“See Bonnie, all he needs is a little love,” Liz admonished my mother as she threw air kisses back at Larry.
My mother, rendered speechless, stood frozen in horror as she watched Larry urinate down the front of Liz’s purple wool dress. Liz became irate as the warmth of Larry’s ruse drew her attention. The tables turned, and my mother found herself protecting Larry from a furious Liz, who was determined to throttle the now-screaming monkey. A few days later, Larry was shipped off to a zoo in a nearby county.
Thunder, by comparison, was a joy. Inky black with a white diamond patch on his forehead, he was beauty in motion. Vanessa and I gleefully awaited our Sunday visits with Thunder, who was boarded at a farm a mere thirty minutes away. Tiny for my age, I was not permitted to ride Thunder unaccompanied, so I perched in front of Vanessa who quickly mastered the art of riding. She became so adept that she would often jump on him bareback. Afterwards, we would assist in rubbing him down, all the while feeding him the apples and carrot sticks we had prepared for him at home.
Thunder was a welcome respite from the stresses that came along with my father’s occupation, but he was not our only pet. Our house and tiny yard were akin to a miniature zoo, with dogs, cats, lizards, frogs, fish, chickens, rabbits, and alligators aplenty. My parents loved animals and instilled in us an enduring devotion for earth’s creatures. On any given day, I could be found walking my alligator up the street by means of a leather harness my mother made to keep him in check. When Curly the alligator was not in tow, I would often have a chameleon or frog in my pocket. For some, my pets were more than a little disconcerting. Hook, a hoodlum from Pittsburgh, was especially fearful of my chameleons and most especially, Curly. A large gruff man who commanded respect, Hook’s fearful reactions tickled my fancy. I purposefully terrorized him with my amphibian friends by waiting for the opportunity to back him into a corner where, white-faced, he would offer me a wad of money to remove the offending creatures.
Curly was part of a surprise trio of baby alligators my father brought back from a Florida fishing trip. They were strange pets, to be sure, but I quickly fell in love with the fascinating creatures, naming them Curly, Moe, and Shemp. Moe died shortly after arriving on Clay Avenue and Shemp found himself the victim of a flushing toilet. I did not mean to flush him away; with the mind of a child, I simply thought that he would enjoy a good swim. Looking back, I am horrified at my actions. My mother admonished me for my thoughtlessness, telling me that he would forever live in the sewer eating our waste. Curly, the only survivor, lived with us until he reached about two feet in length. He was my best buddy and was never aggressive with me. He loved to have his stomach rubbed and would often join me on the sofa to watch television. Curly did not make many friends and was eventually determined to be a menace by the police, who received complaints of an alligator on the Avenue. Curly eventually ended up at the zoo with Larry.
I did not mind Larry’s abrupt departure but was brokenhearted when Curly was sent away. Yet, neither loss prepared my sister or me for the death of Thunder. Our parents explained, to their tearful daughters, that Thunder met his demise in a horrific accident when he escaped his stall, jumped a fence, and was struck and killed by an eighteen-wheeler. Vanessa and I were devastated at the news and cried for days. Heartbroken, we tried to occupy ourselves with the many rabbits we kept in the backyard. Years later we discovered that Thunder did not die in a horrific accident; he had been lost—as he was won—in a hand of poker. Not wanting to admit that Daddy had lost our beloved horse, our parents concocted the outrageous lie of Thunder’s gruesome demise. Even today, Vanessa and I struggle to understand their bizarre and cruel ruse.
A nerdy little girl with unruly hair and a curious mind, I was eager to start school. I not only looked forward to meeting other kids my age, I even thrilled at the prospect of regular homework assignments. I was also excited at the prospect of being away from the store and my parent’s crazy antics.
Bonnie too had long looked forward to the beginning of my school years, but the big event was marred by my mother’s miscalculation of my age. Although I was in fact six, she had failed to register me for the coming school year. Suspended in a haze of booze, she had apparently lost track of the years. The school district had not, however. At first, Bonnie balked at an official inquiry as to why I had not yet been registered. She did not want to admit that her love of Jack Daniels and black beauties had interfered with her sense of time. By her calendar, I was only five. Mortified at being “caught” in the embarrassing position of not knowing her own daughter’s age, my mother defiantly responded that I was too immature to begin my school career. Fortunately, her objections were overruled.
By all accounts, I was a handful. In many ways my entrance into first grade afforded my mother badly needed respite. I was not a destructive or belligerent child, but my inquisitive nature was a constant annoyance to my mother, who was typically in some stage of intoxication. Exasperated with my persistent inquiries, Bonnie would often quip to anyone within earshot, “That little bitch is making me crazy! She never stops asking questions. Why this? Why that? Why? Why? Why?”
Admittedly, my curiosity was boundless, and I would persist until either given an answer I thought logical or one I needed to mull over. Desperate to shut me up, my mother was constantly buying me books in the hopes of keeping me occupied, but after reading them, I always wanted to discuss the topic du jour. This inevitably ended with another “why?” As a result, my going off to school was an exciting prospect for both mother and child.
Although Gaskill Elementary was just a few blocks away, Bonnie walked me to school my first day and gratefully turned me over to the teacher. Ms. Bartholomew was a saint. A teacher for many years, I am sure she thought she had seen it all before I appeared on the scene, but I think it is safe to say that I was a memorable student. After all, my first day of primary school began with a naughty incident on my part and ended, the following spring, with my sister and me having full-time undercover police officers as bodyguards.
As the bell officially signaled the beginning of the first day of class, Ms. Bartholomew set about gathering her new students in the front of the classroom. She called out names, directing students to their assigned seats. My name was called first, but for some reason I did not answer. Going through the rest of the roll, the teacher found that I was the only one left at the front of the room. She inquired, reasonably, “You didn’t answer when I called out your name. Do you have a nickname you would like me to use?”
“Well, my mom calls me ‘little bitch,’” I answered.
The astonished teacher, now red-faced, took me by the hand and led me to my seat. I spent the rest of the day getting familiar with the classroom and looking through my books. Immediately after class, Ms. Bartholomew announced that she would be walking me home, as she had something to discuss with my mother. Entering the store, Ms. Bartholomew filled my mother in on the “little bitch” incident and berated her for using such profane language in front of a child. Caught off guard, my mother was more than a little annoyed with my tattling. I am not sure why I decided to share such outrageous information with my teacher. Maybe I was annoyed at my mother and wanted her to get in trouble, or maybe I was just being mischievous. Either way, it was an interesting way to start my school career.
Bonnie was uncharacteristically at a loss with how to punish me for my outrageous behavior. Thankfully, I escaped physical punishment but did receive a tongue-lashing and lecture on my crime of revealing family business to outsiders. “Little Bitch” remained one of my mother’s favorite pet names for her youngest daughter.
While I was busy discovering the joys and hard work associated with being a student, my father’s gambling business found itself under threat from an unusual source. Al had always accepted police interference in the forms of raids or arrests, considering it part of his chosen profession. Now, however, he found himself the target of a new kind of police threat and Vanessa and I found ourselves caught up in a whirlwind of corruption and scandal. Our “zoo” was about to explode with vicious two-legged animals that made Larry’s shit-throwing antics look like child’s play.
“
Man is the only kind of varmint that sets his own trap,
baits it, then steps in it.”
John Steinbeck
In the decades prior to the state’s entry into the numbers business—otherwise known as the lottery—bookies like my father made a good living. The runners they employed supplemented their incomes by writing numbers from which they would receive a percentage of the “book.” An industrious factory worker could augment his income by writing numbers while on the job. For those with an active factory book, the numbers business could easily provide an extra hundred dollars or more a week, plus the customary tip from winning customers. All of this money was free of federal and state taxes.
Jeannette’s labor force was the major client base for many of the bookies in town. Placing bets on the daily number was part of the factory culture, and in some factories, playing the number was seemingly as important as performance on the job. Those lucky enough to “hit” often shared their winnings by providing coworkers with delectable treats to consume during breaks. Those who lost were assured that their windfall was just around the corner. The hopeful idea of a life-changing “big hit” was comforting to the weary bodies who toiled in Jeannette’s factories.
For my father and other bookies in town, booking numbers was a lucrative business. Income generated from number writing was off the books—no earnings to declare and no taxes to pay. An occasional police raid was expected, but the penalty was minimal and well worth the risk. On the other hand, the long arm of the Feds—in particular, the Internal Revenue Service—was a threat that all bookies took seriously. Money laundering and living a seemingly modest life was a must for those desperate to escape the dreaded gaze of the Feds.
Jeannette was not alone in its penchant for gambling. As the 1960s came to a close, the federal government was gearing up for an all out blitz against organized crime in western Pennsylvania. In his autobiography,
Where the Evidence Leads
, former Governor of Pennsylvania and U.S. Attorney General Richard Thornburgh summarized the atmosphere in western Pennsylvania of the 1960s and 1970s:
Many in this country see a threat in what they term the “military-industrial complex.” In western Pennsylvania, I say they should direct their attention to the “politico-racket complex” which has a near stranglehold on a number of communities in our area.
To my mind, there is no more subversive element in this land than the corrupting influence of organized crime syndicates which seek to control whole sections of our government, economy, and community life. It can happen anywhere—in any community where the criminal conglomerates dealing in illegal gambling, narcotics, loan-sharking, labor-racketeering and the like are successful in efforts to “buy off” legitimate government.
4
As U.S. District Attorney, Richard Thornburgh established a task force to combat the “politico-racket complex” in western Pennsylvania. Determined to employ the tools recently provided by the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970 (OCCA), Thornburgh and his assistants set about taking on corruption, great and small. Thornburgh explains the significance of the crime bill and the opportunities it created for law enforcement.
The year after I took office, the Organized Crime Control Act of 1970 vastly increased federal jurisdiction over racketeering. It defined new federal offenses in the areas of illegal gambling (which I called the “cash register” of organized crime) and public corruption; provided for witness immunity to compel underlings to testify against bosses; created the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act to reach mob fronts posing as legitimate businesses; lengthened prison sentences for racketeering; and authorized special investigative grand juries to concentrate on organized crime. These tools were to transform the role of the U.S. attorneys.
5
Armed with the OCCA’s new crime fighting policies, Thornburgh’s task force awaited the opportunity to use their newly created might. Events unfolding in Jeannette would provide them with the opportunity and unleash a scandal that would shake the foundations of Jeannette’s City Hall.
While I was caught up in the excitement of first grade, my father was struggling to extricate himself from a sticky situation involving city officials who determined that Jeannette’s numbers business was going to be conducted according to
their
rules.
Sometime in 1970, the mayor and chief of police of Jeannette began to systematically “push” minor bookies to turn their business over to one specific individual, thereby creating a monopoly in Jeannette for their chosen “numbers boss.” My father at first refused to comply but eventually acquiesced after his arrest in October 1970. A few days after his arrest and subsequent bond release, he visited the chief of police and agreed to comply with their directive, turning over his book to “the numbers boss backed by the Police Chief and Mayor.”
6
In short order, charges against my father were dropped and his bond was returned to him. Although guaranteed protection from legal action as long as he played by their rules, my father eventually balked at taking orders from government officials. After months of conflict, he decided to stop playing ball with City Hall. Big Al began to make inquiries at the federal level, which eventually led to meetings with Thornburgh’s task force.