another, hearing the police stomping up the alleyway that led to our apartment door, my sister quickly darted into the bathroom and began to run the shower. Tina Louise, pounding on the door, screamed, “Vanessa, what are you doing in there? The police are coming up the stairs!”
Vanessa replied, “Yeah, I know. They won’t bother me in here.” If we had any contraband in the house, the bathroom was the safest place. For some reason, none of the dozens of police who raided us over the years ever searched the Kotex box.
Although we went through the motions of a raid with composure, my mother often went on the attack. Cigarette dangling for her lips, her face contorted in rage, Bonnie would assail the officers with a stream of obscenities and threats. When given a few minutes advance notice of a raid, Vanessa or I would most often gather up my mother’s guns and put them in the closet. Not to hide them from the police, the guns were legally registered, but to thwart any temptation Bonnie may have had to shoot them.
On more than one occasion, she threatened to do just that. Hanging out the front window of the apartment, Bonnie would taunt the police, who just raided the store. “Come on up here boys, I’ve got something waiting for you! I’ll show you pricks a real good time. I’ve got bullets with your names on them.” Vanessa and I have often wondered why our mother was never arrested and concluded that she knew just enough dirt to make the police wary. She would often taunt the police about her knowledge of their dirty secrets. Of course, her crazy factor and unpredictability were also, I am sure, taken into consideration.
Not all raids involved excessive violence, nor did they all lead to my father’s arrest. Having many contacts in police forces throughout the county, Al was sometimes tipped off to an impending raid. Tips would range from “sometime this week” to a few minutes heads-up, but surprise raids were most common.
In the event of a raid, Vanessa and I were trained, at a very young age, to destroy or hide evidence. During the first half of our childhood, Al “wrote” on rice paper, which dissolves completely when placed in water—a very practical way for bookies to quickly and thoroughly destroy evidence. Our father would practice with us the proper procedure of “tricking the police” by throwing rice paper in the galvanized buckets of water that sat next to his “writing” areas in the storefront and in the basement. The magic of Al’s buckets was a delight but we were cautioned repeatedly not to play with them unless supervised—or if there were police rushing into the store. Although we did not understand the broad picture, we knew that the paper and magic bucket kept Daddy out of trouble with the police. As the years passed, Al became less concerned with gambling raids and began to write his book on a legal pad, periodically destroying the pages as they became outdated.
Old Stock, New Stock and Nick’s Triple Six Fix
Once we were old enough to “know our numbers,” Al would have us perform the task of taking daily number bets from customers. For many gamblers, we were at first an oddity but they soon became used to our involvement and began readily making bets with us, even when not under our father’s supervision. Writing numbers became a natural part of our life and our parents had no apparent unease with involving us in the complexities or legalities of the “family business.”
As Pennsylvania did not have an official state lottery system prior to 1972, the daily number was determined by the outcome of the New York Stock Exchange. The end-result of the day’s dealings of “legitimate bookies” on Wall Street would, in a fashion, determine the winning numbers for illegal bookmakers nationwide. Eager players would await the evening edition of the newspaper to find the winning three-digit “old stock” and “new stock” numbers. Payoffs
Vanessa replied, “Yeah, I know. They won’t bother me in here.” If we had any contraband in the house, the bathroom was the safest place. For some reason, none of the dozens of police who raided us over the years ever searched the Kotex box.
Although we went through the motions of a raid with composure, my mother often went on the attack. Cigarette dangling for her lips, her face contorted in rage, Bonnie would assail the officers with a stream of obscenities and threats. When given a few minutes advance notice of a raid, Vanessa or I would most often gather up my mother’s guns and put them in the closet. Not to hide them from the police, the guns were legally registered, but to thwart any temptation Bonnie may have had to shoot them.
On more than one occasion, she threatened to do just that. Hanging out the front window of the apartment, Bonnie would taunt the police, who just raided the store. “Come on up here boys, I’ve got something waiting for you! I’ll show you pricks a real good time. I’ve got bullets with your names on them.” Vanessa and I have often wondered why our mother was never arrested and concluded that she knew just enough dirt to make the police wary. She would often taunt the police about her knowledge of their dirty secrets. Of course, her crazy factor and unpredictability were also, I am sure, taken into consideration.
Not all raids involved excessive violence, nor did they all lead to my father’s arrest. Having many contacts in police forces throughout the county, Al was sometimes tipped off to an impending raid. Tips would range from “sometime this week” to a few minutes heads-up, but surprise raids were most common.
In the event of a raid, Vanessa and I were trained, at a very young age, to destroy or hide evidence. During the first half of our childhood, Al “wrote” on rice paper, which dissolves completely when placed in water—a very practical way for bookies to quickly and thoroughly destroy evidence. Our father would practice with us the proper procedure of “tricking the police” by throwing rice paper in the galvanized buckets of water that sat next to his “writing” areas in the storefront and in the basement. The magic of Al’s buckets was a delight but we were cautioned repeatedly not to play with them unless supervised—or if there were police rushing into the store. Although we did not understand the broad picture, we knew that the paper and magic bucket kept Daddy out of trouble with the police. As the years passed, Al became less concerned with gambling raids and began to write his book on a legal pad, periodically destroying the pages as they became outdated.
Old Stock, New Stock and Nick’s Triple Six Fix
Once we were old enough to “know our numbers,” Al would have us perform the task of taking daily number bets from customers. For many gamblers, we were at first an oddity but they soon became used to our involvement and began readily making bets with us, even when not under our father’s supervision. Writing numbers became a natural part of our life and our parents had no apparent unease with involving us in the complexities or legalities of the “family business.”
As Pennsylvania did not have an official state lottery system prior to 1972, the daily number was determined by the outcome of the New York Stock Exchange. The end-result of the day’s dealings of “legitimate bookies” on Wall Street would, in a fashion, determine the winning numbers for illegal bookmakers nationwide. Eager players would await the evening edition of the newspaper to find the winning three-digit “old stock” and “new stock” numbers. Payoffs
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