Although I was talented enough to intermittently beat my father in cards, Al never allowed me to play in the regular poker games. Instead, I was occasionally permitted to run the games—providing food and refreshments to the gamblers who would settle in for up to forty-eight hours of nonstop action. Because running the game was monetarily rewarding, there was friendly competition for the coveted task. Jimmy and Colin were the usual candidates for the job. Jimmy and Colin began working for my father while in their early teens. For a number of years, they were his most trusted companions and were often dispatched to conduct business on behalf of Big Al. That, in itself, was testimony to their reliability and street savvy, as Al most often preferred to keep his business contacts, like his cards, close to his chest. My father doted on both and loved them as if they were his sons. Vanessa and I never competed with either, as we looked to them as older brothers. Six and eight years older than I, they were simply much better candidates for the job. I was given the honor only when the two of them were otherwise engaged.
Attending players also determined whether or not I would be permitted to run a game. The presence of Matteo, a handsome hit man from Pittsburgh, would inevitably make me persona non grata. Although he was a regular visitor to the store, and even occasionally attended family celebrations, my parents thought it inappropriate for me to spend hours on end at the poker game if he was expected to play.
Matteo had a certain “Rat Pack” sophistication about him. Tall, dark, and handsome with an elegant and generous personality, Matteo would often bring delectable treats for our family to enjoy. His mother, a fabulous cook, would send platters of homemade braciole, osso bucco, pumpkin ravioli, or cannoli for our family to feast on. When not planning to stay for a poker game, he was most often accompanied by his leggy girlfriend, Suzanne. I thought both to be the height of sophistication but was always aware of his occupation. Early on, when he first appeared on the scene, our parents instructed Vanessa and me on how to behave around Matteo. “Never speak to him unless spoken to, and excuse yourself from his presence as soon as practical,” Bonnie instructed us. We thought it a strange request, as he did not have a menacing persona. Even hit men can be charming.
Most of the poker games took place in the basement of the store, but on occasion my father would utilize the vacant apartment upstairs or the back room. I would begin preparing for the game early on Friday morning—putting together potato and macaroni salads to compliment the fresh deli sandwiches that I would custom make for players during the grueling game. Coffee, seltzer, and a variety of sodas were always on hand. No alcohol was allowed. Al did not drink, and frowned upon mixing gambling and booze.
Most of the time, I would sit back, relax, and read a book until someone placed an order. Long into the night, I would catnap in my chair as players took turns stretching out on the sofa for a few hours. New players, joining the game, would announce their presence by ringing the buzzer outside the store; I would dash upstairs to let them in.
Spending hours on end with the players was relatively easy work. It usually netted me a healthy profit, often two to four hundred dollars. Besides the weekly pay I received for working in the store, the windfall of running a poker game added substantially to my “escape fund”—savings that would assist my eventual escape from Clay Avenue and facilitate my entry into a legitimate life.
Sporting bets were a large part of my father’s business and one that he kept under his control. Unlike other aspects of his gaming business, Al rarely allowed others to have a hand in taking bets on games. He would inform us of the spread so that we could answer inquires by phone or walk in clients, but he preferred to stay on top of the action himself. After all, mistakes could be very expensive to all parties.
On occasions when he was out of town or late returning to the store, Jimmy was most often in charge. When both were absent, Vanessa and I were permitted to take bets from familiar gamblers and call in the layoffs, but neither of us enjoyed the responsibility that came with this side of the gaming business. For the most part, other than picking up the parlay sheets from our source in Pittsburgh or running payouts and collections, I tried to avoid this area of the “family business.”
General Merchandise
Although seemingly a front for the illegal business, our legitimate stores were, for a time, actually quite lucrative. Al always kept up with the latest fads or hot items of the season, so the stores were well stocked. Christmas, Easter, and Valentine’s Day were the high season holidays. Store employees would often work twelve-hour shifts to fill orders, complete with assembly and wrapping services included. At its peak, Al’s Bargain Center would open its doors to customers patiently waiting in line. By the late 1960s, business began to decrease due to the building of malls and large corporate stores in the surrounding area. The biggest hit to Jeannette’s business district would come with the decline in Jeannette’s glass manufacturing, beginning in the late 1970s.
To make up for the loss of legitimate income, my father jumped deeper into the world of gambling. Over the course of my years on Clay Avenue, Al would become obsessed with “the payoff that is just around the corner.” In the meantime, there were forces working behind the scenes that were determined to take control of Jeannette’s lucrative numbers industry. Life for the Abraham family was about to take a strange and unexpected turn.
Four
Canary #1 Sings
“The zoo is a place for animals to study the behavior of human beings.”
Anonymous
I have been spat upon twice in my life. The first time came between my seventh and eighth birthdays—in the crazy and uncertain times leading up to what my sister and I refer to as “the Trial.” The tumultuous and public events would unfold in the summer of 1971, but their seeds were sown the previous year, as I awaited my entrance into the first grade.
Although excited at the prospect of starting my school career, I was aware of an unsettling change in my parents’ behavior. Normally unabashed and forthright about their illegal activities, they suddenly became secretive and anxious. Mysterious phone calls, a constant furrow in my mother’s brow, and my father’s many meetings with shadowy figures produced a foreboding atmosphere, one that exceeded the everyday unease that surrounded the Abraham family. Vanessa and I were aware that something ominous was brewing, but we never could have predicted the coming storm.
From Monkeys to Mobsters and Everything in Between
While our parents were busy grappling with the mysterious looming threat, Vanessa and I busied ourselves with enjoying what was left of the summer of 1970. For us, that meant spending as much time as possible with the newest addition to our family, our horse, Thunder. As with many of our family’s unusual pets, Al won Thunder in a poker game. Thunder arrived on Clay Avenue in a trailer and, to the great consternation of our busybody bachelor neighbor, spent a few short hours in our tiny backyard while my parents set about finding a place to board him. Vanessa and I were thrilled by our newfound friend and looked forward to learning how to ride. He was a breath of fresh air compared to the last “pet” our father brought home from Pittsburgh after a long weekend at the poker tables. Larry the monkey had been gone six months when Thunder appeared on the scene. We knew immediately that, unlike the mischievous, shit-throwing, masturbating monkey, Thunder would be a loveable friend.
Of course, Larry’s captivity led to his unruly behavior. In retrospect, he was simply expelling the pent up energy that came along with living in a cage. Back then, people were less aware about the implications of caging wild animals, and exotic animals in particular were something of a curiosity. My naïve parents created a caged playground for our pet monkey and situated him in the front window of our family store. His adorably furry face and crazy antics were, at first, a welcome draw on the Avenue. Pedestrians and customers delighted at his performances. Vanessa and I sat for hours watching him swing from the bars while we tried to entice him with ripe bananas. Larry quickly became accustomed to his new surr
oundings, but his hilarious antics soon became more aggressive.
Larry had a front row seat to the comings and goings of the hundreds of pedestrians and factory workers who strolled past the store every day. He was a bright spot for many exhausted laborers, a temporary reprieve from the daily grind. He provided a dose of cuteness in the otherwise dog-eat-dog world of making a living in Jeannette’s factories. The bus stop in front of the store provided Larry with both willing and unsuspecting spectators who began to find themselves the objects of his growing angst at being constantly on display. The “novelty” began to express his discontent. Women were his favorite targets.
Larry’s favorite pastime was masturbation. Screams from women awaiting the bus signaled the onset of Larry’s most shocking acts, which began with the usual swinging from the bars or playing with his many toys and ended with Larry masturbating for an astonished and offended audience. The liquored up factory workers coming from the bar next-door cheered him on, while offended women rushed up the street looking for a police officer. Others charged into the store and berated my parents for allowing such a display. Although my father thought that everything Larry did was hilarious, my mother was becoming increasingly concerned about his unpredictable behavior. Vanessa and I took to warning her, “Mummy, Larry is playing with his hot dog again!” She would get out her handy spray bottle and shoot a stream of water at Larry, managing to break his concentration only temporarily.
As if masturbating were not problem enough, Larry soon began to throw “things” at customers and gamblers, but most pointedly, at my mother. I am not sure why Larry singled her out as a target for his outrageous behavior. She was always kind to him and tried to make his life as comfortable as possible. Bonnie never supported our keeping Larry, as she thought it cruel to keep such a precocious animal in a cage. If he could not be in his natural habitat, she thought he needed to be in a zoo where he would have plenty of room to run about. Unaware that he was provoking his most ardent supporter, Larry targeted my mother at every opportunity.
At first, he threw toys at Bonnie. Then food became his weapon of choice. I vividly recall a shiny, red apple bouncing off the back of my mother’s head. Eventually, Larry upped the ante. He used the most offensive of weapons: his shit. The first shit bombs appeared from the depths of silence. Larry would become uncharacteristically quiet, squatting in a contorted position with one arm behind him. His eyes would roll back in his head and a bizarre smile would flash across his face. Then, presto! He would fling a steamy shit bomb at the most convenient target.
Between the masturbating and feces throwing, Larry’s stay on Clay Avenue was rapidly drawing to an end. The final straw came when a customer entered the store to find my mother in a heated, albeit one-sided, argument with the monkey. Larry had just completed a pornographic show for outraged pedestrians. Liz, a sharp dresser who always looked as if she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine, immediately took Larry’s side. She berated Bonnie for yelling as such an adorable creature and began to sweet talk Larry. The monkey reached for her through the bars. Liz approached the window display and cooed to Larry, who responded by throwing kisses at her.
“See Bonnie, all he needs is a little love,” Liz admonished my mother as she threw air kisses back at Larry.
My mother, rendered speechless, stood frozen in horror as she watched Larry urinate down the front of Liz’s purple wool dress. Liz became irate as the warmth of Larry’s ruse drew her attention. The tables turned, and my mother found herself protecting Larry from a furious Liz, who was determined to throttle the now-screaming monkey. A few days later, Larry was shipped off to a zoo in a nearby county.
Thunder, by comparison, was a joy. Inky black with a white diamond patch on his forehead, he was beauty in motion. Vanessa and I gleefully awaited our Sunday visits with Thunder, who was boarded at a farm a mere thirty minutes away. Tiny for my age, I was not permitted to ride Thunder unaccompanied, so I perched in front of Vanessa who quickly mastered the art of riding. She became so adept that she would often jump on him bareback. Afterwards, we would assist in rubbing him down, all the while feeding him the apples and carrot sticks we had prepared for him at home.
Thunder was a welcome respite from the stresses that came along with my father’s occupation, but he was not our only pet. Our house and tiny yard were akin to a miniature zoo, with dogs, cats, lizards, frogs, fish, chickens, rabbits, and alligators aplenty. My parents loved animals and instilled in us an enduring devotion for earth’s creatures. On any given day, I could be found walking my alligator up the street by means of a leather harness my mother made to keep him in check. When Curly the alligator was not in tow, I would often have a chameleon or frog in my pocket. For some, my pets were more than a little disconcerting. Hook, a hoodlum from Pittsburgh, was especially fearful of my chameleons and most especially, Curly. A large gruff man who commanded respect, Hook’s fearful reactions tickled my fancy. I purposefully terrorized him with my amphibian friends by waiting for the opportunity to back him into a corner where, white-faced, he would offer me a wad of money to remove the offending creatures.
Curly was part of a surprise trio of baby alligators my father brought back from a Florida fishing trip. They were strange pets, to be sure, but I quickly fell in love with the fascinating creatures, naming them Curly, Moe, and Shemp. Moe died shortly after arriving on Clay Avenue and Shemp found himself the victim of a flushing toilet. I did not mean to flush him away; with the mind of a child, I simply thought that he would enjoy a good swim. Looking back, I am horrified at my actions. My mother admonished me for my thoughtlessness, telling me that he would forever live in the sewer eating our waste. Curly, the only survivor, lived with us until he reached about two feet in length. He was my best buddy and was never aggressive with me. He loved to have his stomach rubbed and would often join me on the sofa to watch television. Curly did not make many friends and was eventually determined to be a menace by the police, who received complaints of an alligator on the Avenue. Curly eventually ended up at the zoo with Larry.
I did not mind Larry’s abrupt departure but was brokenhearted when Curly was sent away. Yet, neither loss prepared my sister or me for the death of Thunder. Our parents explained, to their tearful daughters, that Thunder met his demise in a horrific accident when he escaped his stall, jumped a fence, and was struck and killed by an eighteen-wheeler. Vanessa and I were devastated at the news and cried for days. Heartbroken, we tried to occupy ourselves with the many rabbits we kept in the backyard. Years later we discovered that Thunder did not die in a horrific accident; he had been lost—as he was won—in a hand of poker. Not wanting to admit that Daddy had lost our beloved horse, our parents concocted the outrageous lie of Thunder’s gruesome demise. Even today, Vanessa and I struggle to understand their bizarre and cruel ruse.
Little Bitch Goes to School
A nerdy little girl with unruly hair and a curious mind, I was eager to start school. I not only looked forward to meeting other kids my age, I even thrilled at the prospect of regular homework assignments. I was also excited at the prospect of being away from the store and my parent’s crazy antics.
Bonnie too had long looked forward to the beginning of my school years, but the big event was marred by my mother’s miscalculation of my age. Although I was in fact six, she had failed to register me for the coming school year. Suspended in a haze of booze, she had apparently lost track of the years. The school district had not, however. At first, Bonnie balked at an official inquiry as to why I had not yet been registered. She did not want to admit that her love of Jack Daniels and black beauties had interfered with her sense of time. By her calendar, I was only five. Mortified at being “caught” in the embarrassing position of not knowing her own daughter’s age, my mother defiantly responded that I was too immature to begin my school career. Fortunately, her objections were overruled.
By all accounts, I was a handful. In many ways my entrance into first grade afforded my mother badly needed respite
. I was not a destructive or belligerent child, but my inquisitive nature was a constant annoyance to my mother, who was typically in some stage of intoxication. Exasperated with my persistent inquiries, Bonnie would often quip to anyone within earshot, “That little bitch is making me crazy! She never stops asking questions. Why this? Why that? Why? Why? Why?”
Admittedly, my curiosity was boundless, and I would persist until either given an answer I thought logical or one I needed to mull over. Desperate to shut me up, my mother was constantly buying me books in the hopes of keeping me occupied, but after reading them, I always wanted to discuss the topic du jour. This inevitably ended with another “why?” As a result, my going off to school was an exciting prospect for both mother and child.
Although Gaskill Elementary was just a few blocks away, Bonnie walked me to school my first day and gratefully turned me over to the teacher. Ms. Bartholomew was a saint. A teacher for many years, I am sure she thought she had seen it all before I appeared on the scene, but I think it is safe to say that I was a memorable student. After all, my first day of primary school began with a naughty incident on my part and ended, the following spring, with my sister and me having full-time undercover police officers as bodyguards.
The Bookie's Daughter Page 6
