Special Agent Graf of the
A.T.F. - Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms - 1969. I was 11 years old and had spent 25% of my new life working in my dad’s pawnshop. My dad loved the formidable bright yellow store-front; it resembled the "
Golden Ferrari" baked yellow resin glow, thickly painted over layers of previous paint coatings. The double swinging doors were extremely heavy, but had a very welcoming feature. The store hid under the Blue Bird Motel, just west of the Silver Dollar Casino. A 21-room weekly flea bag of a place that could have been a movie set for an Alfred Hitchcock thriller. That motel just scared me. I never went up those stairs or ever noticed a single patron. Over the door breezeway was "Cameo Jewelry and Loan," proudly painted on a 4 foot half moon scalloped canopy. It was a classic city store pawnshop.
Our landlord was the famous
Lincoln Fitzgerald, ole Fitz as they would say. A Nevada icon and an ex-Chicago mobster. It was rumored that he had stole money from his partners as the trusted accountant. Lincoln owned and operated the
Nevada Club—it was the best place to work in Nevada. Every employee got their weekly pay in cash and a free pack of smokes. He paid for emergency medical care for all of his employees.
Lincoln had escaped an assassination drive-by shooting plot, leaving him permanently crippled after spending 6 months in the hospital surviving the shooting in 1949. His former associates, "The Purple Gang" of Chicago were never allowed back into Nevada. Lincoln would rarely be seen away from his casino. He remained a recluse living on the second floor of the Nevada Club till he died in 1981. Lincoln must have been a reliable tax payer though, the state of Nevada and Reno Police Department provided safe harbor from his foes of the Mid West.
For whatever reason, Lincoln liked my dad and referred to him as the “kid”. My dad had only met him a few times over the 20 year business relationship. But for the first 15 years he never raised his original rent from $200.00 per month including utilities. Dad prided himself maintaining the store and never bothering ole Fitz.
No heat and no bathroom. It was just my mom and dad for the first 10 years. They had stories of former employee’s but never a positive experience. My dad used to always remind me to check the chamber of a firearm. Growing up around all those guns was like a gun safety course on steroids. We used to see collections of guns from wars, trap shooters, and hunters. My dad was a city boy from the Bay Area and had no prior experience with guns. Rather he was knowledgeable in jewelry having been formerly employed at Milan’s and Crescent Jewelers in Oakland, California. One day my dad pulled out a .22 caliber semi-auto rifle from a gun case with a bullet shell stuck in the chamber, and bang, straight into the water radiator that heated the store. No more heat and he never repaired it. I couldn’t ever figure out why he never fixed that misfire. Maybe it was too expensive? Maybe he just didn't want to tell ole Fitz? Whether ego or embarrassment, it got frigging cold in that shop. It was a winter day, one where frost covered the inside of the store front windows… out came the tin snips to release a supply of hot air from the Motels heating vent. Ahhh!
Guns, guns, guns. Reno became an armory during the 60's. California residents would drive to the city to purchase a firearm without any registration requirement. Everyone sold guns. The downtown store, "Arch Drugs," had pistols behind the cashier stacked next to the prophylactics. I am not kidding. Back in those days there was no identification check, no forms, and no name on the receipt. $59 bucks for a Smith & Wesson in the box brand new, plus 2% sales tax. We sold 15 - 30 guns a day. We made a quick profit of 10 - 12 dollars a gun. My dad’s store became one of the busiest gun stores in Reno. At one time we had the most complete commemorative collections of firearms in the West. They were so beautiful in their handmade wooden presentation boxes.
It was the worst day of my mom and dad's life, but a turning point for the business. In 1968, congress passed the
gun control act. The law enacted a federal system and laws to license the sellers and prohibit undesirables from purchasing a gun. Additionally, guns were only to be purchased by residents from their own state. No more gun sales to Californians from that date on. This also created a vast new federal police agency throughout the United States. Now, this law required the yellow 4473 form to be filled out by the customer before a purchase could be completed. Even at 10 years old, I could see that this effort was a complete waste of time. The form never left the store. And even today the collection of 4473 forms of every gun sold in America since 1968 is archived in the seller’s store. No one ever reviewed the transaction. How was this going to protect the public from undesirables? It was a good law passed but poor enactment and administration. At least the paperwork created by the pawn transaction was picked up by the local Police department's pawn detail. The Brady act created additional checks that each state’s regulatory agency is required to enforce and I can honestly say it is much better effort. The ATF is attempting an online registration effort, but it will take 50 years till we will see change. I hope that gun registration becomes an effective and meaningful effort—not the false sense of gun control that citizens believe the government is providing.
But in 1969, nearly a year to the day, after the gun control act was passed, Agent Graf and his newly assembled team, came to my mom and dad's small 2100 square foot store with guns a brazen, 15 agents with one thing in mind. One, to turn over every square inch of the store and two, put my mom and dad in handcuffs and drag them off to jail. The Miranda rights ring in my head from that day. I was 11 years old then, standing in shock or coma, but in total disbelief of what was taking place. My heart was pounding, my thoughts were panicked, and I tried to remain brave. Rather I gave in to my fragile emotion while making eye contact with my mom. She turned her head around with a freighted expression; one I had never seen her show. Not one word was spoken.
“Never again”—it is an expression Jewish holocaust survivors pray. As I reflect on this moment today, I realize that 25 years before my mother’s arrest, she experienced something similar to me. Her father was taken away in the same manner in Poland by the SS German storm troopers, never to see each other again.
It is still not clear in my mind, but I remember sitting alone for what seemed to be an eternity. The agents were all dressed like the "
Men in Black." This was the agencies very first raid, arrest, and eventual hearing in Federal Court made under the laws of the gun control act. They were walking in circles, handling the firearms like amateurs, taking notes, auditing, and searching for any signs of deception. I could not believe my eyes of the carelessness and arrogance. No one said a word to me.
My head between my hands slumped in a chair, and I felt a soothing tap on my shoulders. It was my uncle Dennis, he grabbed my hand, picked me up and rescued me from our U.S. Governments agency A.T.F. Agent in charge Graf calculated his raid on a Friday early evening before a three-day weekend. No Judge around to set bail. As to what I was imagining, it was clear that my parents were behind bars like
Mayberry RFD. To this day the three of us have never discussed that day.
Paul Bible, (the son of late distinguished U.S. Senator of Nevada,
Alan Bible) one of those rare individuals that became an attorney, and a friend of the family, came to my mom and dad's aid. He found a Judge who was weekending with his family in Lake Tahoe. The judge drove back to Reno and procured my parents release by midnight. Thanks Paul from the bottom of my heart.
I have weird visual memories of that night. My uncle, grandfather, and dad gathering around our small dining room. It’s the only time that I remember all three together. They were all pawnbrokers. They were all competitors operating within a 3 block radius in Downtown Reno. Two sons and a father—the room felt worse than death. My grandfather assumed my dad was guilty, my uncle knew better, and my dad was frightened to death. This was the federal government of the U.S. vs. pawnbroker.
Another lifetime seemed to pass. 21 months consumed by court arraignments, briefs, subpoenas, meetings, the liquidation of over 1200 firearms and the suspension of licensure. The business was in shambles. Our family seemed to be in a bubble. The 27 counts were eventually reduced to 1 count. My father would never accept his personal reputation to be tarnished or his record blemished. His ethos and favorite saying is, "my word is his bond." It was later found that Agent Graf had used
entrapment and false charges. In exchange to end this fiasco and to save face for the A.T.F. inaugural case, my father’s corporation accepted the plea and agreed not to sell firearms. Ten years later (I was 22), after joining my father’s business, one of my first personal assignments was accomplished. I had my father’s license reinstated and the corporation’s conviction expunged. The Director of the San Francisco A.T.F. office, Michael Bodisco, assisted me in exonerating my father.
A silver lining surrounds this experience, and in fact the gold and diamond business. One they never knew existed! During those 21 months, the revenues of the business had been slashed. Guns were 80 percent of the business. The liquidation of the inventory had to be used for operating expenses and legal costs. The remaining few bucks were used to purchase jewelry inventory. Reno had become a pretty good tourist destination and tourists loved to shop in pawnshops. The Jewelry business became mom and dad's newfound category and a trajectory to success.
