The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  Seeing a known murderer walk on us didn’t happen often and it cut both Ronnie and me deeply. In this case, it seemed to bother Ronnie even more. Maybe it was the disdain Frankie had shown her during the interrogation and walked out of the room. I had seen her get upset and frustrated before and she had seen the same from me. But this seemed more intense, somehow personal.

  Her eyes blazing, she hissed, “I want that fucker, I really do. And I’m going to get him.” No accent, just raw determination.

  It bothered me that I was going to retire with an open case on the books, especially given that Ronnie and I were certain we knew who had murdered Louie Calzone.

  Chapter 17: “ … greed, for lack of a better word, is good.”

  Over the next two years, Fast Frankie Finacci’s sideline action of skimming off the top of his bookmaking operations was becoming quite lucrative, and certainly quite risky.

  At first he was very careful and skimmed a very small percentage, which seemingly went unnoticed by the Mariucci underbosses. He passed his take upstairs every week and received his share back from his boss and mentor Paulo “Papa” Papalini. No questions. He meticulously kept two Books, one showing the real action and one showing the after-skim action. The first told him his clients’ actual transactions and who owed how much. That book was kept in a place to which only Frankie had access. The second one was the Book for display purposes when anyone, usually Papa, needed to see it and contained all the action but was “adjusted” after his skim to agree with what he was handing up to the organization. While that Book was also well secured, Papa knew where it was and how to read it.

  It went like this: occasionally Papa would drop by the Delancey Social Club and have a meal or a drink with Frankie. They would exchange small talk, with Frankie summarizing how his bookie business was faring and Papa giving a broad-brush view of operations at the boss level within the Family.

  Eventually he’d hold Frankie’s eyes and say, “Let’s have a look at the Book.”

  The drill was for Frankie to reply, “Sure, Papa. Come with me.”

  It was understood that this was routine and Frankie was not to view such “audits” as anything other than normal conducting of Family business. Frankie would escort Papa into his office and open the safe. He would hand Papa the Book like it was holy scripture. Papa would put his arm around Frankie’s shoulder and sit him down with a cup of espresso.

  “Yuz been doin’ real good. Your takes are always on the plus side and the bosses are happy. I just want to make sure I have all the numbers right. Get me?” Again with the index finger to the chest, except this time Frankie saw it coming and had moved back.

  “Sure, Papa, I get you. Go ahead. I got nothin’ to hide from you.” Frankie said this each time and each time Papa’s gaze deep into Frankie’s eyes was disconcerting as if someday he’d be able to tell what was really going on. If that ever happened, Papa would most likely put his arm around Frankie’s shoulder and say, “Come on, let’s go for a ride.” It would be a leave-the-gun-take-the-cannoli type of ride, if you remember Paulie’s last trip in The Godfather. Very few in Frankie’s position returned from such a ride.

  ~~~

  Ah, greed. Greed can be defined in various ways. It can be an intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food. It also is a selfish and excessive desire for more of something than is needed (such as money) motivated by naked ambition. Greed is not merely caring about money and possessions, but caring too much about them. You get the picture.

  Frankie either became too bored or too hungry, or maybe both. Over the months of random visits from Papa, not one yielded even a hint of the skim. As one year turned to the next, Frankie gradually succumbed to greed and embraced the words of one of his movie heroes, Gordon Gekko in Wall Street: “ … greed, for lack of a better word, is good.”

  I loved that movie. It had many good lines, mostly uttered by Gekko. It’s worth watching.

  Brief digression.

  As it would turn out, Frankie also must have forgotten another piece of Wall Street wisdom: Once you have money, don’t get cocky and throw out the habits that helped you accumulate your wealth in the first place. In Frankie’s case that would have been running his Book, bumping up his take to his boss, being content with his return, and not even sniffing the idea of a skim.

  There’s an old adage that says not to throw out the baby with the bath water. I guess Frankie either never heard that one or didn’t get it. Eventually both the baby and the bath water went down the sewer, along with Frankie.

  At first the skim was small. Then it would be a little more. One month, instead of skimming one percent, he skimmed two. Then three months later, five. Even at such small percentages the cash was significant enough for him to start spending more lavishly. After all, he was running out of room to store it all. You couldn’t just have piles of cash lying around.

  He was careful not to become too extravagant too quickly so as not to draw attention to himself. A new suit here, trinkets for his wife and mistress there, an engraved Rolex, a modest ride upgrade. He sure didn’t need or want, a pimpmobile with fuzzy dice and fur-lined seats. But he did graduate from using the subway and cabs to driving his own car, a two-year-old Lexus (black, of course) that soon turned into a new Lexus (also black). After a while he added a driver. In the cold months he started to use a car service to get around so as not to have to expose his Lexus to all that slush and mush that Manhattan streets became in the winter.

  Each time Papa came in to “take a look at the Book,” and each time he left satisfied that all was well, Frankie became a little cockier and more emboldened. His wife and mistress were showing their “appreciation” for the gifts and the entertaining evenings Frankie was showering upon them. He developed a rep as a lavish tipper at the local night clubs.

  ~~~

  Papa Papalini had not come by to visit Frankie for almost three months, a long time to go without reviewing the Book. Frankie had been careful each week to push up the week’s take to his boss and gratefully accept his standard share on return. That pill was easier to swallow, of course, because of Frankie’s skim, which was approaching ten percent. Still, it was becoming work and more than just a little stressful. Essentially Frankie had to generate ten percent more business just to maintain the status quo in the Book.

  Up goes the red flag. In the mob world, status quo meant constant growth, not staying the same. Anyone observing from the outside would have told Frankie that he was venturing out to the thin ice portion of the pond but Frankie thought he had become bulletproof. What he failed to remember was that the mob didn’t always use bullets when dealing with its problem children. You could be bulletproof and still sink to the bottom of the ocean with a pair of cement shoes … or wrapped in sheets and an anchor chain during a tropical storm.

  To twist the old “forest and trees” metaphor, Frankie couldn’t see the skyline for all the buildings. Papa’s conspicuous reduction in the Book reviews was due to the fact that he was spending a great deal of time defending his protégé to the underbosses, who had become suspicious. The last time Papa delivered a slice of Frankie’s weekly take up to his immediate boss, Leonardo “Lefty” Lucci, Lefty didn’t even bother to count the cash. Instead, he left it in the bag Papa had given him and in typical mob B movie fashion stood up and poked Papa in the chest with his index finger with each of the four words no Made Man wanted to hear: “I smell a rat.” The last poke was particularly strong.

  Papa both stepped back and was taken aback, arms extended with a big shrug. “A rat? Lefty, what are ya talkin’? What rat?” Maybe Papa was also too close to all the buildings to see the skyline.

  “Your boy Finacci. Word has it he’s been spreadin’ cash around the Lower East Side like peanut butter on hot toast … a lot more peanut butter than he should have in his jar to spread, if ya know what I mean.” Lefty was so eloquent, or so he thought. “Early tomorrow morning we’re going to the Delancey Club to take a h
ard look at Finacci’s Book.”

  “Early? We?”

  “You heard me. We as in me and you, and early as in eight a.m. And he’d better be surprised. Get me? I don’t want no Papa Rat tippin’ him off. Get me?” Again with the index finger.

  “Yeah, Lefty, sure. Eight tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up here at a quarter of. But I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about. Frankie’s clean. He’s my boy. I’ll vouch for him.”

  Oh Papa, Papa, Papa. You should have known better. One rule a Made Man should never forget: always sit with your back to the wall and face the door. That way you can see what—or who—is coming your way. Papa’s last statement was the equivalent of sitting facing the wall. Not good. He couldn’t see what was heading his way.

  Chapter 18: What happened next wasn’t pretty

  As a rule, Fast Frankie Finacci wasn’t very fast in the mornings. He liked to relax in bed and maybe have a little roll in the hay with his wife (or his mistress) depending on who he happened to wake up next to and maybe flop around for a while in the afterglow.

  While it did happen, he seldom strutted into the Delancey Social Club before eleven a.m.

  So imagine his surprise and irritation when his cell buzzed at 8:02 a.m., just as he was about to “rise,” so to speak. The caller ID read STUMP, which meant his main guy at the club, Phil “Stump” Gambrelli, needed to speak with him. Stump was named Stump because he was four feet seven and he was under orders to never call Frankie so early unless it was urgent.

  Frankie yawned. “Yeah? This better be good.”

  “Boss, really sorry, but I think yuz should get over here right away. Papa’s here and he ain’t alone.”

  Stump now had Frankie’s complete attention. He sat up in bed. “Papa’s there? So early? Who’s with him?”

  Stump’s voice sounded strained. “Lefty Lucci.”

  “Lucci? Shit!” Frankie leaped out of bed and started dressing quickly, pulling the sheet off his mistress, Tina, in the process. She watched, dismayed, as he pulled on his pants.

  Pouting, she asked him where he was going. “I was just about to—hey, wait a minute. That wasn’t your wife on the phone, was it? That bitch!” Frankie told her it wasn’t her and to watch her mouth. Within five minutes he was dressed, shaved, and out the door. Tina, naked on the bed, yelled at the closed door. “Well don’t expect me to be here when you come back, you creep!”

  Eight minutes later Frankie paused at the Delancey Social Club’s door to compose himself. He was at war with himself. Be calm, everything’s cool. Lefty just wants to compliment you on how steady your weekly takes have been. That’s all he wants, right? His denial brain assured him that was the case. But his rational brain knew better. Think, you idiot. Compliments? At eight in the morning? Seriously? If anything, he’s gonna ax why your weekly takes have been so steady rather than increasing like they should be. Then what are you going to do? If that’s it, you’re toast.

  Ding, ding, ding! Correct! Now for your bonus question: Will you make it out of the Delancey Social Club alive? Both of his brains knew that answer.

  ~~~

  Standing at the club’s entrance, Frankie straightened his back, shot his cuffs out from under his sleeves (first the left and then the right), straightened his tie, slicked his hair back with both hands in typical mobster fashion, took a deep breath, and entered the code to open the door.

  “Papa! Lefty! Mornin’. Good ta see yuz. Let me have Stump make up some espresso.”

  Lefty Lucci took Frankie’s offered hand, but rather than shake it he just squeezed, very hard. “Don’t need no fuckin’ espresso. Show me the Book.”

  What happened next wasn’t pretty.

  Chapter 19: Her ebony-black eyes looked possessed

  With my two-year career as a private investigator in the rearview mirror, I was a paid consultant to the NYPD. I guess my status was semi-retired. It didn’t really seem that way because I was working full days, which was just fine with me. It kept me busy.

  In the evening when I returned to the apartment Jen and I had shared for so long, many times I felt as though I was suffocating. True enough, I had managed to “de-Jen” the place, at least to the point where the reminders of her were limited to some pictures here and there, a few things hidden away that I just couldn’t donate, and her urn on the dresser. The pictures made me both smile and cry as I remembered when and where each picture was taken, the hidden-away things were hidden away, and the urn, well, I guess I’m probably not the only widower in New York to talk to an urn full of ashes. I had honored her wish and had it inscribed with “Damn, my diet was going to start tomorrow!” I smiled each time I looked at it.

  “Hello, my love. My day was okay. Ronnie and I closed two cases and picked up three more. Plenty of murders to go ’round. By the way, you didn’t need to diet. You looked great.”

  Yes, Ronnie and I were kept very busy by Billy Smart, as promised. For some reason, homicides on the Lower East Side were up and the precinct’s Homicide Division was indeed slammed, as Billy had put it to me when he pitched the consultant position. More frequently than either of us would like, Billy suggested Ronnie and I work cases separately. I’d say two to three days a week she would sign out a second Crown Vic for me (I couldn’t do that because I wasn’t a “real boy” in the NYPD’s eyes) and we’d be off on our separate ways. Frequently we would meet for lunch or dinner to discuss our cases. She seemed a little distant, or maybe preoccupied was a better word.

  One afternoon we met at the EATS 24-7 Diner for a late lunch. I arrived first and was greeted by Flo, cigarette hanging from her bottom lip as usual. She looked up and squinted through the smoke.

  “Hey, it’s half of the D-Team detectives. Yuz want a stool? Where’s the other half? She be cruisin’ in soon or yuz solo?” (Again, a translation from Brooklynese, Flo-style, is warranted: Well, it’s Detective Dan, sans partner. Would you like to have a seat at the counter? Where is Ronnie? Will she be arriving shortly or will you be dining alone?) Flo was a beauty.

  “Hi Flo. I’ll grab that deuce booth. Ronnie should be here shortly. Please bring a black-no-sugar and a rare burger for me, and a tea with chicken salad on wheat for her. Thanks.”

  “Sure, no prob. Black java and a tea comin’ right up with a bloody beef and chick-sal on brown.” (Certainly, it will be my pleasure. I’ll be back directly with your black coffee, rare burger, and Ronnie’s tea with chicken salad on wheat.)

  She called in the order and resumed watching General Hospital on the grainy portable TV behind the counter. I heard her say, “That Sonny, he can park his slippers under my bed any time.” (Translation unnecessary. I’m sure you get the picture … and it wouldn’t be a pretty one.)

  Ronnie came in just as Flo was delivering the burger and sandwich. “There she is, the other half of the D-Team. Your partner’s in the deuce.”

  Ronnie said hello to Flo and plopped down across from me in the booth. She looked very tired and didn’t have her usual spark.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  “Yeah, just tired and frustrated. How’s your case going?” Her usual deflection.

  “Two dead ends so far. Both suspects’ alibis were solid. I have a lead I’m going to check out in Tribeca on the West Side before going home. Want to come along?”

  Ronnie sipped her tea, took a small bite from her sandwich, put it down and pushed the plate away, seemingly uninterested in finishing it. “I don’t think so, sorry. I’m exhausted. I think I’ll stop in the precinct to do some paperwork and head home. I need a night off.” She turned to Flo. “Hey Flo, can I have a box for this sandwich?”

  Flo ambled over, slightly miffed that she was beckoned from her fantasy with Sonny. “Wassamatta? The sandwich’s fresh. The chicken salad ain’t even a week old.”

  That caused Ronnie to look down at her sandwich a little more closely. “I’m just not hungry right now. Thanks.”

  I decided I’d take a small leap and cross the line a little.

/>   “Ronnie, come on. What’s going on? This is me asking.”

  She looked at me with an expression of frustration: furrowed brows, pursed lips, temples pulsing. Her ebony-black eyes looked possessed. I’ve seen her like that a few times but not very often. It was usually in conjunction with a tough case to crack. Something, or someone, had really pissed her off. If the latter, I wouldn’t want to be him or her.

  She leaned forward toward me. “Okay. I’m sorry to lay this on you, Dan.” She paused, took a sip of tea with a shaky hand (also a rarity), and continued. “You remember the Louie Calzone case? We found him in a dumpster behind Target, head bashed in?”

  “Yeah, sure I do. That prick bookie Frankie Finacci did it, sure as we’re sitting here, but we couldn’t pin it to him.” I paused. “Louie was one of your CIs, right? You’re still pissed about that one, aren’t you?”