The Bookie's Daughter (17 page)

In addition to watching out for the boys in blue, making runs with my father now entailed keeping watch for traffic lights as well as monitoring Al’s position on the road. When he wandered over the yellow line I would calmly warn, “Dad, you’re taking the scenic route.” This meant that he needed to pull the car to the left. “You’re scaring the other drivers,” was polite code for “get the hell back into your own lane!” A twelve-year-old copilot is crazy under any circumstances, but remember that most of the runs I made with Al involved picking up or delivering illegal merchandise. This comedic arrangement would continue for the next six years, making for many hilarious close calls with law enforcement.

As a result of my copilot assignment, I became a full-time accomplice in my father’s world of playing cat and mouse with the police. Strangely, the criminals he met with did not seem to mind my presence in the least. Many brought me presents of candy or books, and some provided games to occupy my time while Al conducted business.

Although I was on call twenty-four hours a day, most of the runs occurred in the late evenings after the store closed—often in the middle of the night. Luckily, Bonnie did not interfere with these arrangements. I was glad for the opportunity to escape from home. I weighed the risks and determined that potential encounters with law enforcement and rubbing shoulders with seedy characters were preferable to my mother’s bitter tongue. Bonnie’s words had so deeply wounded my soul that I gladly jumped into my father’s chaotic, criminal world.

When not on duty, my friends provided another buffer between Bonnie and me. Tina Louise, Angela, Marie, and Faith had open invitations, and would often stop by or sleep over. Bonnie was usually on good behavior when school friends were present. For the most part, she treated my friends well. Of course, given my father’s business, many of my closest friends witnessed her fiery temper, especially when they were present during a police raid or when Bonnie became embroiled in an argument with a customer or gambler.

Thankfully, my mother’s ire was never directed toward my friends, but they occasionally got caught up in my new job as copilot. On more than one occasion, a friend would end up accompanying us on a run. Apparently, it never occurred to either of my parents that involving other children in these escapades was wrong. Tina Louise accompanied us on several runs, and on one occasion ended up in a Pittsburgh warehouse, face to face with the man my father referred to as the “Godfather.” On returning home, my mother teased her about meeting the “Big Man,” seemingly unaware that this meeting was out of the ordinary.

On the rare occasion that neither of his daughters were available, it was not unusual for Al to commandeer one of our friends who just happened to pop by. Marie, a longtime friend of Vanessa’s, found herself on one such unexpected outing, which took her on a four-hour round-trip adventure. After two hours of following my father’s directives, the sixteen-year old-Marie, turned onto a dirt road and came to a stop in front of formidable iron gate. Looking to my father for further instructions, Marie was startled to see a large man carrying a machine gun leap from the bushes and approach the passenger side window. My father, simply wound down the window, wordlessly presented the man with an envelope, and causally directed Marie to retrace their journey back to the store. Time and again, our parents rashly involved our friends in illegal activities. Most of the time, however, I accompanied my father alone. Often I broke plans with friends, which was easier than explaining exactly what my father was up to and emotionally safer than taking a chance on my mother’s mood.

There were adults in my life who attempted to deflect my mother’s growing anger, but this usually caused more angst than healing. Penelope, my mother’s oldest friend, was often present at our home and her company usually afforded me a break from my mother’s acerbic tongue. A boisterous, fun-loving woman, her laughter and love of life were contagious. I always wondered at their strange friendship, as Penelope’s vivacious personality so greatly contrasted with Bonnie’s pessimism.

My mother was usually at her best during Penelope’s visits, but she would occasionally lash out. Penelope would immediately confront my mother, taking my side. Bonnie did not take criticism well. Over the years, she would cast off anyone who dared to call her out on her destructive behavior. Eventually, Penelope’s interference on my behalf caused a permanent rift in their relationship, but she continued to play an important role in my life and still does to this day.

In the meantime, I took any chance available to stay clear of my mother and found myself completely immersed in my father’s criminal enterprises. My job as copilot and adolescent accomplice was exhausting. I often missed school after being up all night. Once I reached senior high, my parents gave no further thought to my education. Schoolwork had to be completed during study hall or it simply did not get finished.

Although I desperately wanted to go to college after graduation, I understood that I would not receive help or encouragement from the home front. My parents were so caught up in their destructive behavior that neither had the emotional energy to concern themselves with my schooling. Higher education would be something I would pursue on my own, after I made my escape from Clay Avenue and my parents’ dysfunctional world. In the meantime, survival was essential, and protecting myself from Bonnie’s poisonous tongue was central to my wellbeing. I had learned the hard way that Bonnie’s fists were no match for her tongue and I was thankful for any opportunity for escape, no matter what the potential danger.

I was well paid for my work, making fifty to a hundred dollars a week in wages. At this stage, I began to prepare for my eventual flight from Clay Avenue. Opening a bank account, I systematically deposited part of my weekly wages in preparation for the independent life I dreamed of each night. I also began to purchase necessities for my emancipation. Clearing out a closet in the warehouse below our apartment, I filled it over the next few years with common household appliances, bedding, dishware, utensils, and other goodies that would help me set up my own household. My growing “escape fund” allowed me focus on the possibility of a “normal” future. I had six years to go before I reached the magic number of autonomy. Eighteen and free—what a glorious thought!

“…
And these children that you spit on

As they try to change their worlds

Are immune to your consultations

They’re quite aware of what they’re going through...”

David Bowie, “Changes”

I was thirteen the second time I was spat upon. Surprisingly, this occasion was not directly related to my father’s shenanigans. The perpetrator was an outsider, a wannabe body builder from Pittsburgh who began to haunt the streets of Jeannette seeking unwitting victims to bully. Of course, at the time of our first encounter, I was not aware of his profession. Because of the events that would occur over the next week, I will forever think of him as “the Loogie Man.”

I first encountered this nasty piece of work on a bright and sunny Saturday while I sat at my post in front of our family store. My father and his crew were nestled in the store’s musty basement, engaged in a marathon poker game that had started the night before. To ensure that the players below would have adequate warning of a police raid, I had been charged with spending the day on the front steps—on the lookout for the boys in blue.

To all outward appearances, I was tending to the mini-farmer’s market I had set up earlier that morning. Wooden crates piled high with oranges, apples, grapefruits, and bananas contrasted beautifully with the verdant garden of greens I had artfully arranged to capture the attention of customers passing by. The whole time I assisted customers with their purchases, I was vigilantly on guard for anything that might threaten the men participating in the game below. The system my father had set up was ingenious—and very effective, as well. Unbeknownst to outsiders, Al had installed an alarm system that when activated would announce the impending approach of police intent on conducting a raid. From my position on the front steps, I was within arm’s reach of a tiny buzzer hidden under the molding of the store’s display window.

This may seem like a bizarre job for a young girl, but having performed this chore from an early age, I grew to be a very skilled lookout. As I honed my sales technique on those in search of fresh produce, I also became adept at spotting police, even those who were working undercover. I knew all of Jeannette’s police force and was on constant watch for new faces. Having been exposed to countless raids and police investigations since birth, I had learned to evaluate strangers as potential threats. Experience had taught me to be cautious of outsiders, and to study a stranger’s gait, clothes, hair, speech, and body language. I developed a keen sense of when something “wasn’t quite right.” On more than one occasion, I detected an undercover police officer attempting to gather information or a recon officer waiting to signal others in the backdrop to begin a raid.

On this particular day, I was enjoying the beautiful weather and the latest book I had picked up from the library. When not waiting on a customer, I would sit back against the window frame—and buzzer—to peruse my novel. Wearing sunglasses allowed me to look about and evaluate my surroundings periodically without attracting attention. Outwardly, I must have appeared lost in the adventure of the novel.

I heard the Loogie Man before I saw him. As he pulled up to the red light adjacent to the store, he began to assail me with off-color remarks. Looking up, I observed the stranger from behind my sunglasses. I took note of his person and the vehicle he was driving, and determined he was not a threat to the players below. Without any outward acknowledgment of his vulgar language, I quickly returned to my book. The light turned green and the Loogie Man drove off up the Avenue. A few minutes later, he returned and began to demand my attention, obviously insulted that I had not acknowledged him earlier. “Bitch, I am talking to you! What are you, deaf? I’m looking for a date and you fit the bill. I like my women young, and you look like a tasty morsel.” Disgusted at his unsolicited attack but continuing to ignore him, I stood up, turned my back toward him, and entered the store.

My mother, who was holding court with several of her friends, inquired as to why I had left my post. When I explained the situation, Bonnie followed me outside and waited a few minutes to see if the Loogie Man would return. He did not immediately show up, so we assumed he had found entertainment elsewhere. “Look,” she instructed, “if he comes back, just spit on the ground and he’ll get the picture. If he doesn’t and continues to harass you, then come get me.” I agreed and settled back into my post. Several customers stopped by for produce.

As I was assisting an elderly woman with her purchases, I noticed the Loogie Man drive past again. He did not glance my way but instead sped off. Unfortunately, a few minutes after my last customer disappeared from view, he reappeared and continued his attack. “You know, bitch, I should pull this car over and whip your ass. Who do you think you are, ignoring me? Do you know who I am? I am the strongest man alive! That’s right, I am going to take this town over, and you are going to grovel at my feet. You hear me, bitch? I am the next fucking Lou Ferrigno!”

Having had experience with morons like this before, I knew that this situation was not going to end well. I hesitated. The question kept running though my mind: Should I or shouldn’t I spit? Bonnie was clear that he would get the picture, but I was not so sure. Just as I decided to call Al up from the basement and let him handle this particular problem, the Loogie Man went too far.

“I’m going to chew on you like an ear of corn, Goldilocks. Then I am going to come all over your snooty face.”

Without a word, I stood up and spat on the ground in front of me. As Bonnie predicted, he got the picture and quickly peeled out, leaving tire marks on the street. Triumphant, I sat back down and returned to my novel, hoping that this incident was put to rest. Three days later, I would find out it was not.

The day started out as most. My father dragged me out of bed at four-thirty in the morning. A half-hour later, I was in the passenger seat of the truck as we headed to the Strip District in downtown Pittsburgh to pick up some fresh produce for the store. In the 1970s, before the demise of the city’s steel industry, you could smell Pittsburgh miles before the city came into view. Belching smokestacks polluted the air with byproducts that smelled like rotten eggs. Approaching Pittsburgh from the east, we passed a series of massive steel factories, the might of Pittsburgh’s economy, which lined the Penn Lincoln Parkway leading to the city’s three-river center.