The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  The traffic was light heading east over the WB since the rush was heading the other way, inbound to Manhattan. As we entered the diner, we heard the familiar raspy voice of Flo, requisite cigarette hanging off her bottom lip, eyes squinting through the smoke.

  “Hey, if it ain’t the D-Team detectives! Yuz ain’t been in for breffast since the dog died. Grab a coupla stools. Lessee, black mud for Dick Tracy and tea for Lady-Cop, yeah? Same plates for each of yuz or yuz want to peruse?”

  That’s Brooklynese for “Good morning Detectives Deckler and Deveaux. It’s been a while since you’ve been in for morning repast. Let me try to remember, black coffee for you, Dan, and tea for Ronnie, correct? Would you like your usual breakfast dishes or would you prefer to look over the menu?”

  She was a beauty.

  I looked at Ronnie, who nodded. “You got it, Flo. Coffee and tea along with our usuals.”

  Surprisingly, I noticed the TV behind the counter was dark. “What, no TV this morning, Flo?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. The damn thing’s broke. Just winked out this mornin’ when I flipped it on. One flash and doink! Nothin’. Piece a shit, probably made in China or somethin’. I’ll go to Louie’s Pawn later and see what he’s got.”

  Translation: Excuse me? Oh, yes. It’s nonfunctional. This morning when I turned it on, I saw a white speck, then it went dark. Couldn’t get any programming. Most likely inferior quality from a third-world manufacturer. I’ll go to the secondhand shop and see if Louis has one I may procure.

  Wow. One of a kind.

  “No worries, Flo. Kinda nice with the peace and quiet.”

  She just harrumphed, put out her cigarette with a brief hiss inside in a half-empty coffee cup, and called in our order through the window to Oscar, the short-order cook. Oscar has been back there as long as I can remember. Thinking about it, I couldn’t remember ever coming into the diner, morning, afternoon, evening, or night, at any hour, when both Flo and Oscar weren’t there. I almost asked Flo about that but checked myself. I wasn’t sure the answer would have been something we’d want to hear.

  ~~~

  As bad as I make the 24-7 sound, the food has always been good, the portions never skimpy, and the service perpetually entertaining, thanks to Flo.

  Ronnie and I finished eating and Flo topped off our beverages, which we brought from the counter to a back booth per our usual routine. We’d eat and trade small talk or catch up on emails and texts and then retreat to a booth to discuss our ongoing casework. That day we had only one case to work: No. 19-218: FINACCI, F.

  I expected Ronnie would be sporting a mischievous grin and shoot me a jab about Billy assigning me the lead in our Finacci case investigation. Instead she was uncharacteristically quiet and a bit somber.

  “So, what’s up with you? No zinger about my being the ‘lead investigator’ on this case? Don’t you love me anymore? I don’t think so or you’d be giving me some shit right now. Come on, spill.”

  At first, she averted her eyes, again very uncharacteristic, then she looked directly at me over her teacup as she sipped. “Of course I love you, DD, and don’t worry, you’ll get your share of shit in due time. It’s just that this one hits close to home for me. I really liked Louie Calzone and I wanted to hang his brutal murder on Finacci. We both knew he did it but he walked anyway. Now the fate gods have meted out their punishment to him without justice having a chance at him. And we have to figure out who did him and bring them to justice on Finacci’s behalf. It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

  “Yeah, I get it. It can hurt when you’re close to a CI and he gets hit. That’s happened to me also. Remember Dooly O’Hare?”

  “Yes, I do. He was reliable but so pathetic. At least we nabbed Angus Duncan on that one. I believe he whacked Dooly with a shillelagh, right? And in front of Angus’s sister.”

  I finished my coffee and waved off Flo with a mouthed “no thanks” when she looked over with raised eyebrows, which is 24-7 code for “Yuz want a refill?”

  “Okay, Ronnie. I know you’ve surely been thinking about this case and must have some ideas. Thoughts?”

  “Yeah. First, don’t call me Shirley. Rim shot, I’ll be here all week.”

  I laughed. “Tip your waitress!” That loosened both of us up a bit and we fell into Ronnie-DD-Detectives-mode.

  “You’re right. I have been thinking a lot about it,” but not for the reasons you think. “The obvious line of inquiry has to be a mob hit. Somehow Frankie broke the rules governing the behavior of a Made Man and had to pay the ultimate price.” She sat silent for a moment. Then, “But DD, I just have a problem with spending our time and energies on figuring out who did it. Really, why should we? I mean, it’s an obvious mob hit. I really don’t give a shit if they all have a war and knock off each other. Why should we care about one sleazy bookie done in by his mob cohorts?”

  I was a bit surprised at both her passionate argument for ambivalence and its intensity. She had always been totally committed in her approach to solving any case, regardless if it was some homeless person with no family without anyone to miss him or someone like Mother Brianna of Saint Augustine who was missed and mourned by many. Ronnie always put forth a total effort to piece together the circumstances, discover evidence, follow up on all practical leads, and bring the case to conclusion with the certainty that we had the right suspect in custody. We operated under the credo that every homicide victim deserved our honest and best efforts to bring the killer to justice. She was a professional and we fed off each other’s professionalism when we worked a case.

  So my answer to her question was simply, “Because that’s what we do. It’s our job.”

  She sipped the last of her tea and stayed silent, looking out the front window of the diner. So I filled the void.

  “Look, I had as much contempt for Frankie Finacci as you did. I was also pissed that we couldn’t nail his ass for Louie Calzone. You know that. And in a way, I’m glad he got what was coming to him. His being killed by what looks to be some sort of bat seems fitting, given that’s how he killed Louie.”

  I paused, opened the case file, and flipped through a few pages while I organized my thoughts. This seemed like it was turning into an important discussion.

  “But I have to say, I’m not on board with automatically jumping to the conclusion that this is a mob hit. It just doesn’t smell right, not at all like the mob’s style. Whacking a guy and dumping the body into the East River, that’s as mob as it gets. No doubt that floating corpse would be found and identified at some point. That sends the message to any wayward-thinking goombahs that next time it could be you being fished out of the river. But having a mob-style hit end up washed up on the shore thirty-plus miles out on the Island? I don’t know. I can’t piece together a scenario outside of dumping the body out in the ocean. And the only reason I can think of for doing that would be to permanently dispose of a body without any chance of it being found. Usually if the mob wants that to be the case, the body is still tossed into the river but it’s sporting a pair of cement shoes or wearing a heavy chain necktie. And since when does the mob bother running a boat out to sea to make a body dump? That’s not their style. I don’t remember any such cases or instances. Do they even own a boat capable of ocean travel? If they do, I haven’t heard about it.”

  Ronnie just sat silently for a moment. Then, “Okay, I see your point. So, Mr. Retired-lead-detective-on-this-case-and-only-this-case, where do we start? What’s the plan?”

  “Now that’s more like it—showing me the respect I so richly deserve.”

  She grinned and I knew that I was about to be out-sarcasmed. (Is that actually a word? If not, I’m sure you get my meaning.)

  “Yeah, I see your point, except for the respect part. You already get more than you have coming.”

  She paused for my snarky comeback. I couldn’t come up with anything better than “oh, yeah?” So I said nothing.

  She nodded, as if thinking “I thought so,” and then said
, “So, let’s put together a game plan.”

  I thought it over for a minute. “Tell you what. How would you feel about letting me handle this one solo? I mean, you clearly are struggling with this case and we have always prided ourselves in being as objective and impartial as possible and just letting the evidence lead us to a conclusion. Is it possible your passion for this one may be clouding your objectivity? I’d totally understand if it is.”

  She stared out the window and said nothing. I continued.

  “Besides, we have two other open cases Billy wants us to close soon. You can concentrate on those while I track down the story behind Frankie Finacci’s sudden appearance on a Long Island beach with a dent in his head.”

  That seemed to snap her out of her reverie. She turned back to me with a look of determination. “No, DD. We’ll tackle this together. We’re a team and it shouldn’t take us long to nail some Mariucci Wiseguy Made Man for the hit. I still have a couple of good CIs who are pretty savvy about what’s going on within the Mariucci clan, at least from the streetwise level.”

  I knew that closed the discussion and it would have been fruitless to press my argument to go it alone. “Okay, then,” I said. “Why don’t you tap your CIs and take the street’s Mariucci temperature. There must be quite a buzz about a bookie of Finacci’s stature suddenly missing from the daily scene. Somebody has to be taking the bets.

  “I still have my doubts but if the word is that Frankie got hit for something like ‘conduct unbecoming a Made Man’ then it shouldn’t be too hard to come up with a short list of who ordered the hit and who actually did the hitting. If no one seems to really know and Frankie just became invisible and no one can come up with any possible scenarios, then that’s a whole new ball game. Outside hit by a rival family? Jealous husband or boyfriend? Or maybe even one of Frankie’s clients who got in so deep that Frankie turned on the heat and the client got to Frankie before Frankie could get to him.

  “While you’re tackling the mob angle I’ll work on pinning down Frankie’s last known activities and movements and try to piece together the scenario that put him in the Atlantic Ocean with a bashed-in skull.”

  ~~~

  Ronnie closed the folder, hoping her hands were not visibly shaking. She rose to leave the diner and said as calmly as possible, “Okay, that sounds like a plan. Let’s get started.”

  Internally she was trying very hard not to panic. As well as Dan knew her, she was sure she could not hide her emotions from him for long. He was an excellent detective and eventually would connect the dots.

  Dot one: Frankie’s association with the Delancey Social Club was fairly common knowledge. It was a known meeting spot for Mariucci Family members who wanted to “socialize” out of the public eye and out of their wives’ eyes. It was believed that many upper-level Mariucci operational decisions were made at the club.

  Dot two: Dan’s investigation would logically lead him to Frankie’s activities at the club during the time frame in question.

  Dot three: What made Ronnie very nervous was that it could possibly lead him to her presence outside the club that morning as well.

  Dot four: He would then determine it was the same day that she had taken as a sanity day off with Billy Smart’s blessing.

  Dot five: Closed-circuit TV was all over the city. Dan could find CCTV footage that showed her interacting with Frankie outside the club. It would also show Frankie getting into her car. Since the Delancey Social Club was a known Mariucci hangout, it was a safe assumption that it was included in area CCTV coverage. Shit!

  Dot six: This was a bit of a long shot but with dot five connecting Ronnie to Frankie during the logical time frame of his demise, Dan could possibly search for a way to put them out into the ocean. She remembered she had once stupidly told him she had a brother who had a charter boat business “back home,” wherever that was. So dot six could end up being Frankie-Ronnie-brother-boat-ocean.

  Dot seven and onward: And the rest of the dominoes would start to tumble, tumble, tumble inevitably into the Atlantic Ocean on a dark and stormy night.

  Chapter 28: Snap

  I think I’ve made it clear that I just didn’t fully buy into the mob-hit scenario.

  I tried to imagine how would that have gone down. Let’s see …

  Frankie screwed up in some big way, big enough to piss off the Mariucci hierarchy to the point where a slap on the wrist or even a severe reprimand were not enough punishment. So a hit was ordered by an upper boss, if not the Don himself, Mario Mariucci. Usually, when such an order was given it was left to one of the capos to delegate the task to an underboss who would decide when, where, and how. So, could the capo have given an order to make up some reason to get Frankie to take a ride out into the ocean, bash his head in with a bat, and toss his ass overboard?

  Unlikely. Then there were the questions of method and transport out into the Atlantic.

  The more plausible answer regarding method (and it still wasn’t very plausible) was to catch Frankie in an unsuspecting moment and whack him, then somehow dispose of his body out in the Atlantic. The method of using a bat or club was not common within the mob. Most intra-mob “cleansings” were done with a bullet to the back of the head followed by, as I mentioned previously, an unceremonious dumping into the East River.

  If the Mariucci mob owned a boat capable of venturing out onto the Atlantic during threatening weather, I was unaware of it. And wouldn’t that be an unnecessarily complicated and a risky way to eliminate the naughty Frankie Finacci?

  However, I had promised Ronnie I’d at least give that angle a look-see. My first move was to try to interrogate his wife but she was nowhere to be found. My knocks on her apartment door went unanswered. Several neighbors and the building super hadn’t seen either of them for some time.

  The next logical step was to talk to his mistress. They all seemed to have one and Frankie was no exception. I didn’t know who Frankie’s mistress was, although I got a lead from one of my CIs.

  So I had a chat with a shapely gum-snapping blonde with store-bought boobs named Tina Fontinaro (her name, not the boobs’). I suspected as much because they just looked too round and too perfect, not that I had to look because they nearly jumped out at me from her too-tight halter top.

  Mistress Tina said she hadn’t seen Frankie since a morning a week or two earlier. He had received a call and abruptly left the love nest without a word about why or when he’d be coming back.

  “His phone rang about eight and he got all uptight.” Gum snap. “He dressed fast and rushed off. I didn’t even have a chance to finish.”

  While I suspected I knew, I dared not ask “Finish what?” I didn’t really want or need to know. I did ask if she knew who the caller was and where she thought Frankie went.

  “At first I thought it was his wife. Then I heard him say the name Lucci. That’s when he got all jittery. He was dressed and outta here in a flash.” Again she snapped her gum. “My guess is he went to that club of his over on Delancey. I was really pissed and I told him not to expect me to be waiting for him when he came back. He never did and I ain’t heard from him since.”

  I was beginning to think gum snapping was an art practiced only by shapely blondes with store-bought boobs. I wondered if she snapped her gum during …

  “Oh yes.” (snap) “Yes!” (snap) “YES!!” (snap, snap)

  I digress.

  “Have you tried to contact him? Have you heard anything about him, what may have happened that day?”

  “I tried callin’ him once but his cell ain’t workin’. Like it’s dead.” (snap) “I ain’t heard nothin’ from him since. I did hear someone on the street sayin’ how they thought Frankie was whacked by those Mariucci thugs.” (snap) “I really don’t care. Good riddance.” (snap, snap)

  I managed to get Frankie’s cell number from her, thanked her for her time, put my card on the table, and left before I could ask if they were real. Probably a good move. With a grin I imagined her tucking my ca
rd between them and pushing them out at me and saying, “By the way, honey, they’re real and they’re spectacular.” (snap)

  I asked a couple of my CIs who were familiar with Frankie if they could remember the approximate time frame when he stopped being visible on the streets and in his usual haunts. Their replies coincided with the time frame Tina mentioned. I also stopped by the Delancey Social Club. I figured I’d be denied entrance but I tried anyway.

  When I rang the bell a small door in the big door slid open at eye level. A gruff voice said, “Yeah?”

  I held my old detective’s shield up to the small door. “Detective Deckler, NYPD. May I come in?”

  “Password?” I knew this was coming so I went along.