The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  “Dan, ‘pissed’ doesn’t even come close to how I feel about that case.”

  When she called me “Dan” instead of “DD” I knew she was intense.

  “First, I absolutely hate not closing a case. We have a good record, you and me, and I want to keep our closing percentage high for Billy. But more important for this one, I just want to nail that arrogant bastard Finacci. Louie Calzone was a street gambler who screwed up and it cost him. He was also one of my trusted CIs, so I guess this is somewhat personal. We also both know that he sure wasn’t the only entry on Finacci’s personal whack list.”

  “Okay, I’m on board with that. Have you formally re-opened that case? Has Billy given you the go-ahead? We’re pretty swamped right now and that case was on a back burner.”

  “No, I’m working it on my own time on my downtime, nights, weekends. If I have to do something on it during the day, I either call in sick or just squeeze it in. Billy doesn’t even know.”

  I took her hands in mine. Her grip was tight. “You know you’re playing a risky game. Maybe you should tell him, just to give him a heads up.”

  “I don’t think so. He hardly has a minute for a leak. I’m being discreet. I don’t want anyone casually mentioning something during morning roll call and having him be blindsided.”

  “Why not let me help you?”

  “Because you’re a paid consultant. You get paid for your time. What you do with that time comes from Captain Smart. I don’t want you handing in any time sheets that may not be accurate.”

  “You’re right about that. But I can pitch in on my time. Trust me, I don’t have much going on right now besides this gig.”

  A welcome twinkle shone in her eye. “Well, semi-retired consultant Deckler. I believe the terms of your employment with the 7th Precinct as specifically spelled out by Captain Smart were that you would take assignments and daily direction from Detective Ronika Deveaux.” She pointed both her thumbs at her chest. “That’s me.” She winked and grinned. It was good to see a flash of the old Ronnie again.

  I snapped a Nazi salute. “Jawohl, mein Fürher. Vhat are your orders?”

  Flo looked our way quizzically. I smiled and waved. “All cool, Flo.” She scrunched her nose at me, lit another cigarette, and went back to watching and fantasizing about her daytime soap opera characters.

  Ronnie pulled my raised arm down. “Seriously, DD. Thanks, but I think I’ll keep sniffing around on my own. Believe me, I’ll let you know if I need your help and my guess is that I will, but not yet. I really want to nail that bastard.”

  I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere so I surrendered. “No problem. But you make sure to let me know, anytime. What we do on our own time need not go on any time sheet.”

  ~~~

  Early the next morning Ronnie called Captain Billy Smart at home to request a day off. “I just need a sanity day, Billy. I’ll log it as a vacation day. I need to recharge the batteries. DD is on top of his cases. We met for lunch yesterday and he’s fine.”

  “You met for lunch? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”

  “We usually are but if we’re going to dent this caseload I decided we needed to work solo, at least part of the time. We’re in touch several times a day. I’ll see him tomorrow for sure.”

  “Okay, but screw the vacation day. I don’t want you burning one just to recharge. Those are for getting away from it all completely. I’ll log it as a sick day, on me.”

  “Thanks, Captain. I appreciate it.”

  The thing is, Ronnie had called Captain Smart from her personal car parked outside the Delancey Social Club. She had been staked out there since 7:30 a.m. She needed desperately to unload her second large black coffee of the morning but she didn’t dare leave her stakeout.

  Short digression here …

  It was common knowledge that police detectives were renowned for having some of the strongest bladders on the planet. Stakeouts typically lasted hours and caffeine, usually in the form of strong coffee, was the common choice of drug for staying alert. Anatomically, men were better equipped for long stakeouts primarily because empty coffee containers were easily turned into urinals without much bother, especially if leaving the car to relieve oneself may blow the stakeout. The detective in need of relief simply unzipped, whizzed into a container, rezipped, turned off the car’s dome light, and dumped the contents outside the door.

  However, in the case of a female detective, it wasn’t that easy, for obvious reasons. Rather complex positioning was necessary to direct the stream into the coffee container, especially when she was essentially aiming blind, so to speak. Thus, female detectives had developed extremely durable bladders. Regardless, significant discomfort would inevitably manifest itself.

  Once Ronnie and I were into the fourth hour of a stakeout. After discreet use of a coffee container, I exhaled a sigh of relief. Ronnie didn’t share my renewed comfort. She squirmed and glared at me.

  “You men really piss us off.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s so easy for you. You can belch, fart, and scratch and everybody just writes it off to men being men.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She squirmed again. “And the world is your toilet!”

  I got it and decided to push her buttons. Big mistake. “So, you’re a bit uncomfortable, eh? You know, there’s nothing but the silly feminine sense of decency keeping the world from being your toilet too.”

  Did I just say that out loud? I did? Shit. Immediately I suspected I may have sentenced myself to death.

  Her accent was now in full force. “Silly sense of feminine decency? Oh, mon, did you seriously just say that? Really mon? You do realize I have a gun and I know how to use it.”

  Now I knew I had sentenced myself to death, a slow and painful one. “Uh, I really didn’t mean … ”

  “You’d best stop talking while you still have a tongue, mon!” I complied. “So you don’t think I am capable of whizzing into a coffee container?”

  “Uh, I uh … ”

  “STOP TALKING!” I knew she was going to squeeze my nads, metaphorically anyway, until I surrendered in anguish. She grabbed the coffee container, holding it as far from her nose as her arm would allow. “Hold this!” I had no choice but to comply. In horror, I watched as she unbuttoned her jeans and started to unzip the fly. “Hand me the cup and AVERT YOUR EYES!”

  I immediately looked away and searched for anything that would keep my attention anywhere but in the car. I could sense she was wriggling her jeans down then I heard the unmistakable sound of the coffee container being filled. After ten or so seconds, the sound mercifully stopped. Then, to my astonishment, she opened the passenger door a crack, emptied the container, repositioned it, and after another “AVERT YOUR EYES!” continued to empty what must have been a bladder of major league capacity. After once again emptying the container outside she said, “Keep those eyes straight ahead if you want to stay alive.”

  I focused on the Chrysler Building on the Manhattan skyline in the distance. “Yup, eyes straight ahead. Right. No worries.” I wondered how tall the Chrysler Building was and why King Kong had not chosen to climb it instead of the Empire State Building. Maybe that sharp spire on top had something to do with it.

  I sensed she was wriggling back into her jeans. Finally she loosened the noose. “So, Detective Deckler, how was that for silly feminine decency?”

  All I could say was, “Very impressive.” She whacked the back of my head and I knew we were cool. Then, as a perfect punctuation, she lifted a cheek and farted. We both laughed hysterically.

  She was one of a kind and I was lucky to have her as my partner.

  End of digression.

  ~~~

  Staked out across the street and down the block from the Delancey Social Club, Ronnie utilized the empty coffee container. She smiled as she remembered the first time she had done that and had shocked DD into admiring the Chrysler Building in stunned silence.

&
nbsp; At eight a.m. sharp, a black Town Car pulled up in front of the club. The driver got out and opened the back door. Two men, obviously mobsters, emerged. The taller one she recognized as Paulo Papalini, a.k.a. Papa, whom she knew was a midlevel boss in the Mariucci crime family. She remembered him from questioning in connection with a body fished out of the East River about a year prior. The victim had a neat nine-millimeter hole in the center of his forehead, a classic mob execution. Papalini had said he knew the victim “casually” but that was all we could get. Ronnie and DD suspected he had been the middleman between the boss who had ordered the hit and the trigger man.

  The second man out of the Town Car was new to her. It was clear that Papalini was deferring to him so he must have been higher on the Mariucci boss food chain. She looked at the pictures of the Mariucci Wiseguys she had copied from the precinct files. The second man could be Leonardo Lucci, a.k.a. Lefty. He was at a level directly above Papalini on the accompanying Mariucci organization chart.

  Papalini said something to the driver, who nodded and stood next to the car, clearly to await his bosses’ return. Papalini entered a code and both men walked into the club. Something told Ronnie that this was just the beginning. The driver lit a cigarette and got back in the car to wait.

  At 8:13 a black Lexus pulled up behind the Town Car. When the lone occupant stepped onto the curb, Ronnie sat up rigid. She didn’t have to consult any Mariucci Family pictures or org chart. Her eyes blazed as she watched Frankie Finacci pause at the door, straighten his back, shoot his cuffs out from under his sleeves (first the left and then the right), straighten his tie, slick his hair back with both hands in typical mobster fashion, take a deep breath, and enter the code to open the door. From his demeanor, she guessed that he had been summoned to the principal’s office and Lucci was the principal.

  She was hard-pressed not to barge into the club and settle things right there. But professional discipline ruled and she stayed put. She had a feeling something was up. Mobsters typically didn’t meet so early in the morning unless something was cooking. She was in a mood to follow Frankie when he emerged. Maybe she’d let him know she was following him just to mess with him.

  Instinct told her to wait. If she waited much longer, she’d have to use the coffee container again. The thought made her cringe and squeeze her thighs together. Once was funny. Twice, not so much.

  Her patience would be rewarded shortly.

  Chapter 20: F.F.F.

  As soon as Frankie entered the Delancey Social Club, he looked around. Even though it was morning, the place was semi-dark except for a light at one of the booths. The light came from one of those desk lamps with the green shade like you’d see in a library. The lamp was in the middle of the table and Frankie had no idea where it had come from. He had never seen one like it in the club. All the windows were shaded. It was unnerving.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a cold shiver went up and down his spine. He knew this was going to be a defining point in his life with the Mariucci Family, maybe in his life, period.

  Stump greeted him nervously. As he did, he kept glancing at the booth with the lamp. “Mornin’ boss. Can I getcha a coffee? Maybe an espresso? You want a bear claw? Maybe an Anisette toast?”

  Frankie felt hyped up enough and Stump’s jitters didn’t help. He just waved Stump away and walked to the lit semicircular booth containing Papa Papalini and Lefty Lucci. The shaded light cast eerie and grotesque shadows on their faces. Frankie had met Lucci only twice before and he remembered his eyes, kind of half closed and empty. He also remembered that the man’s handshake felt like a dead fish, cold and clammy. No handshake this time. Neither man got up but both made eye contact with Frankie, making him very uncomfortable. Papa’s eyes had a deer-in-the-headlights look to them and Lucci’s just looked empty.

  “Papa, Lefty, what brings you to the club so early? I see you have espresso. Can I have Stump bring some pastries?”

  “Sit.” Papa indicated Frankie’s place was to be not in the booth but across the table from them. Problem was, there wasn’t a chair on that side of the table. Stump nervously appeared with a chair for Frankie and retreated into the darkness like a specter.

  While the still-mute Lefty Lucci sat glaring at Frankie, Papa spoke as disarmingly as possible to his protégé, obviously feeling uncomfortable. “Frankie, we’re not here for pastries. We’d like to take a look at the Book. We want to look over the last twelve months of transactions.”

  Frankie was startled. On his previous visits, Papa had never asked to see more than thirty days of entries.

  Twelve months? “Why?”

  Lucci replied. His voice was cold and sounded like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. “Just shut up and get the Book—the last twelve months.”

  Trying to maintain his composure and what dignity he could muster, he turned toward the dark room. “Sure. Stump?”

  The sandpaper voice rasped, “No! You get it. Papa will go with you.”

  Papa looked from Lucci to Frankie and got up. “Let’s go.”

  The two men walked to a back office where Frankie hung out when in the club. Once inside, Frankie nervously asked, “Papa! What’s this all about? What’s Lucci doing here at eight in the morning? What the fuck?”

  “Frankie, my advice to you is just cooperate and answer any questions honestly. This will all be over soon enough.”

  Over soon enough? Somehow Frankie wasn’t comforted by that semi-reassurance. Was that a threat? Papa had neither answered Frankie’s questions nor had he told him not to worry. In fact, Frankie detected a sense of detachment on Papa’s part. That made him very nervous.

  He willed himself to go to the safe and retrieve four books. He kept his “transactions” in quarterly segments. These “transactions” were of course of the “cooked” variety, that is, after Frankie’s skim. He handed them over to Papa with hands that he couldn’t stop from shaking. Papa took them but didn’t immediately turn to go back into the main room of the club. Instead he looked intently into Frankie’s eyes.

  “He ain’t gonna find nothin’ suspicious in these books, right Frankie? These are all on the up-and-up, right?”

  “Yeah sure, Papa. They’re clean. You look at these every month. Have you ever found anything wrong?”

  Papa held his gaze an uncomfortable couple of beats before replying. “But I ain’t never been suspicious. Let’s go.”

  He turned and headed out. As Frankie followed, he understood the clear implication. Lucci was suspicious. But why? And suspicious of what? How could he possibly know about the skim? Man, Frankie hoped he hadn’t just said that last part out loud!

  Then came a very uncomfortable wait, at least for Frankie and Papa, while Lefty first reviewed the three Books of Frankie’s transactions for the past six months. But there was one key observation Frankie had made and this observation sent a very cold chill through him as though some sinister invisible embalmer had suddenly injected ice water into his veins. Lefty had brought his own folder with the results of Frankie’s remittances upward and the Family’s corresponding compensation back downward to Frankie. He saw that the content of Lefty’s folder went back at least two years, not just six months. His mind scrambled to remember when he had started the skim. He reluctantly came to the realization that it had been about two years ago. How the hell could Lucci possibly know? I’ve been so fucking careful! Frankie almost said out loud.

  Shit! SHIT!

  Frankie forced himself to sit as calmly as possible. He needed to appear as though everything was cool and that he had nothing to worry about, all the while knowing that everything certainly was not cool and he had everything to worry about. Occasionally he would glance up at Papa, which made things worse. Each time Papa had been glaring at him and the glare was not of the “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine” variety.

  After an eternity, which was actually only thirty-seven minutes according to Frankie’s Rolex—Oh shit! Why did I put on the Rolex this morn
ing? You’re such an idiot, Finacci! (he was pretty sure he hadn’t said that aloud either)—Lucci finally closed the third Book and also closed his folder. He looked up just as Frankie had been glancing at his Rolex. Frankie self-consciously pulled his cuff over the watch, a bit too late.

  “Nice timepiece. Rolex?”

  “Uh, no, Lefty. It’s just some cheap knockoff.”

  “Yeah? Really? Let me see.” Lefty’s hand was extended palm side up with his fingers beckoning in the “hand it over” gesture that Frankie knew he could not decline. Reluctantly Frankie slipped it off his wrist and held it out to Lucci.

  Lefty Lucci rudely snatched it from Frankie and inspected the watch, slowly turning it over and looking closely at the inscription on the back. “F.F.F. I didn’t know knock-off Rolexes came with fancy inscriptions. Tell me, what’s that stand for?”