The Bookie's Daughter (22 page)

The officer, a real cutie, unexpectedly blushed. I felt some remorse for my part in the con, but one thought of having to call my mother put an end to my guilt. I continued to keep the officer engaged in a slightly flirtatious conversation. He was a real charmer: sweet, tall, chestnut hair, green eyes, and an amazing smile. I allowed myself to enjoy the attention and briefly let my imagination run wild. Reality slapped me in the face when drunken laughter, coming from the station wagon, pulled me from my fantasy. An idealistic state trooper was no match for the daughter of a notorious, albeit bungling, criminal. Three more years, just three more years, and I would start a new life. In the meantime, I would enjoy a few moments of daydreaming.

Minutes later, Al and the bar patrons had the car running. My father handed the men some cash and waved for me to come along. Thanking the officer for his hospitality, I hurried toward the car and joined Al in the front seat. We were quiet for the first few miles, both lost in thought about the day’s adventure and our narrow escape. My father was the first to break the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a serious voice.

“Yeah, me too,” I sighed. Wanting to lighten the moment, I inquired, “Are you still going to wash my mouth out with soap?”

“You know Daddy’s bark is worse than his bite.” Al chuckled. “That took a lot of guts, what you did back there. It wasn’t necessary. Arrests are to be expected. It comes with the territory. You did good,” he said, with pride in his voice, “but don’t ever put yourself in that position again.”

Laughing off his concern, I quipped, “Better than having to call Mom to come get me from the police station. You know, Dad, Bonnie’s bark is as bad as her bite.”

We both burst out laughing. All the anger and tension of the day’s events were released in a marathon fit that lasted most of the way home. As we approached Jeannette, my father made his usual request. “Please don’t tell your mother.”

I agreed, not wanting to hear the fight that would ensue, but also because I knew he would tell her anyway. He did and she was furious. Bonnie accused my father of “pimping [his] daughter to a cop.” Coming to his defense, I explained that he had nothing to do with my talking to the cop. I had done it on my own accord, without his foreknowledge. She would not listen, however. Al took one hell of a tongue-lashing. Exhausted from the crazy events of my “day off,” I retired to our apartment, ran a bath, immersed myself in lavender bubbles, and rejoined Brandon Scofield’s adventure.

Later that evening, Al took me to The Nest, a Jeannette eatery famous for its cold water lobster. Once ensconced in the tranquil atmosphere, I eagerly ordered the lobster tail, relaxed into my chair, and noted the tension in my father’s face. It wasn’t until that moment, that I realized our madcap day had also been stressful for him. Knowing his love of adventure, the realization was somewhat a surprise, nevertheless, we were soon engaged in our final argument of the day. While awaiting our entrees, we perused the movie listings to determine which movie we would see. I opted for Barbara Streisand in
The Main Event,
but my father insisted on Clint Eastwood’s
Escape from Alcatraz
. Fully prepared to stand my ground, I thought of the day’s crazy events. After our unexpected adventure and the verbal assault my father received from my mother, I decided that
Escape from Alcatraz
was a most appropriate way to end the day.

Exploits in dealing fireworks were not limited to family members, but often involved employees and friends as well. Over the years, most of our employees and many of our friends had, at one time or another, found themselves caught up in the excitement, or dread, of a raid. The summer of 1980 produced a raid big enough to make the Pittsburgh evening news. Even though Jeannette was facing an economic downturn due to its quickly disappearing glass factories, the fireworks business was booming. The store was bulging with tens of thousands of dollars worth of the illegal explosives. The extraordinary demand kept Al running almost daily for new shipments.

Short of able-bodied and strong-nerved employees—no more newbies!—Al hired one of my high school friends who was up to the challenge. With Kenny on duty for daylight runs, I stayed at the store trying to fill the orders that kept pouring in. On the day of the raid, Al and Kenny left early to pick up a huge shipment that included the hundreds of M-80s I needed to fill back orders. Ensconced in the basement packing orders, I heard my father’s booming voice and knew they had returned.

Within minutes of Al’s arrival, the state and local police swarmed the store. Determined to escape a repeat of the previous year’s imprisonment in the hidey-hole, I jumped from the tiny room, threw a couple dozen filled orders in behind me, and secured the door. It was then that I noticed several dozen call-in orders, filled earlier in the day, resting on the basement floor. In particular, the order slips attached to the bags, drew my attention. I quickly pulled the slips off and stuffed them down my pants.

Although they were coded, the police might be able to match up the initials with the partial phone numbers—and police visiting customers at their homes would not be good for business. Seconds later, the police entered the basement to find me sitting on a chair drinking a can of Dr. Pepper, surrounded by boxes of sparklers, Roman candles, fountains, Gemini missiles, jumping jacks, parachute rockets, firecrackers, Phoenix tail howlers, and other class C fireworks. Although the most dangerous were hidden in the hidey-hole, there were enough fireworks left in the basement for the “State Boys” to make a huge haul.

“Anyone want a Dr. Pepper?” I offered sarcastically.

The startled boys in blue came to a halt in front of me. Breaking the tension, one of the local cops greeted me in a friendly manner and asked the State Boys’ permission to send me upstairs. They consented, and I made an uncomfortable ascent up the basement stairs with the crinkled order slips in an awkward position. Customers were rounded up and sent on their way, and the raid proceeded routinely. My father and I watched as box after box of explosive merchandise was carted out and loaded into a waiting police vehicle.

Kevin, a Jeannette officer who had worked for my father as a kid, kept apologizing for the raid, “Sorry, Al. We didn’t know they were coming until they got to the station.” My father, who never faulted a member of law enforcement for doing their job properly, assured him that he was not angry.

Al remained cool during the raid because he knew that the felony-rated merchandise was well hidden in the hidey-hole. He was also trying to keep the police in the store and away from the station wagon outside. Parked a few spaces away, it contained enough M-80s to cause him big trouble. It was not until after the police had departed that we noticed the station wagon was gone. Al and Bonnie panicked until they realized what happened. I, on the other hand, was busy fishing the order slips from my pants.

After their run, Al had entered the store just ahead of the raid, but Kenny had gone off up the Avenue to pick up lunch. Returning, he saw the raid in progress and took action. A half-hour later, Kenny reappeared in the store and explained that he had hidden the vehicle on the far side of town. Quite rightly, Kenny was hailed as the hero of the day. My father made a quick phone call and ten minutes later, one of his friends pulled up and honked the horn. Al and Kenny jumped into the car and sped off to retrieve the station wagon.

I believe it was the afternoon of this particular raid that a news reporter from Pittsburgh arrived on scene to interview Al. Having just finished unloading the station wagon, Kenny and I watched as the film crew entered the store. Heading the crew was an attractive news reporter who introduced herself and then gracefully perched atop a stack of boxes that were loaded, of course, with fireworks. After settling in, she signaled for the cameras to roll and spoke with my father about the raid.

Later that night, we watched the news report and broke into hysterics on seeing that the cameras had partially captured the boxes on which the reporter was perched. They were labeled “Caution: Explosive.” Thirty minutes later, two Jeannette police officers entered the store on the pretense of purchasing some cigarettes. We had already moved the boxes into the hidey-hole, so we were not concerned with their presence. Al offered them a soda and joked with them about the earlier raid.

Al had a strange relationship with the Jeannette Police force, many of whom had worked in our stores during their high school years. Some officers were so fond of my father that they were uncomfortable when discharging their duties. Al understood their obligation to arrest him. He never had a harsh word to say about any officer who ethically discharged his duties. On the other hand, Al despised crooked cops and politicians. In our world, it was often difficult to recognize the subtle differences between the good and the bad. Reality television cop shows fail to capture the relationship between law enforcement and law offenders, which is complex and symbiotic. Reality is made up of many shades of grey.

Although accepting of raids and arrests as part of doing business, one particular raid left my father in an uncharacteristic rage. The objects of his ire were a few of Jeannette’s boys in blue. I was at first unaware of the events that had my father in an uproar. Consequently, when he demanded my presence on a late night run, I was unprepared for the darkly comedic adventure he had planned.

On the night in question, I closed the store at nine pm and returned to the basement, intent on catching up on the backlog of orders that awaited me. Finishing up close to midnight, I was surprised to find that my father had returned from God knows where and was waiting for me in the storefront. I collapsed into the chair next to him and began to watch
The Tonight Show
with Johnny Carson. After the show ended, Al jumped up and announced that we were going on a run. He threw a paper bag in my lap and headed toward the door.

Following him to the car, I jumped in for what I thought, on account of the paper bag, was a run to pay a gambler his winnings. I soon found that we were on our way to what my father called “a revenge run.” Peeking into the bag, which I expected to be filled with money, I instead found a nest of M-80s.

Apparently, Al had heard a rumor that some of Jeannette’s finest had not destroyed the confiscated fireworks they had taken from us in a raid a few weeks before, as required by law. Instead, rumor had it; they had used them as entertainment during a party at a rented weekend mountain retreat. He was furious at what he considered a betrayal of their duties. While driving the few short blocks to City Hall, he briefed me on the rumors and explained that we were going to “play with those hypocrites on the hill.”

A few minutes later, we reached the top of Clay Avenue, turned left onto Second Street, and pulled up in front of the Police Department, which was located in City Hall. My father then removed the bag from my lap and extracted the nest of M-80s. Handing them to me, he instructed me to light the fuse and throw the nest towards the City Hall doors. I refused.

“No way. I’m covered with gunpowder! There is no way I’m going to light anything.”

Resolute in his desire for revenge, my father lit the fuses and tossed the nest over the roof of the car onto the steps of City Hall. Landing with a smoky thud high on the steps, they fell short of the doors. Screaming “Wahoooooooo,” something he did when excited, Al floored the car, made a u-turn, and parked across the street eagerly anticipating the coming explosion and ensuing chaos. Exiting the vehicle, he leaned casually against the door and motioned for me to do likewise. I leapt from the car, thinking how lucky I was that I could easily walk home if they arrested my father. I perched on the hood of the car, elbows resting on knees, and awaited the coming blast. From our vantage point, we could see that the nest of M-80s had separated and scattered on landing. Instead of a simultaneous giant blast, they went off in a series of explosions that sounded like a run of gunshots.

In short order, three police officers came running out of the building, encountering a thick cloud of smoke. Seeing their figures through the haze, Al called out, “Hey, officers, have any fireworks for sale? I am a little low on merchandise and thought you might have some extra lying around. That is, if you didn’t shoot them all off at your party!”

Not amused, the police nonetheless seemed reluctant to encourage a confrontation. Although my father’s uncharacteristically aggressive behavior was definitely out of line, I think there were several possible reasons for their reluctance to arrest him. If the rumors were true, arresting my father would ensure that the transgression would become public knowledge. The press would have a field day and the city of Jeannette would face another City Hall scandal involving my father. Another possibility is that we were lucky with the police on duty that night. All were on friendly terms with Al, and most were regular customers at the store. Then there was the Bonnie factor. Even if the rumors were false, arresting my father would ensure my mother’s presence at the station, as well as her calls to the family attorney and a local newspaper reporter. Thus, if Al were arrested, the story, whether it was true or not, would most certainly be splashed on the front page of the newspaper.

Quickly grasping the problems associated with arresting my father, Kevin stepped forward and diffused the situation with a common sense suggestion. “Al, it’s late. Maybe you should take Heather on home.”