The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  But from your perspective, it’s just you in that black hole of despair and all of them are out there beyond the event horizon. It can be suffocating.

  One hundred seventy-three people attended Jen’s memorial service at St. Augustine Episcopal Church on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. “St. Augie’s,” as it’s known to the parishioners and the neighborhood locals, dates back to the early nineteenth century. It’s not very attractive from the street and kind of block-like, although it does have three stone stairsteps in the front which, I am sure, were the site of many a stoopball game. I’m sure it still is used by the local kids to play the twenty-first-century version of that great city game.

  Neither Jen nor I were Episcopalian and were not part of the active congregation. My connection with St. Augustine came as the result of a case Ronnie and I worked about five years ago.

  ~~~

  For nearly thirty-five years the presiding cleric of St. Augustine was a man colorfully named Father Malcolm Butterman, or simply Father Malcolm, to his faithful flock. His wife was the former Brianna Williams, who became Brianna Butterman in 1952. (Doesn’t that name just conjure up images of warm waffles smothered in maple syrup?) Yes, I said “his wife.” While unmarried Episcopal priests are not allowed to marry, the Episcopal church can ordain married men.

  So Father Malcolm and “Mother Brianna” became fixtures in the church and the neighborhood surrounding St. Augie’s. Their charitable work and compassion for the area’s youth, homeless, and less fortunate were legendary. Color didn’t matter. Ethnic origin didn’t matter. Sexual orientation didn’t matter. The doors of the church were never locked. Everyone was welcome and no one was ever turned away from the warm sanctuary they offered to Manhattan’s forgotten souls.

  Late one cold December Saturday night five years before I retired, Father Malcolm and Mother Brianna were just finishing cleaning up after the late evening service and preparing for following morning’s congregation. He was sweeping the altar and she was placing the last of the week’s newsletters on the rear pews when Calvin Sanders, one of those forgotten souls, entered the church, looked around, and approached Mother Brianna. He smelled of whiskey, had a three-day growth of stubble, and the layers of filthy clothes on his body told her he was obviously spending most of his time on the street. In fact, she believed she had seen him before, perhaps at one of the local food pantries at which she volunteered.

  “You still open?”

  Mother Brianna welcomed him with her usual warmth. “We are never closed. Come in, child. Come in.”

  Father Malcolm noticed the visitor and walked to the rear to greet him. “Good evening son. Come in and warm yourself in the house of the Lord. How may we help you this cold night? Would you like something warm to eat or drink?”

  Calvin Sanders returned their kindness by pulling a knife from his coat and grabbing Mother Brianna, jerking her harshly toward him. He placed the knife point near her throat. “I’ll tell you how you can help me, old man. We gonna walk nice and slow up that aisle to your office where you gonna open your safe and give me all the cash you collected tonight and all the rest that’s in there. Got it? You screw with me and this lady gonna get cut. Got it? Now move.”

  As Mother Brianna yelped, Father Malcolm held out his hands in a calming fashion. “Now there’s no need for you to do that, son. Please just put away your knife and let my wife free and we can all go to the office.”

  Still with the knife pointed dangerously close to Mother Brianna’s jugular, Calvin’s eyes went wide and he started breathing heavily. “Now cut the bullshit, preacher. Move your ass or this lady is gonna get cut. Move!”

  Virtually dragging the crying Mother Brianna and pushing Father Malcolm before him, Calvin swore at them as he gave Father Malcolm a hard shove causing him to stumble. “I said move, Goddammit!”

  Father Malcolm regained his balance and turned to face Calvin. “Now son, there’s no need to take the Lord’s name in—”

  Before Father Malcolm could finish his admonition, Calvin harshly backhanded him across the face. The force of the blow was so hard that Father Malcolm fell. His momentum caused Calvin to stumble and instinctively he tried to right himself. As he did he pulled Mother Brianna down toward him, the knife plunging into her neck. Her shriek quickly turned into a sickening gurgle as dark red blood began pulsating out from the wound as she fell to the floor on the first step leading up to the altar.

  Calvin stood over Mother Brianna for a moment, breathing heavily and staring down at her. As the blood spurts continued but began to lose intensity, Father Malcolm scrambled to his wife to try to comfort her. Calvin stepped back, dropped the knife to the floor, stammered, “I’m sorry,” and ran out the door of the church into the dark cold night.

  Father Malcolm rocked his dying wife in his arms. The blood spurts weakened and then stopped. It was less than four minutes from the time Calvin Sanders walked into St. Augustine Episcopal Church hoping to score some cash for his next fix until Mother Brianna’s heart stopped pumping.

  ~~~

  Since the homicide was committed within 7th Precinct boundaries, the case was assigned to Ronnie and me. Well, not exactly assigned. Ronnie interrupted Captain Smart halfway through his description of the crime with “We’ll take it.” She didn’t bother asking me. She knew that if she didn’t claim the case, I surely would have. Some cases just jump out at you begging to be closed immediately.

  It took us all of eight hours to find Calvin Sanders under the Williamsburg Bridge off-ramp. Father Malcolm had given us a detailed description and we encountered him huddled around a small fire with several other homeless people. Ronnie shone her light in his face and snarled, “If you try to run, or even more stupid, try to stick me, my partner over there will shoot you.”

  He glanced my way as I chambered a round and pointed my Glock at his forehead and effectively conveyed her message. “She ain’t shitting you, man.”

  Ronnie frisked him and found several packets of a “suspicious substance” and cuffed him rather tightly, judging from Calvin’s colorful protests of severe discomfort. He insisted on his innocence but Father Malcolm’s description and the blood all over him and his clothes told us we had the right man. We had no doubt we would match his prints to those found on the knife recovered at the scene. He may as well have had a sign hung around his neck reading YEAH, I CUT HER. SO WHAT?

  As we made our way to the Crown Vic, I silently wished he would make a break for it so Mr. Glock could do his thing. I know, not the way a professional police officer should think. So sue me.

  In the interrogation room at the precinct we didn’t need to utilize the good cop/bad cop routine. Actually, we probably couldn’t have used it if we had wanted to as we were so disgusted by the crime that we both assumed the bad cop role. Calvin didn’t stand a chance. We had a confession within fifteen minutes.

  The community was heartbroken over Mother Brianna’s murder. But rather than take out their retribution on the neighborhood’s homeless, the good people of St. Augie’s embraced them and took them into their midst. Father Malcolm invited Ronnie, Jen, and me to Mother Brianna’s memorial service. He could have introduced us as the detectives who apprehended the wretch who brutally murdered his wife. Instead, he simply said we were “the good public servants who serve our community and will always be welcome at St. Augustine.” Everyone knew who we were.

  Downstairs at the reception in the Fellowship Room, it seemed to me that each attendee managed to find us and shake hands with us. And, again, none of them said a negative word about Calvin Sanders or even mentioned our work in bringing him to justice. Instead, they thanked us for our tireless efforts to serve the community and encouraged us to join them in worship services at the church.

  Out of courtesy by Ronnie and curiosity by Jen and me, we attended the following weekend’s service. For Ronnie it was one and done. “This is a nice place and these are wonderful people, but I’m just not into this type of spirituality.” I wanted so
much to pursue which type of spirituality she actually was into (like voodoo maybe?) but Jen’s tightening grip on my elbow sent me a message: “Not now.”

  Jen and I were drawn to the warmth of Father Malcolm. Given his grief and the profound sense of loss he was surely experiencing, I sat in wonder at how he was able to preach peace and love and forgiveness. Each time we attended a service, Jen and I came home feeling better than when we left. Neither of us was deeply religious, not even close. But I can say that I felt we were better people as a result of being a part of the St. Augustine community.

  Chapter 11: “As comfortable as possible.”

  Palliative medicine. Perhaps you have heard that term. Perhaps you even know what it means. But if you’re anything like me, you are probably not very familiar with it. It was foreign to me until Ken Garner recommended Jen be moved to a facility called Continuum Hospice Center for palliative medical care.

  I certainly knew the word “hospice” and its dreadful implications. But I had to ask Ken to define “palliative medical care” for us.

  “Of course. Please forgive me for not clarifying. Palliative medical care focuses on symptom management, relief of suffering, and—” Ken hesitated, clearly struggling.

  My strong, brave, and amazing wife finished his sentence. “And end-of-life care.”

  Ken sighed. “Yes, Jen. That’s correct. Forgive me. I’m being less than professional with you two.”

  My turn. With a catch in my voice, I said, “It’s okay, man. It’s okay.”

  Ken composed himself and continued. “In my view, Continuum is the best such facility in Manhattan. They will ease your suffering and make you as comfortable as possible.”

  Jen and I squeezed hands. Hers felt so small and fragile. We both knew this was coming. As for any expected and possibly unpleasant experience, you do your best to prepare but you’re never really prepared, are you. That last was not a question but rather a statement. You know, but you don’t want to know, and you refuse to know until reality hits you like a body blow. It quite literally takes your breath away.

  So, six days later, and 152 days after our Seven Words Meeting with Ken Garner, Jen looked up at me from her bed at Continuum Hospice Center, cringed in pain one final time, clutched my hand and said, “You have been the love of my life. Don’t be sad.”

  Incredibly, she was smiling.

  I was crying.

  As life left her, I could feel something leave me as well.

  ~~~

  The only other time I was in St. Augustine’s Fellowship Room was for Mother Brianna’s remembrance service.

  This time I once again stood in the center of the same Fellowship Room but on this occasion I was alone. Of course, I wasn’t actually alone, just in the sense that Jen was not standing with me. Ken Garner, Billy Smart, and their wives were there along with several others from the 7th. Ronnie was at my side almost literally propping me up when I began to list to port or starboard.

  As every one of the 173 people who had attended the service for Jen shook my hand or gave me sincere hugs and expressed genuine condolences, it became clear that I was considered part of the St. Augustine family, and that was very comforting.

  Chapter 12: “Numbers, no names. Get me?”

  When learning the bookie ropes, Fast Frankie was taught that accurate record keeping was an absolute must and those records had to be kept in an actual book. “After all, you are a bookie, eh?” his Mariucci Wiseguy sponsor and overall mentor Paulo “Papa” Papalini said while sticking an elbow into Frankie’s ribs.

  Papa Papalini fancied himself a comedian, a view discreetly not shared by anyone else. Of course his jokes conjured polite chuckles, especially from Frankie. After all, he didn’t need Papa getting in his face saying “What! You don’t think that was funny?”

  A Book need not be an actual book. It could be a notepad or any such notation of transactions. Didn’t matter. Whatever form it was, it was the Book. Keeping the Book also meant that the records of a bookie’s transactions would be in one place and not scattered on pieces of paper in various suit pockets. Pieces of paper could (and would) get lost. Sure, during the actual transaction, paper slips could be used to expedite business. But the information had to be transcribed to the Book as soon as possible. And that transcription had to be in code. Papa made that very clear.

  “Numbers, no names. Get me? Yuz never want to use a punter’s real name or yuz real name. Yuz don’t want to use real dates or amounts or team names or locations or anything else identifying the bet being laid down. Yuz don’t use the balance due or owed, or the vig. Yuz need to come up with codes that only you will understand, and don’t share the codes with nobody. Get me? That way if the Book should fall into the wrong hands, it won’t be of any use, get me? Yuz can keep a duplicate Book, sort of a backup, but yuz need to be sure it’s kept current and is well hidden. Get me?” With each “Get me?” Papa poked an index finger at, and sometimes into, Frankie’s chest.

  “Yeah, I get you, but I don’t know shit about making up any code. Do you mean like initials or somethin’ like that?”

  “No! No initials! The cops can figure out initials. Come up with somethin’ unique to you about your punter. For example, when I was running a book operation, I used a description of the punter with a number, always a number. But you gotta be sure that you can read that code and know who you’re talking about. Like ‘fat24’ or ‘shrimp51’ or some such. To me those mean Fat Tony Mazza who lives at 24 Delancey and Tiny Tomaso Felini who was five feet zero and born in 1951. Get me?”

  Getting weary of being poked with every other “Get me?” Frankie nodded and took a small step back.

  “Oh yeah, one more thing. Manual transactions only. No internet shit. The cops can trace internet shit. It’s just like DNA.” Even Frankie had a hard time believing that last part. How the hell could the cops tell where a computer was and who made the entries?

  Oh, Frankie, how much you had to learn. But he just nodded his head. “Yeah, sure. Thanks Papa. No worries. I’ll be real careful.”

  All the punter had was a small slip of paper, maybe from one of those small spiral pads, with a number, the amount of the bet, and some indicator of the object of the bet. For example, “DINO-5Y-62” meant $500 on the Yankees on June second from Julius Sinclair. Frankie remembered the old Sinclair gas stations had Dino the Dinosaur as an ad mascot.

  Others were “R2-30M-182,” which was $3,000 on the Mets on day 182 (July first) from Rickey Roman (thus the R2, get me?). Or, my personal favorite: “PT-BT6-Y/R42-GHD,” which meant the $4,200 on the horse with jockey colors yellow over red in the sixth race at Belmont on Groundhog Day from Rosemary Pelini (whose boobs were so obviously fake, thus PT for plastic tits).

  Some codes were more elaborate to indicate things like odds taken and over-unders. This was important when it came time for settlement. Each code started with the coded identifier of the punter. And we thought the German’s Enigma code machine was good in World War II? Oh yeah, we busted that one, didn’t we?

  The primary rule was if there was any disagreement, the bookie was always right. Bookies didn’t abuse this because it was important to perpetuate the image that the bookie be trustworthy, as far as that could go when dealing with the mob.

  As far as the punter knew, the bookie’s records were mysteriously stored in a safe somewhere. If you stopped to think about it, if a punter deep in debt to a bookie could ever get his hands on the Book, he would have a very powerful (and equally dangerous) negotiation tool. Possession could get him relieved from his debts or killed, most likely the latter which, of course, facilitated the former. The flip side was that the bookie would always “have something” on each of his punters since it was in the best interest of most punters to have their gambling activities kept confidential, especially from their family members and, alas, the IRS.

  But now that Frankie had his little skimming side action going, he had to keep a duplicate Book with all the same codes except, of course
, for the amounts of the bets which had to be in sync with the “adjusted” amount he was passing to the underboss.

  ~~~

  As mentioned earlier, a high percentage of a bookie’s customers had a gambling problem to some degree. To anyone who was not afflicted with such a malady, it was mind-boggling to hear a chronic gambler rationalize his excessive and essentially out-of-control wagering.

  “I was so close to a big take-home but that other horse cut off mine in the last turn. I tell ya, I was this close. But I just know that this time I’ve got it figured out. This time I’m gonna score big and pay off everything including the vig and I’ll end up on Easy Street.” Or “So I’ve had a bad run lately. I can get it all back and then some. I just need one good hit and my ship will come in. Just one!”