The Bookie's Daughter (2 page)

M
ost of the events described in this book occur in my hometown of Jeannette, Pennsylvania. A former industrial town on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, Jeannette was for many of my friends a great place to grow up. My story should not be perceived as an indictment of the city or its residents. For every monster I encountered, my life was also blessed with many warm, loving, and kindhearted individuals. This story is unique to my family. Although my formative years in Jeannette were at times turbulent and dangerous, my father’s addictions and chosen path are the primary instigators of the events that made up my life.

T
hroughout my years as the Bookie’s Daughter, most often following one madcap event or another, my father would often quip: “Are you taking notes, kid? Someday you’re going to write a book.” Well, Dad, I finally did. I hope it meets with your approval.

A
nd so the dance begins.

“
I’m not afraid of death. It’s the stake one puts up in 
o
rder to play the game of life.”

J
ean Giraudoux

J
uly 11, 1983

“What kind of daughter laughs at her father’s funeral?” growled my mother, seconds before she slapped my face. Understanding her emotional state, I let this one slide, but made a mental note. This was the last time Bonnie would ever lay a hand on me. Of course, her question was legitimate, but considering the circumstances, how could I not laugh? To be sure, Al was laughing, wherever he was. I was certain he was enjoying the show his family, friends, and enemies were engaged in: a last hurrah for a man who lived his life on the edge.

It had been a hectic and emotional week. Just days after his stroke, my beloved father was now lying in his oversized coffin. He looked quite handsome in his black suit and red tie, as if the years of bad health, physical pain, and emotional stress had been released with his last breath. He looked young, even mischievous, in death. A serene smile played on his frozen lips.

My father’s viewing had begun conventionally. Family poured in from the tri-state area to pay homage to and grieve for the man who had been a rock for so many. His friends came to pay their last respects. Others came to watch the spectacle that would inevitably ensue.

My mother, sister, and I stood and greeted mourners as they made their way to Al’s coffin. Some engaged in prayer and others stood shaking their heads in disbelief or annoyance. Many familiar faces filed past us, as customers, politicians, gamblers, police officers, businessmen, degenerate criminals, and mysterious strangers paid their respects and mingled awkwardly with each other. I found it amusing that the political figures remained aloof when encountering those from the seedier side of the tracks. Although they knew each other, their unease with such public proximity was apparent. Back room meetings were one thing, but public recognition was not an option anyone relished.

Aside from family and close friends, it was the gamblers who were most concerned with the loss of my father. Some were genuinely grieving; others came to close the door on the thousands of dollars Al owed them in gambling debts. The upstanding citizens moved quickly through the line, speaking briefly to my mother. In contrast, the kind-hearted bookmakers and gamblers, who understood the financial condition in which Al had left his wife, gave Bonnie envelope after envelope of cash to help clear some of Al’s debts. Thousands of dollars were passed to the grieving widow by those who intimately understood the depths of my father’s gambling and the debts he left behind. This money would soon be stolen from Bonnie by anonymous masked thugs who held her at gunpoint, threatening to blow her brains out, until she finally revealed the hiding place of her widow’s treasure.

Birk Funeral Home filled with colorful characters, some of whom knew bits and pieces of my father’s many secrets. The “normalcy” of the event quickly vanished as one of my father’s sisters stood up and threw herself onto his casket, crying hysterically that she wanted to “go with him.” Not long after her husband gently coaxed her away from the casket, the door opened with a bang.

Mourners watched as a tall, elegant man, dressed entirely in black, entered the funeral home. The stranger’s mourning clothes were accessorized with a jaunty, black fedora worn slightly off center, creating a shadow over half his face while drawing attention to one visible and startling blue eye, which was framed by sooty black lashes. The stranger strode up the aisle, ignoring all present. He focused his concentration on the deceased lying in repose.

As he approached the coffin, the stranger stood for a moment, gazing at my father. He then bent over and whispered something meant only for the departed. Straightening, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a mirror, which he promptly placed under my father’s nose, thus confirming the absence of breath. Satisfied that Al was dead, the dark stranger slipped the mirror back into his pocket, turned, and without a word to anyone, made a dramatic exit. Curious whispers broke out around the room as the stranger disappeared into the July sunshine.

That was it. At that moment, I let loose the peal of laughter that so infuriated my mother. Grabbing me by the arm, she dragged me to an adjacent vacant room and promptly slapped me. Her threats failed to achieve the desired outcome. Instead, I continued to laugh at the absurdity of what had just occurred. What a perfect send-off for the complex man lying in the next room. My father would have relished the dramatic and bizarre performance we had just witnessed. I could hear Al’s laughter, even if my mother could not.

The Grim Reaper, as my sister and I quickly dubbed him, had paid my father’s life an appropriate tribute. After all, Al delighted in, even sought out, adventure and chaos. What could be more fitting than a personal Grim Reaper sent to ensure that this loveable and exasperating man had indeed passed on, leaving behind his messy, earthly life and taking with him dangerous secrets that many wanted permanently buried?

In life, Al was a husband, father, brother, and friend, but he was also an addict. Gambling was his true love. This love kept him constantly seeking out that one, big take. Al’s life was dominated by his addictions. In pursuit of his elusive demons, Al plunged into a seedy world populated by colorful—and sometimes dangerous—characters.

A bookie by trade, Al never denied his love of and fascination with risking it all. In his attempts to fill this unquenchable need, Al had created a strange, comedic, and often hazardous life for his family. He never thought to shield his wife and daughters from his illegal activities. Instead, he insisted that we fully participate in his criminal enterprises, which blossomed to include selling illegal fireworks, bootleg booze, and a variety of other bizarre and unlawful enterprises. My father’s chosen profession, coupled with the crazy and oh-so-public antics of my parents, left my sister and me with the challenge of growing up in a crazy, crime-ridden family.

This is my story—my memories of growing up as the bookie’s daughter.

“
We are strange beings, we seem to go free, but we go in chains—chains of training, custom, convention, association, environment—in a word, Circumstance—and against these bonds the strongest of us struggle in vain.”

Mark Twain

My father’s passion for gambling began at a relatively early age on the streets of his hometown of Jeannette, Pennsylvania. As a young boy, he began to spend time in the neighborhood pool halls. Al, always gregarious, quickly struck up a camaraderie with the bookmakers and gamblers who inhabited them.

In short order, my father developed a passion for the gaming world. He gleefully became a “runner” for several bookies. Decades later, he would employ my sister and me in the same way. Al ran numbers, delivered winnings, picked up payments, delivered punch boards, and performed errands up and down the business district of Clay Avenue. In return, he enjoyed unlimited access to the pool hall’s amenities and received a small stipend for his efforts. Of course, he also enjoyed hefty tips from gamblers temporarily flush after a win.

My father lived his entire life in Jeannette, or more specifically, on Clay Avenue. The various chapters of the Abraham family, both tragic and comedic, played out on the eight blocks that made up the business and social heart of Jeannette, a blue-collar city with dozens of factories, great and small, that generated the city’s prosperity.

Located just thirty minutes southeast of Pittsburgh, Jeannette was renowned for its numerous glass factories. The city, which was incorporated as a borough in 1889, grew up around the Chambers and McKee Glass Works. H. Sellers McKee, cofounder of the original glass works, choose Jeannette because of its location, accessibility to the railroads, and abundance of natural resources necessary to glass manufacturing. He named the city after his wife. Jeannette began to produce glass in 1889, and within a few decades would become one of the most prolific glass manufacturers in the United States. Just as Pittsburgh was known as “Steel City,” Jeannette was often referred to as “Glass City.” It solidified its reputation with an increasing number of new factories, which generated copious amounts of domestic and commercial glass products.

Clay Avenue, named after Richard W. Clay, the financier who provided capital to Chambers and McKee, was the business and social center of the city. “The Avenue” was home to a rich and varied business district, which included the beautiful Manos Theatre, banks, cafes, restaurants, pubs, specialized groceries, bakeries, pharmacies, candy emporiums, ice cream shops, clothing stores, Murphy’s 5 & 10, and Woolworth’s, to mention just a few. The prosperous blue-collar residents and out-of-town workers spawned a thriving business center that was active from early morning until late in the evening for the benefit of shift workers.

Although glass manufacturing was the primary and most visible industry filling the coffers of Jeannette, there was another industry obvious to those “in the know.” Widespread gambling produced a thriving shadow economy. Baseball may have been the national pastime, but Jeannette’s obsession was betting on the game. Those inclined toward gambling could and would bet on almost anything; the most extreme lost entire paychecks on spontaneous bets or marathon, weekend poker games. Every block of the downtown district had a bookie, numbers taker, or punchboard supplier. Poker games, slot machine emporiums, and mini-casinos could be found in the back rooms or basements of many legitimate storefronts. One could go to a local ice cream shop and bet on the daily number while waiting for a sundae, or visit a candy store and take a chance on a chocolate-smudged punchboard. When time was a consideration, workers rushing to meet their shift could place a bet with “walkers,” who strolled up and down Clay Avenue taking daily number bets from those on the go. These walkers would retain a percentage of the day’s take, and turn the numbers and money over to the more prominent bookies in town. Jeannette was a mecca for those looking for action, and addictions were fed by the extraordinarily diverse action available.

Al grew up in an environment dominated by gambling. The allure was a great temptation for my father, who so loved the unpredictability of the gaming world. Eventually, this fascination would play a prominent role in his life, and, by extension, in the lives of his wife and two daughters.