by Fred Galvin
Of course, the bookies were not hesitant to exploit the weaknesses of the gambling addicts. Keeping the poor wretches on the hook was a fine art and sometimes could be a delicate wirewalk.
Fast Frankie: Okay, look. You’re getting in pretty deep, real close to where I won’t be able to carry you much longer, if you know what I mean. You need to cough up some green.
Addict: I know, Frankie, I know. But I’ve been coming real close lately and I just know I’m gonna score big on this one and we’ll be all square, okay? All I need is one break.
Fast Frankie: Right. I’ll take this one because I believe in you.
Then his index finger would punctuate every word on the addict’s chest as he said, “But-time-is-running-out. Get me?” Frankie smiled as he thought back to when Papa lectured him in the same manner. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree or, in this case, what goes around comes around.
Fast Frankie: Trust me, yuz don’t want that one break you’re talking about to be one of your ribs, or worse.
That last word came out “woise” as said in Brooklyn.
Poor Gambling-Addicted Wretch, involuntarily clutching his rib cage: Yeah, yeah. I get you. No worries. I’ll be square with you soon.
Then Fast Frankie would put one of his underlings on the tail of the Poor Gambling-Addicted Wretch so, in the probable event he lost again, “the squeeze” could start to be applied immediately without taking any chances on his bolting. The squeeze usually took the form of either some type of physical coercion (not too severe, because how could he pay if he was dead?) or an overt threat to one or more of his family members.
Fast Frankie Finacci had a fairly successful bookie business going on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. He had much more coming in than going out and, for the most part, he was controlling those who owed him. Add to that the bonus of what he was skimming and yes, Fast Frankie Finacci was living the dream, at least his dream.
Soon though, it would turn into a nightmare with a dark and stormy ending.
Chapter 13: … everywhere and nowhere.
Jen was gone. That was the reality. Yes, technically she was in an urn in our bedroom and occasionally I did find myself living a cliché by having one-sided conversations with her. When I rose I said good morning and when I turned off the light I said good night.
In typical fashion a few weeks before she passed, Jen had asked me to inscribe on her urn “Damn! My diet was going to start tomorrow.” Now I smile every time I see it and I’m sure that was her intention. I hope she’s happy that I had it done in beautiful script engraving.
Even though Ken, Ronnie, Billy, my colleagues at the 7th, and the kind people of St. Augie’s opened their hearts to me, I still felt alone. In addition to many casseroles, those good-meaning people have offered me advice which I have patiently absorbed.
“Reach out for help.” I get that but it’s not my nature to impose my grief and woes on others. It’s not all about me, although Jen would have disagreed with that while she poked me in the ribs.
“Confide in my support system.” This doesn’t work for similar reasons. Yes, there are plenty of colleagues who have offered to “be there for me,” but they have their own lives to live and their own sets of problems. And trying to be kind, they would tell me that I am never alone. But yes, actually, I am.
At the encouragement of close friends like Ronnie and Ken, I’ve done a bit of research and found some common offerings, such as:
Find a Facebook group for people who share a common interest … Well, there aren’t too many people with “solving homicides” as a common interest. Besides, I don’t do Facebook. Jen did but I always found it a bit lame to spend my time looking at and “liking” images of other people’s pets or flowers or dinner plates or pretending to be amused by their silly sayings and animal videos. Yes, an admittedly a narrow-minded viewpoint, I confess.
Also, I don’t do Twitter. Seriously, me tweet? And since when is a traditional pound sign now a hashtag? What the hell is a hashtag? Same for Snapchat, Instagram, Reddit, Tumblr, or anything that can remotely be described as social media. I’ll wager the word “curmudgeon” is beginning to come into your mind. Let’s see, that’s defined as “a crusty, ill-tempered, and usually old man.” I’m not really that bad but I’ll admit that I do have some tendencies.
Turn to a pet or spend time with animals … I don’t own a pet. I live in an apartment building in Brooklyn. Walking after your dog and picking up its warm droppings in a plastic baggie doesn’t appeal to me no matter how therapeutic that may be. Yes, I’ve heard that walking a cute little dog can be an irresistible chick magnet. Unfortunately, the only chick I ever wanted to attract is gone forever. A cat? No thanks. They always look like either they’re plotting something against you or they wish you’d just leave some cat food and go away. I suppose I could get a fish or a bird but do they really qualify as pets? Pets should have four legs. Maybe a chimp. Do chimps have four legs? Guess not.
Join a book club … This is a decent idea but I’m just not ready for mingling in that type of environment. When I read, I like to form my own images of a book’s characters, settings, and plot lines and not be influenced by others. Besides, my image of those groups is just a bunch of people each giving their own opinions and zoning out when the others give theirs.
Find a support group … I covered this one earlier. Do the Yankees qualify as a support group? How about the guys at the Swing Shift Bar?
Start volunteering … This one has some merit and I will probably look seriously into doing some volunteer work, most likely with underprivileged kids. There are plenty of those in Brooklyn. I just have to be careful that I’m doing it for the kids and not for me. Any benefit I would get would have to be a one-off.
~~~
Jen used to tell me how her mother had no tolerance for her daughter’s childhood tales of woe. Her mom’s advice—or rather command—was “Deal with it” or simply, “Deal.” I knew that I had to deal with it on my own and was quite content to try to do so. It was very difficult to start clawing my way up out of the abyss. Frequently I found myself taking a step forward only to fall two steps back. Sometimes I felt like that poor unfortunate soul who was doomed to an eternity of trying to push a huge rock up a hill. Sisyphus? Interesting name. I didn’t recall what he had done to whom to deserve such a fate.
Who did I piss off?
I was alone. So very alone.
I knew that when I came home to our apartment it would be exactly as I had left it. Jen would not have started dinner, would not have moved anything around, would not be watching TV, would not come to greet me with a hug and a kiss.
Nothing.
It would be just as I had left in in the morning. Even though she was gone, she filled up the place. Plants were dying from lack of her touch (or maybe just from sadness), food was going bad in the fridge because I never looked at expiration dates, the pantry was going bare.
She was everywhere, and nowhere.
I also knew that I eventually had to start gathering her things for disposal. I started that awful task many times and never got very far before crying. I’d open the closet and take out a piece of her clothing and just sit on the bed with it. I swore I could still smell her scent on it. Then I’d remember something we did when she wore it. Perhaps there was even a picture in the apartment with her wearing it. Then I would have to close the closet. And I would cry some more.
Finally, one of the St. Augustine ladies suggested that she and a few others could come by one morning so I could show them which of Jen’s things I wanted to donate and which I wanted to keep. They would handle everything while I left, preferably with a friend, for a few hours. I agreed. The friend? It had to be Ronnie, of course. I had thought of Ken but he was too close to the whole thing. It had to be Ronnie. I called her and caught her on a stakeout. I told her what was happening and she eagerly agreed to be with me.
“Of course I’ll be there. Name the time and I’ll pick you up.”
The ladies
showed up bright and early. I had segregated all of Jen’s items that I wanted to keep. Everything else could be donated. Ronnie fetched me in a department Crown Vic and offered to spend some time doing anything together and then grab a burger and some beers at the Swing Shift Bar. I declined. I like a beer now and then but I do know that when you’re emotionally down the last thing you should do is drink. When you have reasons to be sad, drinking may distract you for a while but the reasons for the sadness will still be there after you sober up and you’ll feel like shit from a hangover.
I was reminded of a classic W.C. Fields quote. When being berated for his excess drinking by a snooty old woman he said in his classic tone, “Madam, you remind me of the south end of a northbound horse.”
Her retort was to harrumph and sputter, “Why should I care what you think? You’re drunk!”
W.C.’s reply is in the Snappy Comeback Hall of Fame. “Yes, but I’ll be sober in the morning.”
No. Drinking was not the solution.
Chapter 14: The Shoemaker Holly
I turned to Ronnie in the car. “I have an idea. Are you up for a bit of a drive?”
“Road trip? Sure, anything. I haven’t done anything spontaneous in years. What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s go to your place to pick up an overnight bag.”
“What about you? I don’t see any overnight bag.”
I patted my jacket indicating my inside pockets. “Toothbrush and a change of underwear.”
“Eeww!”
“Don’t worry, it’s clean.”
“I’m not talking about the toothbrush!”
Now, the implication of us driving off together on a road trip for any other two people would have been obvious. Not for Ronnie and me. We were professional partners and more important, our personal bond was as close as siblings. We respected each other and never once had there ever been anything more going on. I loved her like the sister I never had and I knew she felt the same about me, even though she did have a brother (at least she had said she did). I believe she once revealed, in a moment of weakness, that she had a brother “back home.” When I pressed a little she typically deflected with “Oh, he’s a couple of years older than me. He has a charter boat business.” I sensed that she had revealed more than she had wanted to and I could get no more out of her, especially where “back home” was. That was actually more than she usually offered. She could be an enigma.
Atlantic City, New Jersey, is about ninety miles from Manhattan’s Lower East Side “as the crow flies.” However “as the Crown Vic drives” it’s more like 135 miles, give or take.
Short digression here. I have lived in New York City for nearly fifty years and have never seen a crow there that I can recall. I’ve seen millions of pigeons and seagulls but no crows. But that’s not important.
I don’t know how long it would take a crow to fly there. I suppose it would make decent time especially if the wind was out of the north–northeast. In the Crown Vic it took us nearly two hours and fifty minutes. That’s not bad, considering it took us thirty minutes just to get out of the city via the Battery Tunnel (eight-fifty toll), go over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge (seventeen-dollar toll), and weave across Staten Island into New Jersey.
Another short digression here. I can remember when the toll on Long Island’s Southern State Parkway was a dime. That was 1964. And I can actually remember watching them build the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.
Once we were on the beautiful Garden State Parkway, Ronnie hit the lights when necessary—and occasionally the siren—and we cruised. I know, improper police behavior. Turf toenail (and old Brooklyn expression which, loosely translated, means tough shit).
A few words about the GSP. One may wonder why “Garden State Parkway”? I guess because New Jersey’s nickname is The Garden State. Well, I have been to Jersey quite a few times and never once have I seen a garden. I suppose there are some, but enough to name the whole state after them? I guess somebody thought so. Anyway, the GSP has been ranked as the busiest toll highway in the country. I guess that’s understandable given all those New Yorkers going to Jersey to see all those gardens. The Parkway runs the entire length of the state (170-plus miles) north to south unless of course you’re going the other way then it’s … never mind. You get the picture.
Never let it be said that New Jersey isn’t colorful. For example, the rest areas along the New York State Thruway are indicated by signage that simply displays REST AREA. But drive about 120 miles down the GSP and you will encounter the JOHN B. TOWNSEND SHOEMAKER HOLLY PICNIC AREA, home to the oldest holly tree in the United States. Yes, even though the bathrooms at the rest stop have been demolished since they were targets for “mischief and other crimes” and replaced by a solitary portable toilet, the 300-year-old Shoemaker Holly tree lives on. Jerseyites proudly know that as they are standing or sitting in the port-a-john, they are only a few steps away from a national historical icon. (Mischief and other crimes? In Parkway bathrooms? What does that say about the youth of New Jersey?)
Anyway, I digress … again. Sorry.
Ronnie and I rolled into Atlantic City, New Jersey, around three p.m. We had no specific plans and no reservations.
Anyone who has ever played Monopoly has been to Atlantic City, sort of. All the Monopoly streets are named after actual AC streets. I had been there exactly twice, a couple of years before I retired. Once was with Jen for a weekend getaway and once solo to check out a lead on a case. Ronnie had been chasing down a lead in Manhattan that day.
The first trip cost me $200 at the blackjack tables, my self-imposed limit for gambling on that visit. It was over quickly. I lost every hand! After my sixth consecutive bust hand, none of them even close to twenty-one, Jen was struggling to hold in her laughter. “Come on, James Bond. I don’t see playing baccarat in Monte Carlo in your future. The casino life is not for you.”
A thought occurred to me. “Let me play one more hand. It’s the seventh hand and bound to be a good one.” I had twenty dollars in chips left and pushed them all out onto the table. Incredibly, after five cards I stood on twenty. The dealer went over twenty-one and I won!
As I pulled in my loot Jen finally took me by the arm. “Let’s quit while you’re behind.”
She had won fifty-five dollars at the slots. Unfair! Blackjack is a game of skill. What skill does it take to pull down a slot machine arm? I guess that speaks to my blackjack skill level. Winning every seventh hand wouldn’t go too far but I thought it was cool. Seven again! Spooky.
We walked the Boardwalk, went to a show, and had a great time.
My second trip was more productive in that my lead checked out and I found the perp I was after. With the help of a couple of local officers for backup, I arrested Louie “Three Fingers” Longo for the murder of Johnny “Tight Lips” Lovitts three nights previously in an alley off Mulberry Street in Manhattan. I Mirandized him, cuffed him to the cage in the back of my Crown Vic, and took him back to the 7th. No time for blackjack on that visit.
On the ride back to the city, Three Fingers and I had an interesting conversation. He was actually quite an engaging character and entertaining to talk to. I asked him how he had lost the two fingers on his left hand. He went into a long story about how, when he was a kid, he and his buddy were the “cherry bomb kings” of Mulberry Street.
For the uninitiated, a cherry bomb is a small explosive device popular with kids, especially around July fourth. It’s round and red with a three-inch fuse and resembles a large cherry in appearance. A cherry bomb can cause a pretty powerful explosion for its size, five-to-ten times more powerful than a standard firecracker. You could blow up mailboxes with it and it made a really loud bang when thrown down a sewer. They were illegal for individuals but they could easily be purchased on any street corner.
“I could light a cherry bomb and easily toss it into a sewer fifty feet away before it went off. I once held the street record of sixty-five feet. One day on a dare we had a contest to see how long
we could hold on to a lit cherry bomb before tossing it, kinda like a game of chicken.”
I remember thinking to myself it was more like a game of who’s more stupid.
“My buddy held his so long that it exploded almost immediately after he tossed it. So I lit mine and held it but the fuse must have been rotten or somethin’. It exploded almost immediately, blowing off two of my fingers.”
Trying to hold in my laughter I went along. “Only two? You were lucky.”
“Yeah, I guess so. But you know what?”
This was getting good. “What?”
“They declared me the winner! I mean you can’t really hold a lit cherry bomb much longer before it blows up, can you?”
Huh? I just shook my head in amazement. “Well, I guess you’re right. Congrats.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I could see him in the mirror smiling proudly. After a few more miles I asked him what the problem was with Tight Lips.
