The Bookie's Daughter (24 page)

Mr. Smooth, a wannabe Broadway star, was a tall, lanky middle-aged black man with bleach blonde hair and pale, blue eyes. It was rumored that his father had been a wealthy businessman from San Francisco. At his death, Mr. Smooth inherited a small fortune, which he spent lavishly on outlandish clothes and cheap alcohol. I am not sure where he lived, but he would arrive on the Avenue in a taxi and spend his day bouncing from bar to bar, with a final stop in our store to pick up a bottle or two of Red Lady. On any given day, he could be seen walking the Avenue in full regalia—a colorful suit with matching shoes and hat, which he sometimes accessorized with a jaunty, gold walking stick. His collection of eye-catching suits included a bright pink suit that he donned for Easter and a red-and-green suit replete with gold Christmas trim. During the holiday season, he resembled a walking Christmas tree, perfectly complementing the decorations that lined Jeannette’s business district. Mr. Smooth began to drink early in the morning and was often drunk before noon.

My mother and Mr. Smooth were never on friendly terms. Bonnie barely tolerated his presence when he came into the store to purchase a bottle and the long, thin cigars he thought brought a touch of elegance to his outrageous outfits. Ironically, Bonnie disliked drunks. Their tenuous relationship exploded into all-out war when an intoxicated Mr. Smooth decided to take a piss in the walkway that led to our family’s apartment door.

On the day of the great piss fight, Vanessa, my school friend Tina Louise, and I had just finished sweeping the sidewalk and straightening the fruit market we had set up in front of the store. Shortly before midday, Mr. Smooth, dressed in a pristine white suit, white patent leather shoes, a wide-brimmed white hat, and fuchsia shirt, staggered past the store. He made a remarkable sight in his virginal get up. The three of us stared as he passed by and staggered to a halt in front of the store. Mumbling to himself, Mr. Smooth appeared to be struggling with a decision, but his alcohol-soaked brain refused to cooperate. A few moments later, he stopped again in front of our apartment building next door. Still mumbling, he staggered over to the walkway that separated our apartment building from the neighboring bar. In plain view of the Avenue, and of the three of us, he unzipped his trousers and groped around inside. Oblivious to his startled audience, he pulled out his penis and began to piss into the entrance of our walkway.

Shocked at his actions, Vanessa and I screamed for our mother. Bonnie rushed from the store to investigate the source of our concern. Seeing Mr. Smooth and his little friend, my mother grabbed the broom and charged him. He became aware of my mother’s presence at the precise moment the broom hit him on the side of his head, sending the pristine white hat flying through the air. Turning around towards his attacker, he came face to face with my raging mother.

“You animal!” she screamed, all the while reigning down blows with the broom.

Mr. Smooth began twisting to and fro in an attempt to escape the broom handle my mother was now wielding like a bat on his newly uncovered head. In his need to protect himself, he let go of his penis. Urine now sprayed his once-pristine suit. Indignant at my mother’s attack, Mr. Smooth began to scream, “Hey, watch the threads! Watch the threads!”

“You’re concerned about your suit? You fuckin’ degenerate drunk! You pulled your dick out in front of children and you’re concerned about your suit?”

Spying a puddle of water that had collected on the street after I washed down the front of the store earlier that morning, my mother decided to give his suit a good cleaning. Bonnie dipped her broom into the water and repeatedly “swept” the white suit with the muddy water. Mr. Smooth, realizing his suit was completely ruined, began to scream hysterically, “Look what you did! You ruined my threads!”

Seething with fury, my mother walked over to the hat, which had somehow escaped both the mud and urine. She picked it up and threw it into the mud puddle. Mr. Smooth, emotionally distraught, bent over to retrieve his hat and found himself the target of my mother’s foot, which left an imprint on the rear end of his trousers. He straightened up and sobbed, “Look what you did to my hat and threads. I was just trying to relieve myself. There was no need for you to ruin my threads.”

Bonnie, astounded with his inability to understand his repulsive actions, left him with a final warning. “If you ever dare to pull your dick out in front of my children again, I will rip it off and staple it to your fuckin’ forehead.” Mr. Smooth, head hanging, limped off down the Avenue.

Vanessa and I were unconcerned for our mother’s safety, having seen her take on far more menacing characters than Mr. Smooth. Tina Louise, however, was worried about Bonnie’s welfare throughout the entire ordeal. Dismissing her worries, my mother soon had all of us laughing at the morning’s antics. Still musing over the earlier spectacle, we went back to work, awaiting the next outrageous adventure.

After the piss fight, Mr. Smooth was persona non grata, losing his shopping privileges for both legal and illegal merchandise. Surprisingly, he was unaware that his pissing faux pas instigated a change in his status. A week or two after the piss heard all over the Avenue, Mr. Smooth, dressed from head to toe in red, sauntered into the store. Bonnie, lost in the news headlines of the day, looked up from her newspaper and found him standing a few feet away.

“What the hell do you want?” My mother demanded.

“Smokes and two Ladies.”

“Cigars and two bottles of Red Lady?” My mother asked, verifying his order.

“Yep,” Mr. Smooth replied, as he fumbled with his money.

“How about I give you something better?” my mother barked, rolling up the newspaper.

A look of dread came over his face as he realized my mother’s anger had not abated. Newspaper tightly rolled, my mother pounced on Mr. Smooth and began whacking him as if he were a naughty dog.

“You will NEVER step foot in this store again!” she screamed as she battered him out the door and onto the street. Mr. Smooth never darkened our door again.

An eccentric pissing drunk was not the only trouble our alcohol sales attracted. As word spread of the cheap and easily accessible booze, seedy and dangerous characters were soon haunting the Avenue. One in particular was so obviously nuts that even my mother thought twice about tangling with him. Crazy Eyes was danger personified. A tall, muscular man with long, shaggy blonde hair, mesmerizing hazel eyes, and wiry bushy mustache, Crazy Eyes came to Jeannette in search of cheap booze to serve in his underground bar located somewhere on the outskirts of Cleveland. The location of his bar, which we later discovered was a private unlicensed club that catered to IRA members and supporters, was never revealed to anyone in my family. After several trips to Jeannette to pick up the coveted alcohol, Crazy Eyes requested personal deliveries.

Because Crazy Eyes had good references and was apparently flush with cash, my father agreed. Deliveries were to be made to his legitimate business, a small neighborhood smoke shop in a rundown Cleveland neighborhood. My father made his first run to Crazy Eyes’ store with my sister. Vanessa came back with dire warnings for both our parents. Her suspicions were aroused during the simple process of unloading the merchandise, when she noticed that Crazy Eyes’ store was riddled with bullet holes. Vanessa took in the sights as she walked the length of the store, dropping the booze at the threshold of the doorway leading to a private back room. One of Crazy Eyes’ partners opened the door and Vanessa quickly glanced inside. There she saw a spread of menacing weapons lying casually on a table under an IRA poster. Although her inspection was cut short, she was sure the array included bazookas and machine guns. My father insisted that he did not notice anything sinister. Of course, that was probably due to his worsening eyesight and his typical annoyance when told he was heading for trouble. My father reacted to any negative comments made by the women in his life with defensiveness. He thought we saw trouble too easily.

I accompanied Al on his second delivery to Crazy Eyes’ place and confirmed my sister’s suspicions. Upon our arrival at the dingy little store, we found an angry Crazy Eyes engaged in an intense argument on the phone. Looking up, he waved me toward the back room, which he unlocked by way of a buzzer under the cash register. A store employee loaded the cases onto a hand dolly and I pushed them into the back room. Curious as to my sister’s previous description, I took a hard look around and found a cache of weapons in open wooden cases. The walls were covered with IRA posters and newspaper articles from abroad, which were strangely arranged around a movie poster of a gun-toting John Wayne. My surveillance ended abruptly when I heard Crazy Eyes slam down the phone.

Quickly exiting the back room, I went to the entrance, picked up the final load, and hurried back through the store. After unloading the last cases, I reentered the storefront to find Crazy Eyes talking with my father and another man. Crazy Eyes placed a payment envelope on the counter in front of Al, who motioned for me to take the money. Opening the envelope, I quickly counted out the cash and confirmed the amount.

“Don’t you trust me?” Crazy Eyes inquired.

Looking up into his mesmerizing eyes, I shrugged. “No offence. I don’t trust anyone.”

“You’re too young for that kind of attitude,” he chuckled.

“I’m too young for most of the shit I do,” I replied, handing the money over to my father.

“Well, if you’re going to be in this business, you have to have a suspicious nature.” Crazy Eyes joked.

“I have no intention of staying in this business.”

“Yeah, what are you going to do when you grow up?” Crazy Eyes inquired a bit sarcastically.

“I’m going legit as soon as I turn eighteen!” My response was a bit louder than necessary.

Crazy Eyes’ smile disappeared and his jaw grew tense. He stared at me intently. My father instinctively pulled me aside, placing himself between us. Shocked at my own brazen stupidity, I struggled to find words to diffuse the situation. Before I could utter a word, Crazy Eyes began to laugh hysterically. “She’s got some balls on her!”

The tension now broken, Al ordered me to the car while he finished his business. Breathing a sigh of relief, I headed outside. Thankful to have escaped the insanity charged storefront, I settled into the front seat and occupied myself with the book I had brought along. Fifteen minutes later, Al got into the driver’s side door, started the car, and silently pulled away. My hope of escaping a lecture dissolved with my father’s first words. “You know, you really have to stop telling people that.”

I feigned innocence. “What, that I’m going legit?”

Of course, I knew that was exactly what he meant. This was not the first time I blurted out my intentions of leaving the criminal life behind. Five years earlier, when I was only ten, I proudly announced my intentions of going legit while in a Pittsburgh warehouse talking with the man my father referred to as “the Godfather.”

“Heather, I know you don’t like this business, and I promise, as soon as you get your diploma, I’ll send you out to Las Vegas. You can get a good job dealing in a casino,” my father replied, resigned to the fact that neither of his daughters thought much of his business.

“Dad, I don’t want to be a dealer! I want a normal life that has nothing to do with gambling, booze, fireworks, or any other criminal activity! I want to go to college and have a career. Why can’t you understand?” I sighed with frustration.

“Okay, okay. I understand, but in the meantime, you have to stop telling guys like Crazy Eyes that you’re going legit. Never poke a sleeping tiger,” he admonished.

“Crazy Eyes is nuts, and I think it’s fair to say that he’s running guns. There were hundreds of them in that back room. You really need to reconsider who you do business with,” I admonished in return.

“Crazy Eyes is a man with friends. You don’t antagonize guys like that.” His tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

“He’s for hire, isn’t he?”

“Let’s just say that I learned something on this trip that I wasn’t previously aware of. Neither you nor your sister will be coming with me on future deliveries, and if he stops in the store, you are to excuse yourself and leave immediately. Okay? Feel better now?”

“No!” I shouted, exasperated. “How can I feel better? Now I have to worry about you every time you make a delivery to him. It’s clear that this guy is fucking crazy!”

“He wouldn’t dare do anything to me. You know, Daddy has friends, too. Just stay away from the guy and watch your mouth!”

A stream of vulgar responses ran through my mind, but I did not reply—my silence reinforcing my disapproval and concern.

My father kept his word and neither Vanessa nor I accompanied him on future deliveries, but we still saw Crazy Eyes when he popped in the store unannounced. Unfortunately, Crazy Eyes took a liking to our family and was soon a semi-regular visitor, buying fireworks, betting games, and hanging out in the store. My parents treated him with kid gloves, and tried to keep both Vanessa and me away from him as much as possible. Although he never got out of line with any of us, his high-strung demeanor was disconcerting, to say the least.

Crazy Eyes eventually met with a violent death. While recovering from a stab wound, inflicted during a brawl in his bar, Crazy Eyes got involved with his private nurse, who became obsessed with his every move. Their volatile “romance” ended the following year, during a vacation trip that turned deadly. Rumor had it that Crazy Eyes got drunk and flirted with a voluptuous bartender at their vacation resort. That night, his jealous girlfriend shot him in his fickle heart as he lay sleeping.