The Bookie's Daughter (6 page)

Al persisted with his accusations, all the while glancing periodically at his watch. At one point, my mother asked sarcastically if he had somewhere to go.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m going to the track with the guys and then to a poker game. I’ll be back in a few days.”

Well, that pushed Bonnie into a tizzy. “You’re what? You accuse me of fooling around, and then announce you are going God knows where and won’t be back for a couple days! Get out of my sight before I put a bullet between your eyes, you no-good son-of-a-bitch.”

Al, not knowing when to leave things alone, bellowed, “Yeah, I’m real scared of you and your threats. I’m leaving, and I better not hear you went out while I’m gone.”

His taunts set my mother off and she raced to the closet to get her rifle. Al, realizing his mistake too late, ran down the steps and out onto the Avenue only to find his wife hanging out the window taking aim.

My mother fired off a shot before Al dropped to his hands and knees, taking cover behind cars parked on the Avenue. Considering that she was an avid hunter and known as a crack shot, he was lucky that his wife’s love of Jack had dulled her accuracy. Concerned for our father, Vanessa and I took up positions in the window next to our mother. We watched as Al scampered from behind one vehicle after another, trying to make his way to his parked car. After a few more blasts and reloads of the rifle, my sister, pragmatic and used to violence, thoughtfully suggested, “Why don’t you shoot the gas tank, Mommy?”

Although this event stands out in my mind, it is not so much on account of my mother’s insane actions but rather because this innocent child, no more than eight, was so disgusted with her parents’ constant shenanigans and so resigned to the violence that filled our lives. My sister loved my father dearly and would never wish him harm. She was simply fed up with the never-ending drama that held us constantly on edge.

In response to Vanessa’s childish but astute observation, Bonnie turned and looked at her daughter with embarrassment. I think this is one of the few times I actually saw shame upon my mother’s face. Vanessa’s utterance brought her back to her senses and she put down the rifle just as the police pulled up in front of the apartment. I do not know what excuses my father gave them but they accepted his story and quietly left the scene. Al crossed the street, got into his car, and true to his word, came back in a couple of days. All was back to normal—normal that is, for the Abraham family. Ice cream, anyone?

“
You know what luck is? Luck is believing you’re lucky...to hold front 
position in this rat-race you’ve got to believe you’re lucky.”

Tennessee Williams,
A Streetcar Named Desire

The title for this chapter comes from my father’s testimony during a trial in 1971. At the onset of his testimony, he was asked to state his occupation. Al, never one to deny his fondness for breaking the law, answered unabashedly, “General merchandise and gambling.” His statement was short and to the point, but also representative of the atmosphere in which my sister and I were raised.
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Our domestic life revolved around the family store, the primary stage for my father’s legitimate and illegal trade. Although he ran successful retail businesses, his main interests were in the gambling industry. There was no escaping the crazy existence my father created for his family or our participation in his criminal endeavors. I was a child of crime, not by choice but by birthright.

My sister and I were introduced to the family “business” at a very early age. In fact, both Vanessa and I knew how to “write numbers” before entering the first grade. Al got a kick out of having his two, tiny daughters take numbers from the regular colorful characters who frequented the store to place their daily bets. To ensure we recorded the correct numbers, we were taught to repeat each number and the amount of the wager back to the player before accepting payment. Taking parlays, booking sports games, and learning the card business would come later as we studied the complicated business, not as outsiders, but organically, from the ground up. Simply put, we were immersed in the gambling business from infancy.

Al did not specialize in any one aspect of bookmaking. Beginning with the numbers business in the early 1950s, he quickly branched out to include professional and college basketball, football, hockey, and baseball. He dabbled briefly in horse betting, but eventually dispatched that part of the business to an out-of-town bookie who specialized in local and national track races. In addition to the seasonal ball games and numbers business, Al also often organized daily and weekend poker games that could run up to three days.

In the early 1960s, my father opened a small casino in the back room of the store that included a roulette table, several poker tables, a craps table, and curiously, a chuck-a-luck table. The poker tables were positioned to the right of the other gaming tables to afford the privacy players needed and to cut down on the chance of a team-tag con. Cheaters were not tolerated and anyone involved in a cheat was quickly encouraged to leave the premises and barred for life. Some of my earliest memories are of being in the back room and watching energized gamblers playing roulette or craps while others engaged in the serious business of poker.

Until my school years, I spent the bulk of my time in the storefront with Bonnie and store employees, busy with the retail side of the business. Occasionally, however, I would find myself in the back room when my mother had to run an errand or make an outside appointment. Before leaving, she would make a little play area for me in the corner behind the poker tables. Deposited on a blanket and surrounded with toys and books, I would quietly amuse myself or take a nap until she returned.

I vividly remember the smells, sounds, and energy of the room, with gamblers puffing away on cigarettes and cigars, and the piles of money at the tables. I loved the constant action and urgency of the room. Watching the gamblers, some of whom blessed themselves or rubbed a lucky talisman before throwing the dice or placing a bet, was exciting. I could not wait to grow up and participate in this magical world.

Although the majority of the gamblers were men, a few women would occasionally join them at play. I found them most impressive. One in particular always caught my attention. A tall redhead with piercing black eyes, Erika commanded attention with her beauty and natural prowess at the gaming tables. Although skillful at her chosen game, she was also, I would later find, an object of scandal. Beautiful and obsessed with gambling, she was considered a double danger. Many players found themselves constantly losing when she was in attendance—some because of her skill, others because they could not overlook her considerable charms. The gambler’s wives were also unhappy about Erika’s presence. Eventually, she was banned from playing. Most, if not all, of the gamblers were happy that they would no longer have to suffer her presence, but I missed her dearly. I often wondered how I would ultimately fit into this male-dominated world.

I would eventually grow to deeply dislike my father’s gambling business, and the drama, chaos, and sorrow it caused our family. As a child, though, I was fascinated with the constant action. Unfortunately, this action would attract the attention of the law and trigger regular police raids, which began sometime in the early 1960s, shortly after my sister was born.

Life in the Abraham family was, for the most part, a roller coaster. Vanessa and I learned quickly to roll with the punches and never to allow ourselves to completely relax. Being on guard was necessary to our survival. The close of a relatively uneventful day was always welcome, but we were acutely aware that tomorrow held the potential for continued anxiety. Police raids often occurred without warning, and depending on whether local, state, or federal agents were conducting the raid, could be quite violent.

The first raid Vanessa remembers vividly occurred sometime in 1966, in the months following her fifth birthday. On this occasion, the “Feds,” as my father referred to the suits who most often conducted the earliest raids, perpetrated an early morning simultaneous raid on the store and our family apartment.
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Looking for gambling paraphernalia, the Feds broke into two groups and stormed our apartment and business at the same time. Al, hearing their impending entrance into the store, promptly threw the rice paper booking slips into a bucket of water, always on hand for just an occasion. Thwarted by his “magic bucket,” the annoyed but well dressed officers began to ransack the store, confiscating only a few dozen punchboards and strip tickets.

The agents assigned to raid the apartment interrupted our morning meal by breaking down our apartment door and rushing up the steep stairway. My curious sister, hearing the commotion from the kitchen, ran to the top of the stairs, peered over the gate my mother had installed to ensure our protection, and saw the on-coming barrage of officers. Before she could move to safety, the lead officer smashed through the gate and violently shoved my sister out of the way. Flying through the air, Vanessa crashed into the wall behind her. Bonnie rushed to protect her child and found Vanessa bleeding from the elbow. Picking up her frightened and wounded daughter, she placed her into a chair next to my highchair and turned her considerable fury on the offending officer. Grabbing her coffee cup from the breakfast table, she smashed it into the officer’s head and quickly jumped on him in a full-blown assault—quid pro quo, blood for blood. Other officers, pouring into our apartment, pulled her from their colleague and forced her back into the kitchen. A stream of obscenities and threats poured from my enraged mother’s lips as she was forced into a chair.

Leaving one officer in the kitchen with my mother, sister, and me, the others quickly spread out into the apartment in a destructive rampage. They tore pictures from the walls, ripped out the contents of the closets, and overturned furniture. The officers ran amok, stripping the beds, scattering record collections, and tearing through bureaus, books, and toy boxes. By the time they returned to the kitchen to continue their search, they found us sitting with a visitor the guarding officer had permitted entry into our home.

Father Habibi, the warmhearted Syrian Orthodox Priest from our family church, happened to be on the Avenue when the raid commenced. Inquiring after my sister and me, he was informed by the city police that we were in the apartment with the raiding Feds. He hurried to the apartment, where he demanded and was granted entry. Father Habibi sat calmly holding Bonnie’s hand and talking about plans for the next Syrian Festival while the Feds conducted their intrusive search of the kitchen, carelessly smashing dishware and throwing food from the pantry and refrigerator. His comforting presence deterred any further confrontation between my mother and the object of her fury.

The Feds found nothing in the apartment and finally gave up the search. My mother was fond of saying, “they left as they came, with their dicks in their hands.” By the time of their departure, Vanessa had developed the early signs of bruising on her shoulder and hip. The gash on her elbow did not require stitches, but Bonnie took her to see the family doctor to ensure that nothing was broken. Returning to our apartment, which was in shambles, my mother spent the rest of the day cleaning up broken glass in the kitchen and setting the house straight.

Bonnie filed a complaint against the brutal officer but, unfortunately, he died of a heart attack before he could be held accountable for his savagery towards my sister. I would have been little more than two at the time and have no memory of this particular event, but I have heard the story many times from my mother’s lips and it is forever seared in my mind. Even decades later, Bonnie would become enraged when she spoke of the heartless way Vanessa was treated. She bemoaned the officer’s early death, which denied her the justice she sought for her daughter.

Raids were not just a family affair, as many of our playmates were often caught up in the drama of a raid on the Abraham stores or apartment. Tina Louise, my friend from first grade onward, holds the honor of being caught up in at least three raids. Her first occurred shortly after dawn during a sleep over. As the police charged into our bedroom and began tearing through our closets and overturning dresser drawers, Tina Louise, totally unprepared for the commotion, sat in the middle of the bed, still in her pajamas, screaming, “What’s happening? Mrs. Abraham, what’s happening?”