The Bookie's Daughter (33 page)
I never saw Colton again. Rumor had it that shortly after our last collision, Colton had packed up and moved to the wilds of Alaska where his experience with commercial equipment was needed. I left Pennsylvania a few years later, putting a thousand miles between my crazy years on Clay Avenue and the new life I struggled to establish. The last news I had of Colton came when Bonnie called my office in Fort Pierce, Florida to give me some startling news.
“Who is the only man you were ever afraid of?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “Colton Copperhead.”
Bonnie chuckled. “Not anymore. He’s dead. Killed in a logging equipment accident somewhere out west. One of your father’s law enforcement buddies thought we might like to know.”
Hanging up the phone, I wept. Several years’ worth of tears poured out of me as the reality of the dramatic and unexpected news sunk in. I never inquired further into the last chapter of Colton’s life. Still, I wondered whether he had met his end at the hands of another victim or if he had simply consumed too much booze and passed out drunk, oblivious to the steel machinery that would end his life. Somehow the likelihood of an accident did not ring true in my mind but I must concede that it is a possibility. My imagination ran wild as I processed my mother’s unexpected announcement. Sometime later, I wiped away the last of my tears and busied myself by making a fresh pot of coffee. Stepping from my office into the Florida sunshine, I sipped the steamy liquid and enjoyed the fresh air with a new sense of freedom.
“
We are in a giant car heading for a brick wall and everyone
is arguing over where they are going to sit.”
David Suzuki
My father was contradiction in motion. Many of his illegal dealings were astonishingly transparent, yet he was a master at keeping secrets. He was an unconventional but loving father whose chosen path often put his family at risk. Big Al was a criminal—that he would never have denied. Nonetheless, he was a man who despised certain criminal acts.
My father’s addictions were most assuredly at the root of his crimes. After all, gambling is an expensive habit, and a gambling addiction can be a bottomless financial pit of stress and worry. Al’s dark passengers ruled his life. His sinister need choreographed illogical and sometimes comedic actions. As the years passed, his journey into the abyss, which began with a youthful fascination with the gaming business, took on an unnerving urgency. This urgency left his daughters fearful of an inevitable collision with heartbreak, insanity, or death.
By the dawn of my sophomore year in high school, my father’s addictions were greedily consuming him. With Jeannette’s factory economy under siege and many once prosperous workers in permanent layoff status, the legitimate side of our family business was in steep decline. Illegal dealings were the only hope for bearing my father’s extensive and ever intensifying gambling losses. To finance his compulsions, he increased his criminal activities, but only managed to temporarily fill the family coffers. Like all consummate gambling addicts, he increased his risks and dreamed of a grandiose payoff that would save his family from financial ruin and his wounded soul from the lapping flames of an addict’s living hell. His bets became monstrous, each increasing his mountain of debt. Although his winnings were frequent, they only encouraged him to take larger risks. Ten, fifteen, even twenty thousand dollars would be lost or won on a single game and his once occasional casino excursions to Atlantic City, Las Vegas, and the Bahamas became regular occurrences. The sights and sounds of the casino beckoned seductively, as Lady Luck’s siren call simultaneously promised glory and warned of despair.
To feed his ever-increasing need for action, Big Al joined forces with a junket company. He organized 24 and 36 hour excursions to Atlantic City, the East Coast’s gambling mecca. Gambling junkets required a predetermined number of commuters, so if my father’s recruitment fell short or if a gambler dropped out at the last minute, Vanessa, my mother, or I were often recruited to fill empty seats. To qualify for the free roundtrip airfare, complementary hotel rooms, meals, and tickets to headline shows, each passenger had to commit a predetermined gambling stake up front. Upon arrival, the money was then returned to the client in the form of casino chips. My father would provide the stake for each of his family members and then use the chips at the tables himself. Of course, Vanessa and I were given a nominal amount with which to amuse ourselves. I was just fifteen the first time I accompanied my father to Atlantic City.
Even though I was far below the legal age, no one questioned either my presence in the casino or my playing of the slots. By my second trip, I was confident enough to perch boldly at the blackjack tables and gamble for a few hours while sipping a complementary martini. My father would periodically stop by to check on my progress, provide tips on my betting style, and remove any alcoholic beverages I was enjoying. Big Al frowned on mixing booze with gambling, but had no problem with his fifteen-year-old daughter skipping school and spending the day in a casino.
Unlike many who joined us on the excursions, I would give myself a hundred dollar limit and quit if my losses reached this fixed amount. I would generally spend the remaining time reading in the casino lounge, attending a show, or taking advantage of the services offered at the casino spa. On the occasion I found myself flush with winnings, I would seek out my father and have him cash in my chips. I may have been able to get away with gambling, but my age and lack of identification made it impossible to cash in substantial amounts. If on a losing streak, Al would grumble throughout the process. When he was winning, he would slap me on the back in excitement.
In addition to filling seats on the plane, I was also a safe place for gamblers to place their winnings. Several of the regulars took advantage of my presence, giving me a percentage of their winnings to safeguard until our return trip home. Of course, a few would end up losing their balance and would beg for the money they left in my care. No matter how much they pled, I stubbornly refused to return the money until we reached the safety of the plane. One gambler became absolutely irate when I refused to return the thousands he had given me a few hours before. I stood my ground and once we reached the plane, turned over his money, only to watch as he lost the entire amount playing cards on the short flight home. On subsequent trips, I held onto the money entrusted to my care until we reached Pittsburgh, feeling somehow victorious that I had temporarily delayed at least some financial losses.
It still amazes me that no one thought it odd to entrust thousands of dollars to a young girl, or given that several of the gamblers had children my age, thought it inappropriate for me to be a spectator to their shenanigans. Trained from childhood to keep secrets, I never revealed their activities to their children. On more than one occasion, I would run into a school chum who would mention that their father accompanied mine to Atlantic City. I would nod and quickly change the subject. Even though I could still hear the clanging of the winning slot machines in my ears, I never revealed that I too had been on the trip.
Although I had been around gamblers since birth, my trips to Atlantic City drove home the irresistible pull of the addict’s demons. I was astonished at the staggering amount of money that was virtually thrown away at the gaming tables. I witnessed the highs associated with winning and the devastating lows, sometimes leading to complete financial ruin, through the glazed-over eyes of addicts caught in the orgiastic throes of their monstrous compulsion. Although my family life revolved around the gambling world, these trips to Atlantic City were nevertheless educational. They expanded my knowledge of the horrors of addiction and the absurd deeds of irresponsible adults.
While learning more than I ever wanted to know about the pitfalls of gambling, my formal education was all but ignored. The family businesses took priority over my school career. Given the late night runs to pick up illegal merchandise, the forty-plus hours I worked in the store each week, and my emotional exhaustion at dealing with a seemingly unending supply of looming predators, my school attendance was abysmal. By the time I graduated in the spring of 1982, I had missed 147 days of high school, many of which were unexcused. To make matters worse, my parents insisted that I sign up for the work release program in my senior year. On the days I did go to school, I attended for just a few short hours, leaving shortly after noon to work in the store. While many of my friends were preparing for the SATs and pouring over university brochures, I was struggling with the realization that for me college was a dream relegated to the distant future.
My parents, who once encouraged my thirst for knowledge, seemed unconcerned with my scholastic future. I was unable to concentrate on homework, let alone the angst and joys of being a teen. Instead, I spent most of my time with criminals learning the complexities of the con du jour and staying one-step ahead of the boys in blue. Any chance I had at a legitimate life, once I graduated high school, depended entirely on me. The adults in my life were too entrenched in their own misery to focus on my future.
To counteract the seedy, chaotic world in which I lived, I jumped at any chance to spend constructive time away from Clay Avenue and my parents’ dysfunctional lifestyle. One such opportunity followed a lecture given by a local state senator who spoke at my school about the importance of being politically active. After the lecture, I approached the senator and inquired about volunteer positions on his campaign. He gave me his office number and told me to give him a call, with my parents’ permission of course.
Desperate to obtain some type of experience that would benefit me once I left the family businesses, I was determined to follow through on the opportunity. I knew that discussing the subject with my parents would be difficult. My father detested politicians, seeing them as criminals that used and hid behind the powers of the state. My mother’s support was questionable, as my absence would mean she would have to pick up my time in the store. Knowing that neither would be thrilled with the prospect of their daughter’s absence, or the company she would be keeping, I lied. I told them that volunteering was a mandatory part of a school project. Reluctantly, they agreed.
My first campaign was thrilling. I absolutely loved the challenge and the tedious work involved in a political campaign. Thankfully, I found that I was adept at whatever task I was assigned. Soon, other officials and candidates looking for help in their campaign office or needing someone to work the polls on Election Day called upon me. I was fast and efficient, had great social skills, and could think on my feet—attributes I ironically accrued during my unconventional childhood.
My parents balked at my continued political involvement but acquiesced after a few screaming matches. I was defiant, refusing to give up my newfound passion. If they wanted my continued assistance with the family businesses, they had to compromise on this matter. By the time I graduated high school, I had worked on campaigns for the US House of Representatives, Pennsylvania State Senate and House of Representatives, and various county and local positions. My determined efforts would eventually help pave the way for the bookie’s daughter to enter the “legitimate” world.
By my junior year of high school, I had become a master at handling disgruntled gamblers, drunks, degenerate criminals, political intrigue, and my addicted parents. Or so I thought. As my father’s addictions intensified, I suddenly found myself dealing with the dark side of Al’s pain. As the one closest to him, I bore the brunt of his increasingly fluctuating moods. Of course, his disposition was directly related to his gambling successes and failures. When winning, he was full of merriment and on constant lookout for childish adventures. Unfortunately, the highs were always followed by dark lows that would erupt suddenly and without warning. Any imagined slight would send him into a vicious rant. His sniping behavior, which before had surfaced only on rare occasions, became all too routine. Although I knew that his losses were at the root of his dark moods, I was entering a stage in which I was fed up with the chaos and angst of our family dramedy. I had little patience with my father’s asinine behavior, and we would often wind up in intense arguments that would end with my being fired.