The Bookie's Daughter (10 page)

My father, code named “Canary #1,” was about to become chief witness and unindicted co-conspirator in a federal case that would test the efficacy of the anticorruption component of the OCCA. In the interest of a full and accurate description of the events, I refer to the official 1972 United States Court of Appeals summary of the affair.

The government’s chief witness, Albert J. Abraham, was an admitted gambler, and an informer. His testimony discloses that prior to January, 1970 he conducted a numbers operation in Jeanette which employed more than five runners and that the same operation continued thereafter.

Beginning in January Rinaldi, the Chief of Police, began to harass his operation in an effort to compel him to turn his numbers in to defendant Chick. Riehl, the Mayor, spoke to him about requiring all local numbers business to be turned in to Chick. Abraham yielded to this pressure and thereafter did business with Chick, and continued to do so until April 23, 1971. He also became an informer for a state law enforcement agency, and began surreptitiously to record conversations with the defendants. These recorded conversations corroborate his testimony that Riehl, Rinaldi and Chick were conspiring to facilitate Chick’s gambling enterprise. (Nos. 71-2133 to 71-2135)
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Although my sister and I were too young to understand the political and legal implications of the events swirling around us, we were nevertheless caught up in the scandal. Al the bookie was about to sing like a canary. Vanessa and I found ourselves targets of angry and ignorant adults who thought it appropriate to take out their ire on two young girls.

Anonymous threats began shortly after the public became aware of the arrests of Jeannette’s Police Chief and Mayor. We received a package containing a dead canary, a note soaked in a blood-like substance, and a multitude of threatening phone calls, many of which included descriptions of what would happen to my sister and me if my father continued to work with the Feds.
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The source of these threats was never identified. It is not my intention to put the blame on those who were indicted in this silly affair. There were many, some who were not even involved in this particular matter, who abhorred my father’s willingness to turn state’s evidence. After all, “ratting” was anathema to those who made their living on the wrong side of the law. Al’s long association with criminal elements and his free participation in illicit dealings made many of his criminal associates apprehensive.

In response to these anonymous threats, my sister and I were afforded the protection of undercover state police officers who accompanied us whenever we left our home. Having been raised in an environment that was often explosive and always an adventure, Vanessa and I rolled with the punches. We found our new “friends,” Travis and Dennis, to be delightful companions. Of course, we did have some explaining to do the first time they escorted us to school. Thankfully, after a few days, their presence became part of the routine, and Travis and Dennis ceased to be objects of curiosity for our classmates.

The anonymous threats and the mean-spirited actions of those irked by my father’s temporary marriage with the Feds remains most clearly in my memory. When the slain canary arrived at our apartment in a small box, its message was not just clear to my parents but unsettling for my sister, who opened the box with a squeal. I clearly recall the look of horror on Vanessa’s face, as she stood frozen in fear and confusion. I caught only a quick glimpse of the poor creature before my mother snatched the offending package and hurried off to berate my father for bringing such trouble into the family home. Thereafter, mail was treated as suspect; all packages were inspected by our professional “companions.”

The phone also became something of a menace. The once-merry ring suddenly became sinister. Anonymous male voices would taunt Bonnie about the welfare of her daughters. A “bloodied” note appeared mysteriously fixed to our doorframe in the middle of the day. Having spent the morning in the backyard playing under the watchful gaze of my grandmother, we returned to the apartment at my mother’s call for lunch to find the ominous note which consisted of one, telling word: “DIE.” To press the malicious intent of the note, the anonymous perpetrators dripped a red fluid over the message. The large butcher knife that fixed the note to doorframe of our apartment left no doubt as to the rage some felt at my father’s decision to “sing.”

My most vivid memory of this time involves a chance encounter with a raging studda bubba. “Studda bubba” is a Pittsburghese
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term used to describe elderly women, usually Italian or Polish, who dressed in widow’s weeds. The typical studda bubba “look” included a long dark-colored skirt or dress with a matching coat or smock, accessorized by clunky masculine shoes and a babushka covering their grey hair. Because of their traditional attire, normally quiet presence, and difficulty with the English language, studda bubbas were strangely anonymous and somewhat mysterious figures. A common presence on Clay Avenue, they quietly conducted their business and usually avoided attention.

My mother raised me to be respectful of studda bubbas, whom she saw as strong, hard-working women. These wise women were keepers of their native culture—the heart and soul of many families. So, I was not, at first, wary when the studda bubba approached me as I played hopscotch, just a few feet from the door of the family store. As she waddled toward me, I felt her stoic gaze concentrate on my face. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, I broke the silence with a big smile and the cheerful greeting, “Good morning!”

The studda bubba stopped, her stare deepening. She began to speak in a heavy Italian accent. “Whatsa you name?”

“Heather Abraham.”

“Whosa you fadder?” the studda bubba asked. She leaned nearer, as if she were hard of hearing.

“Big Al,” I responded proudly.

The studda bubba’s once-expressionless face contorted in rage and she began to scream in a mélange of Pittsburghese and Italian. Although I could not understand most of her tirade, I was aware that her anger concerned my father. I clearly understood the words “fadder” and “bastardo.” Before I could react, she punctuated the end of her tirade with a viscous load of spit that landed on my right eye and cheek. Only momentarily stunned by her outrageous attack, I reacted with fury and returned her aggressive actions with an all out assault.

Furious, I leapt at her, grabbing her dress on both sides of her hips. I began kicking hard at her shins all the while screaming, “You bitch!” I landed more than a few, good kicks before my astonished babysitter grabbed me around the waist and pulled me from her. Picking me up to protect me (and the studda bubba) from further abuse, she bellowed at the studda bubba to get going, and turned toward the store. I was still screaming as she dragged me inside. My mother hurried to the door and inquired as to the source of my hysterics.

“That bitch spit on me!” I screamed.

My mother’s face reddened as she saw the spit still splattered on my face. Grabbing some paper towels from beside the register, she moistened them with water and began to wipe away the disgusting emissions. “Who spit on you?”

“A studda bubba.” The events sinking in, my fury turned to confusion. “Why would she do that? Why, Mum? Why would she spit on me?”

“Because she is an animal!” Bonnie screamed. “Has everyone in this town lost their fucking minds?” My mother raged as she continued scrubbing my face. Finally satisfied that she had completely removed the spittle, she inquired, “Where did this happen?”

“Outside, while I was playing hopscotch.”

“Let’s go,” my mother ordered. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out onto the street. “Show me who did this to you. Where is she?”

Looking around, I caught a glimpse of the studda bubba as she disappeared over the Seventh Street Bridge. “There,” I pointed. “She’s on the bridge!”

My mother picked me up and began to run up the hill toward the steep stairs that led to bridge. As we reached the stairway, Bonnie put me down but kept hold of my hand as we raced up the stairs and across the bridge. The studda bubba was nowhere to be seen. She had disappeared into one the many homes that lined Railroad and North Seventh Streets.

Back at the store, my mother questioned me as to identifying characteristics of the studda bubba. Although I would have loved to have seen her properly trounced for spitting on me, I was still concerned with
why
she would do such a thing. “Mom, I don’t understand. Why would she spit on me?”

“This had nothing to do with you,” my mother explained. Kneeling down in front of me, she continued her assurances. “I need you to understand. She meant to hurt your father and you were a convenient target. Do you understand what I am saying?” She sighed, grappling to find the words to explain the unexplainable. Then, frustrated, she blurted, “She’s just a crazy, old bitch.” Somewhat regaining her composure, she continued. “I know it seems like the whole town has gone crazy, but it has nothing to do with you or your sister.”

I understood my mother’s explanation but her words didn’t assuage my outrage, which erupted in a stream of obscenities. “She is worse than Larry the monkey,” I screamed. “I wish he were here so that he could throw shit on that bitch!”

Startled at the stream of vulgarities pouring from her seven-year-old, Bonnie admonished me. “Hush now. I know you are upset but it’s no excuse to use that kind of language. Your father would be horrified to hear you speak so.”

“You swear all the time!”

“You will do as I say and
NOT
as I do, young lady,” she snapped back. “Do I make myself clear?”

I bit my tongue and silently fumed. I had not done anything to deserve being spit on and now my mother was yelling at me. I was at a loss—confused and angry at being caught up in their crazy adult world. I longed for the days when Larry’s shit throwing and masturbation were our biggest worries.

Returning to the matter at hand—the studda bubba’s identity—my mother regained her composure and inquired once again. Unfortunately, even though I had been just inches from her face, I could not identify her. Of course, my inability to focus on her may have had something to do with having spit in one eye! In my child’s mind, she was a nameless studda bubba, impossible to distinguish from the others who ambled about town in similar dress. Aside from her ability to spew like Ali Baba’s camel, my spitting studda bubba did not possess any other indentifying characteristics that could assist my mother in finding her. Over the next year or so, I located several possible candidates. In the end, however, the anonymity of the studda bubba “look” allowed her to escape my mother’s considerable fury.

Thereafter, I found myself on the defensive anytime I encountered one of these mysterious and potentially spitting figures. Besides my newfound aversion to studda bubbas, I also worried about cootie contamination. In an effort to ward off any evil or infectious substances she may have imparted, I concocted a “magic” potion out of rose petals and witch hazel, and bathed my face in it for three days. By the time I went back to school the following week, I felt sure that any cooties had been properly deflected. Yet, despite being cootie-free, I remained very wary.

Even in the midst of the public scandal my father had brought into our lives, we somehow managed to settle into a routine with Travis and Dennis, who assimilated nicely into our family. Because of the earlier threats, Travis and Dennis insisted that our outside playtime be limited, but exceptions were made for my sister and me to attend school functions. Jeannette’s 1971 school parade and picnic was one such exception.

As my first year of school came to a close, I looked forward to marching in Jeannette’s annual school parade. This decades-long tradition, which is still an annual event, affords all of Jeannette’s schoolchildren the opportunity to celebrate their academic accomplishments as well as their place in the community. Schoolchildren from first through twelfth grades walk with their fellow students and teachers down Clay Avenue in parade formation. Parade floats, created by the graduating seniors, highlight the end of the event. After the hours-long parade, schoolchildren and their families then migrate en masse to Kennywood Amusement Park on the outskirts of Pittsburgh to revel in a day of fun.

Although security for our family was a consideration, my mother insisted that we be permitted to attend the end-of-year celebrations. After much haggling between our mother and our “protectors” over security concerns, it was finally agreed that we could attend the events. My mother solicited the help of her best friend, Penelope, who accepted the task of watching over me while Bonnie escorted my sister to the adult section of the park.

Penelope arrived at the agreed upon time and was immediately handed a white Mickey Mouse t-shirt, which my mother insisted she wear. Penelope, always a fashionista, balked at wearing the adolescent shirt, but finally gave into Bonnie’s insistence. Apparently, Mickey was part of the security plan. With my mother and Penelope dressed in white, Vanessa and I donned red Mickey shirts. Our easily distinguishable outerwear allowed our protection detail to monitor our movements throughout the park. Temporarily unconcerned with the behind-the-scenes maneuvering, Vanessa and I made the most of the day. Thankfully, both events went smoothly. For a few hours, my sister and I forgot the troubles awaiting us at home.