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

by Foreman, Jamie

  We’d go out drinking together and, alongside all the laughter, we had some proper heart-to-hearts. Serious conversations about the past, present and future. For the first time I asked Dad about many of the things I’d always wanted to know about his life, and he spoke to me openly and honestly, man to man. When younger, it’s true to say I had sometimes wondered how and why Dad did the things he’d done. It was only natural and Dad understood. From those frank conversations I coloured in all the blank spaces and joined up all the dots about the man who had always been my hero.

  Dad had done things many would consider terrible, and I’ve already explained that those acts were part and parcel of the world he lived in. But it was only now that he told me how he really felt about the consequences of his actions. His years away in prison had been painful for him, as they had for me, and his emotional openness about the past was a revelation. Dad’s only regrets were centred on what mattered to him most: the effect it had on his family. I discovered nuances of light and shade in him that I’d never noticed before. Beneath that unflappable, tough exterior lies a deeply thoughtful, caring man.

  When I was young, I’d often felt anger that my father wasn’t with me. His absence caused me so much heartache. I missed him so deeply and, most of all, I blamed those who’d taken him away. That boy took a lot on his shoulders and the authorities became my scapegoat. Yet there’s no denying I knew Dad was being held for a reason: he’d done ‘bad’ things. Dad would be the first to agree that he wouldn’t have gone to jail were it not for his actions, and as a boy I had moments of anger towards him for not being around. I was angry that what he’d done had led to the family being torn apart. I couldn’t help it.

  At the same time, I knew how much he loved us all and I felt guilty for blaming anything on my father. Even when Dad returned to us, that guilt never left me. It wasn’t until now, years later, that I was finally able to admit my true feelings. I explained everything and Dad understood perfectly. He’d felt his share of guilt about hurting us kids too, and those intimate conversations put a lot of ghosts to bed for both of us.

  Those early days in Allentown gave each of us a chance to learn what the other was really about. Dad had always been prepared to pay the price for his actions, and if it came to it he was prepared to do the same again. I came to understand him as a man who needed to fulfil his own destiny – if Dad didn’t live life his way, he wouldn’t have been the fantastic father he was. Fencing himself in, becoming tamed and trying to live a ‘normal’ life would have wiped out his self-esteem. And a father without self-esteem is no father at all. Dad told me he would never promise to give us a worry-free life, as it was a promise he knew he could not keep. I understood this perfectly, especially because I was beginning to realise I didn’t want a worry-free life.

  A rich life is filled with uncertainty, with peaks and troughs, with good times and bad. Growing up a Foreman, and looking at the lives of others, the highs seemed higher and the lows seemed lower. But, as a result, I’d learned to take things as they came, to roll with the punches and enjoy the buzz of living life on the edge. It also struck me that acting was a career where nothing is for certain. Rather like Dad’s world, you never know what’s around the corner. One minute you could have your name in lights, the next be unemployed, sitting on the sofa watching daytime television. That unpredictability is half the excitement. Speaking with Dad, I came to understand how a fear of the unknown makes you feel more alive.

  I believe that Dad’s devotion to me during that period was his way of saying sorry for all the time we’d been apart. We became true mates, the best of friends. It was one of the most wonderful things that ever happened to me. We made up for those painful lost years, and then some. I don’t know many men who’ve been lucky enough to share such closeness with their fathers. I will always feel blessed for the opportunity I had to understand – and be understood by – my dearest dad.

  After a few months of helping out old man Rosen, a business opportunity arose. A premises became available on Hamilton Boulevard, the main drag in downtown Allentown. Dad, Joe and I realised we’d found the angle we were looking for. It was a huge old building with a Wild West-style frontage. The ground floor had recently been an office-furniture showroom, and at the back there was a warehouse. We thought the whole lot would be perfect as a games room. Thanks to Rosen, we obtained a licence and set up shop. The doors opened and we were soon doing a very, very brisk trade, pulling in hundreds of dollars a day.

  We’d filled the room with the most state-of-the-art slot and games machines. Down one side we had about 15 pinball machines and all the brand-new video games – Asteroids, Space Invaders and Pac-Man – in the prime positions. Before I’d left for Tenerife all those months back, people were marvelling at electronic table tennis, but these games were out of this world. And they took a fortune at a quarter (25 cents) a game. Whenever anyone played, a crowd would gather around to watch. At the rear we had six full-size American pool tables and an air-hockey machine.

  Allentown had plenty of kids with nothing to do, so we always had a crowd in. And what a bunch of characters they were. Our clientele weren’t the most sophisticated bunch. It was soon clear that we’d mainly be dealing with a lot of feisty souls from the wrong side of the tracks. We had the lot, from white trailer trash to unemployed black kids and rowdy Puerto Ricans. Our customers were a handful from the off. A right lairy lot. They’d come in with their quarters and spend their days pumping them into our machines – just what we wanted, of course. Trouble was, different factions and gangs would constantly squabble and fight. But worse still was the liberties that were taken with our machines. Bad losers would kick and shake our very expensive equipment and that showed a total lack of respect.

  Dad and I knew how to run a business, and we wouldn’t be taken for a ride. The Foreman name was well known in London and as a result Dad’s premises had always been safe, trouble-free places. But we had no such notoriety in Allentown. Not yet, anyway. These people thought they could take the piss. How wrong they were. We never took any shit back home, and we weren’t about to take it here. The Foreman reputation had to be established.

  Being Londoners, we were quick off the mark when it came to dealing with trouble. If a punter kicked a machine, they were told to fuck off out of it in no uncertain terms. The threat of getting barred sufficed much of the time, as they never had anywhere else to go. At first, however, people didn’t know what ‘getting barred’ meant. A funny example of America and England being divided by a common language.

  Many of the kids fancied themselves and didn’t take us seriously to start with. I’d give someone a bollocking, only to get a load of jive talk – it was the seventies, remember – spat back at me. Perhaps people thought we were soft touches because we were English and had ‘funny voices’, perhaps it was something else that drove them. Either way, those who fronted up to Dad and me soon learned they were mouthing off to the wrong people.

  When dealing with certain situations, there’s sometimes nothing for it but to show people what you’re made of. In the early days we had to throw many a right-hander at those mouthy bastards. That was a language they did understand. I didn’t like doing it, but it was the only way to maintain order. At first I was chinning one of them every other day. But, lo and behold, we soon began to get the respect we deserved.

  That said, the hassle never stopped. Predictably, those we had barred would try to come back in and get aggressive when told they were on probation. Time and again some black dude would square up to me and, once again, I’d lay him out. I’d never been much of a fighter up until then, and I never chinned anyone who didn’t ask for it, but putting it about became the only way to survive.

  On the positive side, being on my feet and dealing with all that grief meant I had to lose that belly of mine – we joined the YMCA gym and Dad trained me up with a lot of bag and ring work. Before long, I was as fit as a butcher’s dog and back to my fighting weight. I had a couple of clos
e calls now and again, but normally Dad and I were on each other’s shoulder, so we were able to match whatever was thrown at us. But there was one occasion when I really thought I’d met my match.

  It was a Saturday morning. I’d been out the night before and was very hung-over. A bloke came in with his son – a harmless little white kid with glasses – left him with a bunch of quarters and headed off shopping. While his Dad was gone, some of the black kids started to give the boy a hard time, nicked his money and the little boy ran out crying.

  The first thing I knew about it was when his father came back. He was a giant. He looked like an American footballer – a real man-mountain – and suddenly I found myself being screamed at by this very angry, scary-looking bastard.

  ‘You stood by and watched my little boy getting robbed,’ he yelled. ‘You let this happen and I want my money back.’

  He was effing and blinding something chronic and unfortunately there was no reasoning with him. I could tell he wanted to have it, but frankly I didn’t fancy my chances with a six-foot-four brick shithouse. He was calling me everything under the sun and I was getting a little nervous. The last thing I wanted to do was steam into this guy – he looked like he’d eat me for breakfast. But I couldn’t back down in front of everyone either. So I kept trying to reason with him.

  ‘There’s no need to call me names,’ I said. Stern but polite.

  He paused for a second. Then he took a step back. ‘You’re right,’ he said, suddenly all humble. ‘I’m sorry for being so rude.’

  This was a little confusing. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d done, but it seemed to be working. With every second he became more apologetic, his massive frame shrinking away from me. My confidence began to rise.

  ‘Another thing. You shouldn’t have left your son in here in the first place,’ I said, taking a step forward. ‘And I think it’s time for you to leave.’

  He nodded nervously, and told me everything I said was true. I was winning this contretemps and becoming ever braver. The bloke was backing off in a hurry, and soon we were at the door.

  ‘So,’ I added, feeling pretty pleased with myself, ‘fuck off out of here and don’t ever come back.’

  Strong words, for sure, but I thought his rudeness deserved them. Thankfully, he turned and beat a hasty retreat down the street. Result, I thought. I’d never been so relieved to see the back of someone. At the same time I was shocked I’d got away with it so easily. I guess it made me feel pretty smug.

  I turned to walk back inside, and it was only then that I realised the truth behind my triumph. Behind me stood another very large man, a hard-as-nails Hell’s Angel with the meanest look on his face and a huge knuckleduster wrapped around his clenched fist. It was Tyce, the head of the local chapter and a very good man. Tyce and I were good friends. The penny dropped right away. The father wasn’t scared of me one bit until my leather-clad, bearded bruiser of a mate showed his face. I burst out laughing. What a good man Tyce was. Always a man of few words, he’d sat on my shoulder with quiet composure, knowing it was all he needed to do. I’ve always treasured that moment. He also backed my dad up on one occasion when it looked like he was outnumbered. We were both very fond of Tyce.

  Tyce and I also became hotshots on the pool table. We did a roaring trade in hustling, playing ‘three-handed carve-up’ for money. He’d set me up, I’d set him up, and together we’d wipe the floor with anyone who took us on. We used to cut up 50 dollars each on a good day – a very nice little drink back then.

  As was the way of our world, we always took care of our own problems. We never called the police for help, and for that the local gendarmerie was grateful. Our relationship with the cops was good as gold. It was a proud moment for Dad and I when one day some officers came in and congratulated us for running such a tight ship in such a troublesome area. When we’d opened up they’d expected to be called out every five minutes. Little did they know they were the last people we wanted to have anything to do with.

  By way of thanks, Dad and I used to contribute to their social and charitable functions, which kept them sweet. Cops everywhere never fail to appreciate a case of Scotch. It was always amusing when one of the black dudes would come in, cause trouble, get a belting, then call in the law to try and get us nicked. On many occasions a cop would show up, look at my exasperated face and give me a sly wink – they knew the type of people we were dealing with and the matter would always end there. We were lucky in that respect. According to the US constitution, defending your property by any means is a God-given right.

  Ironically, the only difficulty we ever had with the police was nothing to do with our business. On reflection, it makes me laugh, but at the time it could have been a very dangerous situation. One night Dad and I were driving home from a bar in Easton, a nearby town, where we had a couple of pontoon gambling machines. The bar was owned by Larry Holmes, the former World Heavyweight Boxing Champion. On the way home I suddenly realised that nature was calling. It would be a long drive home and there was no way I could wait. Dad pulled over at a gas station and, realising it was closed, I nipped round the side of the building to relieve myself. I’d just unzipped when I suddenly heard the screech of tyres on tarmac. The next thing I knew I was fully illuminated by a spotlight. It was the police. I looked round to see a copper leaning over the door of his squad car with a .38 pistol pointed straight at me. It was just like something out of Starsky & Hutch. This wasn’t the first time I’d had a gun pointed at me by the law – I had a flashback to that morning back in Dulwich. Here we go again, I thought.

  ‘Put your hands up,’ yelled the officer.

  I was in a rather compromising position – I was reluctant to raise my hands as, with a gun trained on me, I was finding it a little hard to refrain from peeing. Shouting over my shoulder, I did my best to explain my predicament to the increasingly nervous copper. Eventually, by the time he had screamed at me for the third time, I was finally able to stick up my hands. I zipped myself up and walked towards him, hands in the air.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, officer,’ I said in my poshest English accent. ‘I’m a tourist from London, England. I was suddenly caught short…’

  I sensed the officer calming down a little. ‘Walk toward me and get out your ID,’ he barked suspiciously.

  ‘No problem,’ I replied calmly. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my dad getting out of the car and walking up behind the cop. His hand was thrust into the inside of his jacket – he was obviously reaching for his ID – and I could see his mouth moving but there was no sound coming out. Suddenly I remembered Dad had lost his voice. Shit, I thought, the copper’s going to think he’s being crept up on and that Dad’s reaching for a gun. Carefully I explained that my dad was approaching from the rear, couldn’t speak and was searching for his ID. I was desperate for the copper not to panic.

  Luckily he didn’t. But he did look a bit confused. He asked us to clarify who we were. We did. Finally he lowered his gun. It turned out there’d been a recent spate of robberies at various gas stations in the area – the police had spotted Dad’s car and assumed the worst. Fortunately we managed to convince him we were innocent and didn’t do anything rash. It was all over. Realising all was well, the policeman got chatty.

  ‘I’ve got a friend in Liverpool who runs a fish and chip shop,’ he said. ‘Do you guys know it?’

  Now Liverpool’s a big place with hundreds of chippies, a fact our uniformed friend didn’t seem to appreciate.

  ‘Yeah, sure we do,’ said Dad, giving me a wink. ‘Lovely place on the corner, right?’

  ‘That’s right. So it is,’ said the cop.

  Anything to get rid of them, eh?

  Life in the games room was pretty repetitive. There were always hassles to sort out and Dad and I were at the front line. You couldn’t let your guard down for a second. Staying sharp was sometimes tough, not to mention boring. Both of us felt that way. Still, it was better than being banged up back in Britain.

>   There were other consolations too, one of them being money. We were making a fortune. Aside from the games room – which brought in very tidy profits – Dad’s ever-expanding connections in Allentown and beyond gave him some very nice touches. Several enterprises were doing very nicely indeed. As a result he soon had enough funds to start building us a new family home in preparation for Mum and Danni’s move from England. Very conscious of what a huge upheaval America was for us all, he wanted to give us the best life possible. He heard about a new ‘private’ development that was being planned in a wonderful location on the outskirts of Allentown. He laid down a deposit for a house to be built in the Georgian style. There would be three bedrooms, all with en suite, a large den with a stunning open stone fireplace, lounge and separate dining room, double garage, a swimming pool and a beautiful garden filled with cherry and peach trees. Work was soon under way.

  Another positive for me was the girls. My English-gent manners worked wonders on American ladies, and I was an instant hit with the women. I was never short of a date and had a ball going out to all the best bars and clubs. I knew all the owners, so never had any trouble with the under-21 rule – not that they tended to be much younger than that, I hasten to add! – and always made a point of holding doors open and pulling chairs out. That’s the way us English do things, but many of the girls I met simply weren’t used to being treated so nicely. The results were astonishing and I had some wonderful evenings with some very liberal young ladies.