck was happening.

  I didn’t have a clue where Dad was holed up and no number to call him on. As darkness descended that night I felt very isolated, and not a little scared. After so many days alone my mind started to play tricks and paranoia crept in. It’s definitely on me, I thought. The authorities know I’m here, and the chaps know the authorities know, so they’re not coming near me. I’ve been followed and I’m done for. Please God, keep Dad away from me…

  I mulled over the events of the past few days. Had I missed something, or someone? Had I let my guard down and failed to spot that I was under observation
? Did I fuck up by letting that bus driver know where I was? Had I walked into a trap? I didn’t have a clue, but I couldn’t stop my mind buzzing with worry. Whatever the truth was, something was very wrong.

  By day nine I had some serious decisions to make. I had sat it out patiently for nine days and now I had just a few dollars left in my pocket. The situation was getting desperate. I had only enough to stay in the motel another two nights, but I did have a return ticket to London. I began to wonder if flying home was the answer. If I stayed only one more night I would be left with just enough cash to get back to New York. It was one option, but having come this far I didn’t want to turn back.

  There was another option, though I didn’t know how dangerous it was. I’d been warned not to make any phone calls. That would have been fine if the plan had worked, but what about now? Something had obviously fucked up, and unless I decided to abandon ship I had no choice but to put in a call to someone. I weighed up my choices, and decided to risk it. I thought carefully about who to call, eventually deciding on Uncle Fred. Fred was my mum’s brother – a straight goer and good as gold. Surely there was no way the police would have tapped his phone.

  He answered the phone almost immediately.

  ‘Hello, Fred, it’s me,’ I said.

  ‘Hello, mate,’ he answered cheerily. Fred knew I was on the lam, but had no idea where I was. ‘You all right?’

  ‘No, I fucking ain’t.’ I was truly fed up. ‘I need a favour. Can you go and see Hands and tell him I’m still here? Tell him I’ve run out of money and I don’t know what to do next.’

  Fred wasted no time, bless him. He got straight in his car and drove over to see Hands. Meanwhile, I paced around the room that had become my prison. The minutes ticked by and I wondered if I’d done the right thing. An hour later, I jumped at the noise when the bedside phone screamed – it was the first time I’d taken a call since checking in. I stared at it a second, then picked up.

  ‘Jamie?’ said a voice I didn’t recognise in a heavy Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked suspiciously.

  Whoever it was started laughing raucously. I didn’t feel like joining in.

  ‘You poor fucker,’ he said between guffaws. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Nine fucking days.’

  ‘Jesus! Pack your bag. I’ll be round right away. Meet you in reception.’

  Relief washed over me. I looked at the ceiling and let out a long breath. Thank you, God! I was safe and I was leaving. Minutes later, a beautiful Cadillac glided up and parked outside the motel. A ruggedly handsome, well-dressed Scotsman jumped out. His stocky frame rattled with laughter as he shook my hand and introduced himself. It was Joe MacLean. After everything I’d been through, I wasn’t laughing. I actually felt like crying. It was such a huge relief to know the nightmare was finally over.

  Joe squared up my bill and we drove off. I didn’t waste any time in asking him what the hell had gone wrong. It turned out there’d been a breakdown in communication. My extended, anxiety-ridden stay at the motel was down to a man at the London end. Hands had told him to put a call in and say I was on my way, but the dozy bastard had somehow failed to pass the message on. As a result, Dad had spent the past few days as worried as me. God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t phoned Uncle Fred.

  Talking to Joe, I was astonished to discover how close we’d come to bumping into each other over the last few days. Dad and Joe had been moving around town and it turned out that a couple of days earlier they’d eaten at the same place as I had within minutes of my leaving. They’d even had breakfast at my motel. Each time we had missed each other by a whisker, which only made the situation seem so ludicrous.

  More ludicrous still, Dad’s apartment was only a couple of minutes’ drive away. The Grecian Apollo condominium block was on a hill behind the George Washington Motel. All that time Dad had been just a hop, skip and a jump away. It made me angry to think the whole plan had nearly been thwarted by one dopey fool. This was serious business. People’s liberty was at stake. I knew the bloke who’d fucked up would get a right bollocking for his sloppiness – that’s the way it goes in Dad’s world. There’s no room for mistakes.

  Joe pulled up outside the condo, and there stood Dad. Being in hiding is nerve-racking enough, but it really takes it out of you when a whole heap of unnecessary shit gets thrown into the mix. After the strain of the past few days, I can’t describe how grateful I was to see my father’s smiling face. I leaped out of the car and ran over to him. Relief overwhelmed us both as we hugged and kissed, a little watery-eyed with sheer emotion. Father and son were together again.

  I’d made it across the Atlantic to my new home. My ordeal was finally over.

  STARTING OVER

  We needed to start over, as they say in America, but I wondered what on earth had brought Dad to Allentown. Tenerife had been a stopgap, but this time it was different. Dad needed to be away for a good while and put down some roots, and Allentown was the place we would remain for the foreseeable future. You couldn’t have picked a place more different from London if you’d tried.

  Talking to Dad, I discovered there was only one reason we’d ended up here: Joe MacLean. The laughing Glaswegian. Joe was an old mate of Dad’s, one of the chaps, who’d moved to Allentown 14 years previously. He had been a big face on the Glasgow scene, but a gang war in the late sixties made his situation a little too hot to handle. Joe got out while the going was still good, moved to the US and rebuilt his life. He’d made a very good job of it too, establishing strong contacts with important local families, and going into business with Dave Rosen, a fantastic old man linked to some powerful New York crews. Known as Mr Philadelphia, Dave employed Joe to oversee his slot and games machine business, and Joe was bringing in some significant funds. He had even married a wonderful American girl, Joanne. She was a smart cookie and worked for a major company as the top exec’s personal secretary. Joe and Dad had never lost touch, and Joe was only too happy to help when he discovered Dad needed to ‘relocate’.

  By the time I arrived, Dad had already made himself some allies in the Ballateri family, the main mafia crew in Allentown. They had owed some serious money to a London firm who were very close to Dad. Joe introduced Dad to Pete Ballateri, the head of the family, and together they worked the problem out. Dad has always had a knack for persuading debtors to cough up and he soon proved a few thousand miles of ocean was no obstacle to getting a result for his friends. A few meetings and phone calls later, the job was done and Dad had made some new allies. He always manages to grease the wheels.

  Joe and Dave Rosen were keen for Dad to help run and expand the business and my arrival meant another man was on the firm to keep it growing. Thanks to our pool-table days, Dad and I were old hands at putting machines in bars and collecting the takings, and we took to the slight variation on a theme like ducks to water. We drove around all the towns within the New York–Atlantic City–Philly triangle, and were soon taking a good cut of money for our efforts. Our English charm seemed to work wonders on the various bar and hotel owners we spoke to. They loved our ‘funny accents’, and were only too happy to take machines and benefit from the protection offered by our formidable associates.

  Driving around gave me a taste of how big America is. You really have no idea until you live there – we were only covering a tiny pocket of a vast country, but the distances involved were still huge. On working days we’d cover hundreds of miles – a far cry from our old ‘rounds’ back in London. People would ask us to supply a couple of pinball machines for their bar. ‘Where are you?’ we’d ask. ‘Just up the road,’ they’d say, but ‘up the road’ would be a two-hour drive away. In the first few weeks, Dad and I had a wonderful time giving our eyes a treat and thinking about how we might carve ourselves a bigger slice of the pie in the games-machine business. We were always looking for angles, and sooner or later we hoped to find something to provide much more substantial paydays.

&n
bsp; I look back on that period with fond memories. America was new and exciting, and I was delighted to have Dad to myself for such long stretches of time. I think he felt the same way too. Back home we’d always been surrounded by so many people – family, friends, the chaps – and I’d loved that, but now it really was just the two of us. It was a wonderful chance for us to really get to know each other as men.

  At first we lived at close quarters in Dad’s condo. Dad had the bedroom, I had a sofa bed. We spent a lot of time just chilling out and doing what men do best – eating, watching movies, talking and laughing. We were like The Odd Couple – minus the tension of course – with me doing a Felix, the Jack Lemmon character, constantly cleaning and preparing meals in the kitchen. I’ve always loved cooking, and for the first couple of months I was the chef in our little condo-cum-diner. With no women around to tell us what to eat, we always went for our favourites. Night after night we’d wolf down huge bowls of spaghetti Bolognese. If there was left-over sauce I’d add chillies and beans – hey presto, I had a chilli con carne for the next day’s lunch. Broiled steaks and jacket potatoes was another regular. Whatever we ate was always washed down with a couple of bottles of red, and it was pretty damn wonderful. The trouble was we weren’t getting any exercise, and all the good living soon began to take its toll on our waistlines. Before we knew it, we were massive. I ballooned to nearly 15 stone. And Dad – well, I won’t mention his weight gain!

  ‘Look at the size of us,’ we’d say. I’ll never forget how I used to make Dad laugh whenever I stood behind a door, stick my huge belly out and whistle the tune from Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Another thing that never failed to tickle him was my impression of the Phantom Raspberry Blower of Old London Town from The Two Ronnies. It was a Spike Milligan idea: a Jack the Ripper-style madman used to roam the Victorian streets and stun his victims by blowing raspberries. In my version the Allentown Raspberry Blower would strike whenever Dad was going into one about something or other. Dad had an endearing habit of getting worked up while watching the American news. ‘That’s a fucking liberty,’ he’d say, red-faced about something that had no bearing on us – increasing taxes, for instance – and I’d respond with a great big raspberry. It got him every time. Still does. Humour really bonded us while we were finding our feet in those early weeks.