The Bookie's Daughter Read online

  Big Al during the 1971 Federal Trial, Jeannette News-Dispatch

  The

  Bkie's

  Daughter

  Heather Abraham

  Visit our web site for additional material and pictures.

  www.BookiesDaughter.com

  Copyright © 2012 Heather Abraham

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.

  SagisBooks Publishers Inc. www.SagisBooks.Com

  First Edition: April, 2012

  ISBN-10: 0-9838635-1-2

  ISBN-13: 978-0983-86351-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012933590

  Author’s note: The narrative you are about to read is based on events from my childhood, although most names and identifying characteristics of those who participated in this dramedy have been fictionalized.

  Editor: Lara Merlin, New York, NY

  Book Cover: John Howard Graphics, Jeannette, PA.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is very much appreciated.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my parents, Big Al and Bonnie Abraham.

  I wish you peace at last.

  And

  In loving memory of:

  Virginia Butch

  Bud Himmelwright

  Eileen Porreca

  Huseyin and Nezahat Sağişman

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Home-Grown Addiction

  2. A Match Not Made in Heaven

  3. Family Business: “General Merchandise and Gambling”

  4. Canary #1 Sings

  5. Troll Under the Bridge

  6. Mommy Dearest

  7. Ice Cream, Pizza, and the Loogie Man

  8. Badda Bing, Badda Bang, Badda BOOM!

  9. The Bible Thumping Bookie

  10. My Two Giants vs. the Pimpmobile and the Skin Runners

  11. Slithering Menace

  12. The Abyss

  13. Passages

  Epilogue

  Photos

  Acknowledgements

  It takes a village to write a book. Although writing is a solitary act, the support of family and friends has been an essential part of my creative process. I begin with the life-long friends who enthusiastically recounted their memories of my zany family. Through occasional tears and inevitable laughter, Lois Ann Crump, Ann Porreca, Patricia Little, Ron Porreca, Clyde Pearsol, Toni Ann Moffa Bibb, Felicia Tillman Toé, Diane Himes, and Joe Marsolo helped me to bring the past alive.

  I am immensely grateful for the support, advice, and encouragement that has continuously flowed from friends and colleagues. Heartfelt thanks to: John Sullivan, Kate Daley-Bailey, Kenny Smith, Dennis LoRusso, Erika Dorland, Suzanne Degnats, Felicia Thomas, and Ellen Logan. I am especially indebted to Warren Pritchard, Sherry Morton, and Barbara Sutter for their critiques of early chapter drafts. Their time and thoughtful suggestions have been essential in the development of this narrative. For their encouragement and wisdom, I tip-my-hat to three forces of nature: Judith Stogner, Tammy Speed, and Arzu Őzyazgan. Special thanks to Debbie Szypula who for years pressed me to write my story and to Ayla Bakanay for providing me with a few weeks of much needed silence.

  I am sincerely grateful to John Howard for his generous support and creative book cover design; Lara Merlin, editor extraordinaire, for her patience and wisdom; the fabulous women at the Westmoreland County Clerk of Courts for assisting my search of Big Al's criminal records; and the gracious staff of the Jeannette Public Library who located relevant newspaper articles. A grateful shout-out goes to those who reminisced on the gambling culture of bygone days but wished to remain anonymous.

  My deepest thanks to the other Bookie's Daughter, my sister Vanessa Abraham, who has never wavered in her support. Her wicked sense of humor, bold spirit, and pragmatic acceptance of our formative years continues to inspire me. And most importantly, my endless gratitude to my husband, Teo Sağişman (benim hayatım), who instantly championed this project and gave me the courage to stay the course. His unwavering encouragement, boundless creative energy, and remarkable pluck have been fundamental in making this project a reality. Finally, my affection to our three, furry muses: Princess Grace, Rhea Sita, and Bella Luna.

  Introduction

  “If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”

  George Bernard Shaw

  My initial effort at writing this book began within a year of my father’s death in 1983. Raw from grief and full of rage—at no one in particular and yet at everyone—I began to inquire into the particulars of my father’s many illegal ventures. Although I had been privy to a great deal of his illegitimate dealings, I desperately wanted to fill in the missing details I felt were necessary to make sense of his life—and by extension, mine. As if somehow, the tiniest scrap of information would help me bridge the gap between this world and the next.

  In short order, I began receiving threatening phone calls from a mysterious gritty voice who insisted that I was “making a mistake” and that continued pursuit would be “detrimental” to my health. Undeterred, I persisted, contacting old acquaintances and seeking to obtain copies of trial transcripts. A near miss with a speeding car finally convinced me to suspend my efforts, but the desire to organize my memories and tell my story, even if only to myself, has never been far from the surface.

  The project was briefly resurrected ten years later, shortly after I began to attend community college in Atlanta. After taking a particularly engaging writing class, I began to outline the events I wanted to include in my memoir. Occupied with eking out a living and attending night school, I made occasional stabs at writing but I again put the project on the back burner. I pledged to myself that I would pick it up after finishing with my education.

  Thirteen years later, after years of night school and a few years as a full-time student, I finally earned my third and final degree—a Master’s in comparative religion. Graduating just in time for the second worst economic decline in American history, I found the job market all but closed. Time was now abundant. I revisited my old project—a project that my father had always predicted would one day become a reality.

  In many ways, this book is entirely different from what would have been the product of the previous two attempts. The passage of decades and many years of therapy have all but extinguished the grief, anger, and outrage that sustained me during my formative years and kept me going in the years following my father’s death.

  The first attempt would most probably have produced a book about revenge—revenge on the predators who stole much of my childhood and on the corrupt officials and ignorant, deluded adults that were so often vicious in their treatment and betrayal of my family. My second attempt would have been a study on rage—the rage of a wounded child at her incredibly inept and hopelessly addicted parents.

  My story is about acceptance, reconciliation, and resolution. I am thankful for the passage of time and the wisdom I gained in the process of enjoying and enduring life’s messiness. Reflection, with the acknowledgement and release of anger, has allowed me to tell my story free from the burdens of the walking wounded.

  This process has
been unbelievably cathartic. I am thankful for the buckets of tears and endless hours of laughter I shared with my sister, Vanessa, while revisiting the events of our youth. With the publication of this book, I will no longer live in fear that my youthful “criminal” adventures would be discovered or that the life I have built would somehow disappear if my past were illuminated. Weary of running from the past, I have decided that it is time for all my identities to live in harmony, without regret or embarrassment.

  The narrative you are about to read is based on events from my childhood. The names and identifying characteristics of those who participated in this dramedy have been fictionalized. I applied these changes in an effort to conceal the true-identity of many of the players. I did this, not necessarily to protect those who participated but to protect their family members and loved ones. I firmly believe that the sins of the father (or mother) should not be visited upon the generations that follow.

  After months of trying to put the events of my life with my parents in chronological order, I found the task impossible. Some themes, repeated throughout my childhood, defy a simple timeline. Although I maintain a semblance of chronology, the following narrative is presented in an order that favors story line and is arranged by topic.

  Most 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.

  Throughout 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.

  And so the dance begins.

  Prologue

  The Grim Reaper Rides through Jeannette

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

  Jean Giraudoux

  July 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.

  One

  Home-Grown Addiction

  “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.