The Bookie's Daughter (28 page)

“Listen carefully,” he whispered urgently. “In a few minutes, the lights are going to go out. I am going to flip this table over. Get up against the wall behind the table and stay there until the lights go on, and either your father or I tell you to come out.”

Surprised and slightly annoyed I replied, “You’re kidding. Who’s causing problems?”

Big John uncharacteristically snapped at me, “I don’t have time to explain. Just do what I say.”

Closing my book, I began to scan the bar, looking for the possible threat. As I eyed the patrons at the bar, I noticed that some of the regulars had changed their positions, settling in at the tables. The ruffians were drinking shots at the bar and making crude conversation with the same bartender who minutes before had whispered to my father.

The waitress’s voice brought my attention back to our table. “Did you order the gnocchi?”

“Yes. I’ll take them,” I responded without looking at her, still searching the bar for explanations.

Placing the gnocchi and garlic bread in front of me, she apologetically explained to Al and Big John that their dinners would be out shortly.

“No hurry,” Big John responded, obviously annoyed that my dinner had been served at such an inopportune time. He leaned over, handing me the money envelopes that had been given to my father earlier. “Put these in your purse and don’t even
think
about starting to eat those. Get ready to duck and dive.”

“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath.

The inviting gnocchi would have to wait. I stuffed the envelopes into my purse and pulled the long strap over my head so that the purse dangled over my left hip. Money secured, I turned questioningly back to Big John. Before I could make inquiries or further assess the situation in the bar, the lights went out.

On autopilot, I did as instructed. I instinctively began my descent to the floor, grabbing a hold of the bowl of gnocchi at the last minute. Back up against the wall with the bowl of gnocchi perched on my knees, I first sensed and then heard the table being overturned. Its legs slammed into the wall with a loud bang. Ensconced between the wall and the tabletop, I listened intently to the sounds of ensuing mayhem: glass breaking, men cursing, furniture splintering, and human flesh hitting flesh. After what seemed like an eternity, the lights came on again.

Gnocchi still in hand, I peered from around the table, and saw the two ruffians lying on the floor. One was unconscious and the other, his face covered in blood, rolled around in whimpering pain. The bartender raced past my hiding place and quickly locked the front door. Turning back, he knelt at the side of the unconscious man and checked for a pulse.

“He’ll live,” he declared to no one in particular. Rising, the bartender looked around the room, assessing the situation. His gaze then returned to the unconscious man lying at his feet. “Fucking pervert,” he shouted as he kicked the man in the ribs.

The movement of the table drew me away from the bizarre spectacle. Big John threw the table aside and reached down for my hand. Spying the gnocchi bowl, he asked with amazement, “You saved the gnocchi?” A smile struggled to appear on his face, replacing the look of fury from a moment before.

“I’m hungry!” I exclaimed back as I raised one arm and grabbed hold of Big John’s hand.

He pulled me from the floor with little effort. At that point, I saw the trashed condition of the bar. Glancing in the direction of the sprawling ruffians, I found my view blocked by my father, who ordered me into the restaurant.

“What the fuck is going on?” I demanded, trying to see around my father.

Al moved to block my view and again ordered me into the restaurant: “Go read your book and eat your dinner. I’ll take care of this and meet up with you in a little while.” As I turned toward the door to the restaurant, he added, “And watch your mouth!” It was an exasperating parting shot.

Rather used to this type of chaos, I shrugged off the events and followed my father’s instructions. Big John accompanied me into the restaurant and handed me over to the waitress, who escorted me through the dining room. Glancing around the tiny restaurant, I spied two occupied tables. The all-male patrons did not look up as the nervous waitress led me to the private table usually reserved for employees, which was separated from the rest of the restaurant by a wooden screen. Once seated, I asked the waitress to have the bowl of gnocchi warmed. I also ordered another soda and basket of garlic bread, the originals now splattered on the floor of the bar. The waitress just stood there, staring at me as though my request was bizarre.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Sure. Not even a scratch. Those two guys are pretty banged up though. Do you know what started the fight?”

“No. You better ask your father,” she responded nervously, before turning on her heels and disappearing into the kitchen.

Strangely enough, I was ravenous. I settled in and awaited my meal, thankful for the earlier appetizers. Digging my book out from under the money envelopes, I picked up where I had left off. A few moments later, Big John joined me at the table.

“Where’s your gnocchi?” There was a touch of amusement in his voice.

“They’re being warmed up,” I exclaimed, proud of having saved them. “So, what the hell happened in there?”

“Your father will have to fill you in,” he responded, as he waived the waitress over to the table.

She appeared shortly, putting a coffee cup in front of me. “Here, drink this.”

“I’m sorry, but I really would prefer soda with dinner,” I explained, pushing the coffee away. “I’ll have coffee after dinner.”

“Look, sweetie, I think you’re in shock. This isn’t coffee. There’s a shot of whiskey in it and I think you should drink it.”

Peering into the coffee cup, I noted the whiskey but was a little confused about why she thought I was in shock.

“Seriously, I’m fine. The fight was a bit over the top, but it’s just one of many. I appreciate the offer but I really don’t like whiskey. I’ll just have a soda.” I was baffled at her concern.

Looking to Big John for help, the waitress determinedly pushed the coffee cup closer to me. Apparently agreeing with the waitress, Big John joined in. “Listen, why don’t you drink it? That scrap in there was a bit upsetting. She’s trying to be helpful.”

Looking up at the waitress, I was surprised at her apparent distress. Realizing I was not about to get my gnocchi until I downed the dreaded whiskey, I grabbed the coffee cup and gulped down its contents.

“There. Everyone happy now?” Feeling the burn of the whiskey, I gasped for breath and again entreated her for a soda.

Satisfied that I had consumed the whiskey, she patted me on my shoulder and went off to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with my soda, garlic bread, and our three entrees. Al appeared a few minutes later and slipped into the vacant seat, which was, of course, up against the wall. Before my father had the chance to pick up his napkin, I asked what had instigated the fight.

Putting his hand up as to say “stop,” my father blurted out, “Don’t ask! Let’s just eat our meal. We’ll talk about this later.”

I looked at Big John who nodded in agreement with my father. Knowing that further inquiry at this point would prove fruitless, I dove into my meal, lost in thought. The gnocchi were delectable and most certainly worth the wait, but I wanted an explanation for the bizarre events of the evening. As with many of the other strange and violent happenings that came along with being Al Abraham’s daughter, I reacted to the bar fight with a certain detachment, pushing aside the mayhem of the past hour and enjoying my meal as I read my book. My two giants were not much company. Each sat at the table and ate in silence, lost in his own musings.

Later as we made our way through the parking lot, I stopped to enjoy the feel of the falling snow. I took off my coat, somehow craving the feel of the crisp air on my body. Seeing me coatless, Al demanded I put my coat back on. I threw it on the back seat of the car and slid in beside it, still enjoying the icy air. Al and Big John were uncharacteristically quiet as we began our ride. I finally broke the silence to inquire again about the crazy circumstances that surrounded what I had hoped would be a peaceful night away from the Avenue. Big John, obviously distressed blurted out that the wounded ruffians were in fact “skin runners.”

“Skin runners? What the hell is a skin runner?”

“Scum that kidnap young girls and sell them as sex slaves,” Big John shouted, his ire returning full force.

“Are you saying they were going to kidnap me?” I asked, incredulous. The seriousness of the events began to sink in. “But….why? And, how could they possibly think they could grab me from you two? Are you…sure…they were after me?”

Al, obviously annoyed with Big John’s inability to keep quiet, took control of the conversation. Apparently, within minutes of the ruffians’ arrival, they asked the bartender to pass them the bar phone. The suspicious bartender then eavesdropped on the phone conversation and the discussion that followed. The phone call was to a third party, whom they instructed to bring a van to pick up a “package.” They briefly described the package and told the third party to be in the parking lot within the half-hour, since they would have to “take the package from two men.” The exchange would, therefore, have to happen quickly. After hanging up, they discussed getting their weapons. They planned to take their leave when it was apparent that we were getting ready to depart. They would then slip out to retrieve their weapons, surprise my father and Big John at gunpoint, and grab me. Knowing that their guns were still in their vehicle, the bartender alerted my father, who acted immediately before weapons could be secured.

I was horrified, to say the least, to learn of the dangerous situation I had narrowly escaped. Big John and my father were clearly shaken up by the incident, and it was somewhat disconcerting to see my two giants in such a state. Having aggressively acted, they prevented my kidnapping. In recounting the events, however, their emotions bubbled to the surface. They rambled in the front seat about the audacity of the skin runners, and shivered with the knowledge of what they intended to do with me.

Neither having before been the target of premeditated aggression, they were shocked by the evenings’ events and chastened by the thought of what could have happened had the bartender not alerted them to the threat. Neither had ever before worried about my safety while in their presence, and both undoubtedly would have taken a bullet before surrendering me to the skin runners. The terrifying “what if’s” held us in thrall. As my giants struggled to understand the brazenness of the skin runners’ actions and their repulsive business of human trafficking, I tried to maintain the status quo of my brave façade. The gnocchi threatened to make an unexpected reappearance. The chill of the air seemed to seep into my bones.

As had happened many times, I remembered my sister’s advice from years before and silently repeated it to myself: “Never show fear, hold your head up high, and spit in the devil’s eye.” It quelled the fear and nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. Then, I returned to my own calming mantra, which I silently repeated for the remainder of the ninety-minute ride home: “They’re all fucking crazy. They’re all fucking crazy…”

By the time I climbed the steps to our family apartment, my fear and horror were squashed down deep, though my ulcers had begun their frenzied dance. I suspected that it was going to be a long and fitful night. Readying for bed, I heard my father’s voice and made an exhausted trek to his room. Peering into my eyes as if to discern my emotional state, he assured me that the skin runners would be “taken care of.” He told me not to worry too much. “I know this has been a traumatic evening but you have to promise to keep this quiet. Your mother can’t know about this and you have to go to school tomorrow. No skipping, okay?”

As I nodded in agreement, I noticed two driver’s licenses sitting on my father’s nightstand. “Do those belong to the skin runners?”

Nodding in the affirmative, my father explained, “I took them with the intent of turning them over to my contacts in Pittsburgh. I’ve already made some phone calls and will have a meet up tomorrow.”

“What happened to the men who tried to kidnap me?” I asked, suddenly remembering that the fight did not end their menacing existence. I worried for the anonymous others who did not have two giants to protect them, and I wondered at the fate of those who had been grabbed before.

My father sighed. “After I took their driver’s license, we dragged them outside and left them at the roadway. The van they had called in to get you picked them up. Now, off to bed with you before your mother becomes suspicious. I promise I will take care of this.” He patted my hand reassuringly.

I was so totally exhausted that even my ulcers could not impede my sleep. Awakening the next morning, I jumped from the bed, took a gulp of Maalox, and readied myself for school. As the previous night’s events slowly began to creep back into my mind, I fought the urge to dive back into bed and instead ran outside to catch the school bus. A master at keeping secrets, I hid my thoughts so no one at school would guess my inner turmoil. I was soon my smiling, funny, sarcastic, bitchy self, and looked forward to the temporary distraction of schoolwork.