The Bookie's Daughter (23 page)

My father remained in his casual posture against the car. “I’ll take my daughter home when it suits me,” he snapped. Moving from the car, Al walked toward the police, stopped in the middle of the street, and revealed the purpose of his bizarre visit. “I want you to spread the word up and down the chain of command. I expect compensation for the fireworks that were stolen from me.”

One of the police officers began to object to the use of the word “stolen” but was quickly hushed by Kevin, who knew my father well enough to know that he was dead serious with his accusation. “I’m not sure what you are referring to, Al, but I will make inquiries. Let’s talk about this in the morning. I’ll come have coffee with you after I get off work.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Al growled. “Make sure the right people know my position or the next time, I will blow the doors off City Hall. In more ways than one.” Al motioned for me to get in the car and I complied, waving to the police officers as we pulled away.

Although a little disappointed with their subdued reaction, my father felt confident that he had made his point. His mood lightened as we coasted down Clay Avenue. Approaching the store, Al looked over and asked, “Are you up for a run into Pittsburgh?”

“Sure, Dad, let’s blow this town.” I did insist, however, on stopping at the store so that I could change into clean—non-explosive—clothes and wash up.

A half-hour later, we pulled up at the Primanti Brothers restaurant in the Strip District, where we feasted on giant corned beef sandwiches stuffed with fries and coleslaw. After our enormous middle-of-the-night splurge, Al and I headed for the wholesale section of the Strip District and purchased fresh produce for the store. Arriving home with the sunrise, we unloaded the station wagon. I then made my way, utterly exhausted, to our apartment to catch a few hours of sleep.

Over the next few days, Al met with several members of the police force, but I was not privy to their conversations. When I inquired as to the validity of the fireworks rumors or the possibility of compensation, my father gave me his maddening standard answer, “There are some things you’re better off not knowing.” I found this laughable, considering he did not think twice about involving me in the feud and making me a witness, or perhaps an accessory, to their childish battle. In my eyes, they were all juvenile delinquents. Like most squabbling children, they apparently made up. All went back to “normal.”

For all of Al’s involvement in illegal activities, he had an ethical code that included an idealistic view of law enforcement. Time and again, this idealism was tested, and he often ended up disappointed. He understood the raids and arrests as a fulfillment of duty on the part of the police. In his mind, however, breaking the law was not an option for anyone who carried a badge. My father saw this as the ultimate form of civic betrayal.

In this particular instance, he understood the use of the confiscated fireworks by off-duty police officers to be a form of theft. They were using the power of the law to break the law. Yet he never had a problem with the numerous off-duty officers—city, county, and state—who regularly frequented the store to play numbers, bet on sporting games, buy fireworks, and even purchase bootleg alcohol. For Al, that was just part of life—of getting by. Still, once a uniform was donned, he expected the police to live up to his standards.

My father’s ethical code was not something the average citizen would understand and I still struggle with it today. Al did not see his own criminal dealings as having an adverse effect on society. He was just simply trying to “make a living and have a little fun.” For those who knew him well, it was apparent that he not only thoroughly enjoyed being bad but also fully accepted the consequences of his actions.

In Al’s mind, there was
bad,
and then there was
Bad
. In other words, he understood some crimes to be acceptable and others not.
Bad
, with a capital B, included the criminal acts of sex peddlers, drug pushers, sexual predators, murderers, crooked cops, corrupt politicians, and strangely, what he called “Wall Street bookies.” In my father’s mind, these types of crimes were unacceptable and those who indulged in them were a menace to the public. The first four on the list he called “the dregs of society.” He scorned the last three as “protected by a veneer of legitimacy.” Al particularly loathed anyone involved in the drug business. His passion for seeing drug dealers behind bars may have prompted an attempt to kidnap me, but I will get to that later.

Compared to the crimes above, running fireworks, in Al’s opinion, was unworthy of police attention. Ultimately, even with the long arm of the law always looming, fireworks were just too much fun. Al would not allow fear of the consequences to get in the way. He never lost his childish enthusiasm for pyrotechnic play. He was attracted to their unpredictability, beauty, and danger—a trinity that was a recurring theme in the mad adventure that was his life. My father continued to run, deal, and gleefully enjoy fireworks up until the week before his death. I always thought it appropriate that he passed from this world in July, a month that for him inspired new beginnings.

Certain images conjure up different aspects of my father’s personality in my mind. Cards, dice, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and sports remind me of the dark side of my father’s addictive personality. Fireworks, however, always remind me of the fun-loving boy, desperate to escape the trappings of adulthood.

I last participated in a Fourth of July celebration in 1983, the year of my father’s death. Afterword, the holiday’s meaning was too personal to share with others. Since Al’s passing, the Fourth has been a day of personal reflection—the one day of the year that I allow myself to fully contemplate the magnificent, tortured life that left such a profound mark upon my soul. Living in the city, I cannot escape the public celebrations. I catch glimpses of the celebratory aerial blooms, hear the choreographed explosions, or feel their vibrations. Although still too raw to join in the celebration, I feel my father’s presence. I know that Al lives on in every beautiful explosion.

“
With the perverse logic of a degenerate gambler, he figured
 
God was testing his faith.”

Mario Puzo,
Inside Las Vegas

In addition to gleefully defying the law with his love of gambling and high explosives, my father also illegally traded in wares that put him into direct competition with the state of Pennsylvania. Although keeping a constant flow of money coming into our family coffers was most likely the primary motive for getting into the alcohol business, my father also enjoyed “sticking it to” Pennsylvania’s formidable Liquor Control Board (LCB). Created in 1933 in response to the repeal of Prohibition, Pennsylvania’s Liquor Control Board enjoys total control over all alcohol distribution, sales, and the licensing of restaurants and bars within the state. The state’s control and taxation of alcohol resulted in limited hours for purchasing spirits at LCB stores, a higher cost for consumers, and thus, a customer base for anyone who dared to offer the same products at discount prices and expanded hours. The opportunity to cut into the state’s revenue base was most definitely part of the allure, as was the excitement of adding yet another layer of potential danger to our already complicated lives.

Seeing the opportunity for a new revenue source, my father began to run illegal alcohol sometime in the mid-1970s. Because storage space in the store was limited, we stocked only the basics. Brand name vodka, rum, whiskey, and gin were available in fifths and half-gallon bottles, while low-end “fortified wines,” such as Red Lady, Thunderbird, and Ripple, were available in smaller quantities. Ripple, made popular in the sitcom
Sanford and Son,
was the cheapest buy at two dollars a bottle. Half gallons of brand name spirits were a steal at six to nine dollars.

As with our other illegal activities, the alcohol business was conducted in the open, with little concern for its moral or legal implications. Case upon case of alcohol was unabashedly stacked up in the far corner behind the service counter. Customers could play a number, bet on a game, buy cigarettes, and purchase a bottle of their favorite drink. It was one-stop shopping for the addicted and a convenience for those who imbibed “socially.” Business boomed. It began with those on the lower end of the income scale and eventually attracted more affluent customers, who enjoyed being able to stock up at a discount. Those in the bar business were soon placing bulk orders. Although my father dealt openly in illegal alcohol, he never sold to those under the legal age of twenty-one. We sold only to adults we knew personally or if they had references, we carded them to ensure they were of legal age. Even criminals have an ethical code.

Customers who enjoyed the low-cost spirits were concerned with losing their wholesale opportunity if my father were to be arrested. They devised code names for the coveted merchandise. To customers not “in the know,” their seemingly nonsensical utterances were baffling. For example, if a customer wanted to purchase a half gallon of vodka, he would ask for a “halfman Russian.” Rum became a “halfman Jamaican,” whiskey a “halfman Kentucky,” and gin a “halfman Gee.” If looking for Red Lady, customers would ask for “a Lady,” while Thunderbird was “T-lady.” Ripple was called “a Freddy,” after the main character on
Sanford and Son
.

Although the spirits business was lucrative year round, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year comprised the high seasons. Hundreds of cases were sold in the days approaching the most popular party holidays. Unlike the madcap runs for fireworks, most of the booze was delivered to the store by a sweet, soft-spoken Armenian man who was something of a mystery. I do not know where my father made his acquaintance or even if he knew his real name. “Gamo” made his regular delivery on Wednesday evenings after the store closed. My sister or I would stay late with our father and wait for Gamo to arrive in a black truck bulging with spirits. Unlike many of the shady characters Al dealt with, Gamo always insisted on unloading the merchandise himself and never caused any trouble.

During the high season, Gamo’s merchandise was supplemented by regular runs to Ohio, where we would meet up with a group of unsavory booze runners. I never officially “met” these seedy creatures, because my father thought them too dangerous for introductions. Al would order me to stay in the vehicle to “keep a look out” for the boys in blue or other trouble, while he supervised the loading of the merchandise. Thankfully, running alcohol was never as adventurous as the fireworks business. With the exception of the Ohio gang, there was little danger involved in securing the merchandise.

Apart from our regular customer base, our discounted alcohol was in high demand from many bars in the Pittsburgh area. Several times a month, I would accompany my father on deliveries to bars in Westmoreland and Allegheny counties. Delivery was only one of the “services” we offered. After unloading the illegal booze, I would often set up shop in a back storage area and transfer the illegal booze into clean, empty LCB-stamped bottles, which were recycled over-and-over again. Although this was not, at first, a planned service, I was often compensated for my efforts—an unforeseen but welcome supplement for my escape fund. While Al enjoyed a meal in the comfort of the bar, I toiled with the transfers in the storeroom. After several episodes that left me soaked with booze for my efforts, I began to carry various sizes of funnels. Even properly equipped, I would still have a spill or two. Between the gunpowder from the fireworks and the alcohol from these bottle transfers, I think it is safe to say that my sister and I spent much of our teenage years soaked in one flammable substance or another. After completing the messy task, I would reload the now empty illegal bottles into our car, leaving the bar free of evidence in the event of an LCB inspection.

To my amazement, our liquor business never drew the attention of the police or LCB. Even when raided for fireworks or gambling, the liquor remained out in the open and untouched. Of course, there were troublesome episodes, most dealing with drunken customers demanding more booze. Belligerent customers did not fare well, as my mother was always ready to slap the shit out of anyone who got out of line. In the case of one customer, denying alcohol was another revenge move in my mother’s repertoire.