The Bookie's Daughter (29 page)

It was not until the bus ride home that I allowed myself to think about the despicable business of the skin runners. I desperately wanted to talk to my father, and to find out if he had yet passed on the driver’s licenses to his contacts. I would, of course, have to be cautious, lest Bonnie find out about my whereabouts the night before.

Jumping off the bus, I headed into the store and came face to face with my furious mother. I knew as soon as I saw the set of her jaw that the cat was out of the bag. “Have a seat,” she ordered.

I rounded the sales counter and found my father and Big John sitting in silence, both staring at their feet.

“Have anything you want to tell me, young lady?”

Looking at my father, I blurted out, “Dad, I swear, I didn’t say anything to anyone!”

“I know you didn’t.” He was resigned to the lecture he was about to receive.

I turned to my mother. “How did you find out?”

“I got a call from a waitress at Mama Rhea’s. She called the store looking for you or your father. I told her you were in school where you belong, and your father was out. She was very concerned about you, thinking you might be in shock after the events of last night. I told her I was your mother, and she filled me in on the whole sordid story. Imagine my surprise when I found out your father had taken you along with him to a place I had forbidden!”

My mother was quite rightly fit to be tied, and read us all the riot act. Big John and my father took the full force of her tirade without making any effort to defend themselves. I was threatened with a “beating that will make you sorry you were ever born” if I ever defied her orders again. We sat silently throughout her rant. She was correct in her anger, and we had to take our punishment.

After her outburst, which seemed to go on for hours, my mother finally announced that she was “sick of looking at us” and was going home. I was ordered to stay in the store and work until closing. I cheerfully accepted this punishment, since going home with my righteous mother was not a particularly appealing idea at that moment. Thankful for the reprieve, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

Bonnie left Big John and Al with a final warning. “I may not be able to reach up high enough to punch either of you sons of bitches in the face, but if you ever take Heather anywhere against my wishes again, I will shove my shot gun so far up your asses, you will be chewing on the barrel when I pull the trigger!”

At this absurd image, I burst out laughing, and received a sharp slap across the face in return. Al and Big John sat motionless. I knew they would not interfere. Given the facts of the situation, I did not defend myself either. I was well aware that her anger was justified this time. Still, I could not help but find comedy in the scene. My two giants, who so bravely defended me the night before, were utterly terrified of this angry, little woman. Al and Big John tiptoed around Bonnie for the next couple of weeks.

These events left me wondering anew at the dangerous world in which I lived. Although I had rubbed shoulders with many a seedy character, I had been unaware of the existence of men such as the skin runners. I grieved for the young girls who were not as lucky as I to escape. I never returned to Mama Rhea’s, which burned down within a few years of the skin runner incident. Although I would find myself in the middle of other incidents that would necessitate keeping secrets from my mother, I never again went anywhere that she had declared off limit.

As for the skin runners, my father assured me that they were no longer in the flesh trade. Although he refused to give me any details, his assurances gave me some measure of peace. I wondered if my father had turned them in to his law enforcement buddies or if his “friends” had taken care of the problem. My encounter with the skin runners furthered my understanding of the criminal world and the evil that men do. Until my brush with these black-hearted thugs, I had held a rather naïve view of those who chose to live a life of crime. Even though I lived with criminals on a daily basis, I had never before glimpsed such utter depravity. Human trafficking is one of the most hideous of crimes, and yet we live in a world where this monstrous business flourishes. This new awareness of the darker side of humanity would serve me well in the future. Each fraught encounter prepared me for the next. I rolled with the punches, became more aware of my surroundings, and relied on my sense of humor to keep my sanity.

Although the Tacky Pimp and the skin runners were ultimately defeated by my giants, I knew from experience that the future held the possibility of more monsters. The pattern that began with my encounter with Damian Doom in my eleventh year would continue until I left Clay Avenue, and with it my father’s criminal world. The skin runners entered my life just two years before I reached the age of emancipation, but they also signaled the beginning of a dark period in my family’s life. The years 1980 through 1982 would be the most difficult period I had yet to encounter. I survived by keeping my eye on the promise of adulthood and the opportunity to go legit, which loomed so seductively before me. The next few years would be emotionally and physically draining and I found myself desperately clinging to an idealized dream of the future. As my father’s addictions spiraled into the abyss, I would become the target of his enemies. Al and Big John would yet again have to come to my rescue.

Unfortunately, not everyone had the good sense to be frightened of my giants. I was about to encounter a new type of menace, one that would rely on the law to protect him.

“
There is no kind of harassment that a man may not inflict
 
on a woman with impunity in civilized societies.”

Diderot

Colton Copperhead slithered into my life on a cold blustery winter night in my sixteenth year. Snuggled in bed, I had just drifted off to sleep after a fitful night of trying to calm my ulcerated stomach. A sudden noise of breaking glass from the street below startled me from my troubled sleep. Still clutching a bottle of Maalox, I sat up, fully awake, when a second crash rang through the air. Slipping from the bed, I scanned the street below our apartment through the frosty window and quickly located the source of the noise. The windshields of several vehicles parked on the Avenue lay shattered in the street.

A blast of frozen air and icy crystals invaded the apartment as I won my struggle with the frozen window. Squinting through the cold air, I startled to see a large figure leap from one of the damaged vehicles. Before I could move, the figure turned and looked directly up at me. This chilling moment is forever frozen in my mind. The man stared at me intently, and then let loose a chuckle as he boldly crossed over the roadway and stood directly in front of my family’s storefront. Almost casually, he pulled a brick out of his jacket pocket, held it in his hand as if contemplating his next move, and then tossed it through one of our store windows.

Knowing my father was away, at an all night poker game no doubt, I tried to wake my mother. Bonnie growled at me and rolled back to sleep.

“Mom, get up!” I shook her urgently. “Someone just broke into the store.”

Mumbling incoherently, Bonnie pushed my hand away, pulling the pillow over her head.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, to no one in particular.

My mother’s habit of popping black beauties generally left her either energized or groggy. From her reaction, it was apparent she was in the crash sequence of her addiction.

Annoyed as hell, I picked up the phone and dialed the police station, explaining the situation to the desk sergeant. Then, I grabbed some clothes, dressed, and waited until I saw the police come down the Avenue. Two police cars pulled up, and I dashed outside to meet them. There was no need for introductions. All four of the officers present had, at one time or another, conducted raids on my father’s gambling or fireworks businesses. I knew these officers well, having over the years developed a strange familiarity with them.

One of the officers asked what had happened and if I knew the perpetrator.

“No, I don’t know who he is,” I replied excitedly. “He is a large white man, bushy, curly red hair, about six feet, very broad, and wearing a dark jacket and jeans. He broke into several vehicles across the street, then crossed over the Avenue and smashed our store window.”

“Do you know if he’s still inside?”

“No, I left the window to call you and get dressed. I have no idea if he is in there or not.”

“Where are Al and Bonnie?” asked Freddy, a senior officer.

I sighed. “My mom is in bed, and as far as I know my dad is out playing poker somewhere.”

Ruffling my hair and chuckling, he replied, “Well kid, I guess that puts you in charge.”

I was unhappy with this responsibility. “Yeah, just what I need—a promotion.”

I did not have to explain my sarcastic remark. Freddy knew exactly what I meant. He then began to investigate the matter at hand, ordering me to stay on the sidewalk while he and another officer checked out the situation inside.

Shining their flashlights on the entryway, the officers quickly discovered how the intruder had gained entrance to the store. From my place on the sidewalk, I could see the jagged remnants of the window next to the front door. Handing off the store keys, I stayed in my position on the sidewalk with one officer while the others entered the store. They found the cash register lying open on the floor. Turning on the lights and checking the rest of the store, they found the intruder had already left. The officers called me in and asked that I look around to see if anything else was disturbed. The cigarette display was in disarray and I immediately checked to see if the gun was missing. It was there, snuggled in a wooden box under a stack of paper bags. I quickly returned the gun to its hiding place and gave the officers my take on the situation.

“He may have taken some cigarettes and he definitely cleaned out the register, which contained the daily starting amount of $155. He couldn’t have gone far. This happened less than five minutes ago.”

Outside, an officer called to his partners, pointing to the ground. The newly fallen snow indicated a lone set of tracks leading from the side entrance of the store and running north on Seventh Street. While one officer stayed by my side, the others followed the tracks to the back alley. A few minutes later, I heard raised voices and felt the snap of anger in the air. The voices became clearer as the police wrestled the intruder out of the back alley. He was screaming, “That bitch! I’ll kill her! Do you hear me, bitch? I’ll kill you for this!”

The police dragged the large man toward me and for the first time, I came face to face with Colton Copperhead, the man who would stalk me for the next three years. Apparently, Colton decided right then and there that I was responsible for all his woes. His twisted reasoning led him to place the blame for his troubles squarely upon my shoulders.

Colton stared intently at me as the police questioned him about his crime spree. Never taking his eyes from me, he snidely half-answered their questions. He seemed more concerned with intimidating me than with the charges he would soon face. I stood my ground, refusing to flinch from his hateful, green-eyed gaze. I stared back, my demeanor a mask for the turmoil and fear that coursed through my body, rousing my ulcers to peak performance. Aside from his odious gaze, Colton’s physical stature was in itself intimidating; standing at more than six feet with a barrel chest and massive arms, Colton could easily carry out his threats with his bare hands. As the police wrestled him into their waiting car, he turned and looked at me again. He breathed one word that would haunt me in the coming months: “Later.”

I returned to the apartment and found my mother in the kitchen making a pot of coffee, a cigarette dangling from her lips. As she spoke, the cigarette swayed up and down. “Well, did they get him?”

“Yes,” I replied matter-of-factly. “His name is Colton Copperhead, an out-of-towner. He threatened to kill me.”

Slamming the coffee on the table, she pointed to the revolver on the kitchen phone stand and said, “If he comes to the door, shoot him.” Then storming to the front window my mother screamed at the police, “If that bastard comes near my house or store again, I will shoot him. Make sure you tell him that. If he wants a fight, I’ll give it to him. He came to the right town if he wants trouble.”