The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  Frankie gave a nervous laugh. “What? Oh, that. Uh, my wife had that put on for me. It’s nothing.”

  “Yeah? Sweet, but I didn’t ax who did it. I axed What does it stand for?” The last five words were emphasized with his eyes glaring into Frankie’s.

  Frankie glanced at Papa, who glared back. “Uh, it stands for ‘Fast Frankie Finacci.’”

  Lucci laughed one of those I’m-laughing-but-you’re-screwed laughs. “No shit. Really? Fast Frankie Finacci.” Then he abruptly turned cold. “Know what I think it stands for?”

  Frankie shook his head nervously.

  “No? How ‘bout you, Papa. Do you know what I think it stands for?”

  Papa just kept glaring at Frankie.

  “No, I guess not. Well, I think it stands for ‘Frankie Finacci’s Fucked’!”

  Frankie looked to Papa and back to Lefty. “F-fucked? Wh-why am I fucked? What are you talking about?”

  “Why? I’ll tell you why and I’ll use small words so you’ll understand. You’re fucked because I think you’ve been skimming off the top of what you owe the Family.”

  Papa stood up, finally. “Now Lefty, there’s no way Frankie … ”

  Lucci also stood up, his eyes barely to Papa’s chin, and glared up at him. “Shut the fuck up and sit down. You’re in the same shit hole as your boy here.”

  Papa knew better than to resist or argue further and resumed his seat, his face crimson.

  Lucci then picked up the three Books and threw them on the floor. Stump, standing nearby, bent to pick them up. “Leave them there!” Turning back to Frankie, Lefty Lucci’s voice hissed, “The numbers in those three pieces of shit aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. I know there are real Books somewhere, probably not here. You’re stupid but I don’t think you’re that stupid. You’re wondering how I know you’ve been skimmin’, right? RIGHT?”

  “Lefty, I don’t know—”

  “Shaddup! Ya see, I got eyes all over and I also got eyes of my own. Word’s got back to me that you been livin’ the high life lately. A life a lot higher than you should be livin’. Sure, you bring in a nice bundle of steady cash for the Family and send it up each week. And we keep to the agreement and kick a real nice percentage of that bundle back down to you. Like I said, a nice bundle, but not nice enough for you to buy engraved Rolexes and new Lexus cars and two-thousand-dollar silk suits, not to mention the diamonds your wife and your mistress have danglin’ around their necks and on their wrists. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge you the mistress—actually, she’s kinda hot—just the shit around her neck. Get me? I also hear you’re droppin’ twenty- and fifty-buck tips to waiters and maître d’s, not only in the Lower East Side, but also uptown. And you ain’t no uptown guy. Get me? You’re a Lower East Side bookie, and a stupid one at that. Get me?”

  Lefty took a sip from his water glass, hand steady as a rock. “But the real kicker was that your reported intakes have been flat for about two years. Previously there were steady increases. Sure, some off months, those are bound to happen, but you’d make it up and overall the trend was always up. But two years ago they began to flatten out. No more upward trends. I suspect that’s when you decided to start the skim. First just a little, but then you got greedy. And you know what? Greed will get you every time.”

  Frankie was visibly sweating now. He wanted to mop his brow but dared not reach for the silk handkerchief, monogrammed with F.F.F., in his suit coat pocket. His eyes darted from Lucci to Papa to the table to the floor, where his Books still lay, and back again. It was a rare moment when Fast Frankie Finacci was lost for words and this was one of those moments.

  Lefty sat back in the booth. “You know the topper? It’s you right now, that look on your face. And your, what’s the word … oh yeah, your demeanor. I’m sorry. I had promised to use only small words. What I mean is, the way you’re squirmin’ all around, eyes dartin’ everywhere, tryin’ to find a way outta here with your ass intact. But most of all it’s that look. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the ‘Man, am I screwed’ look that I’ve seen on anybody who truly is screwed, and knows it.”

  Lucci got up and came around the table. Frankie was indeed thinking about how he could get out of this. He could be only minutes away from a bullet in the head. He could bolt for the door but he figured he’d make it maybe five or six steps. He could pull his piece but he knew that both Papa and Lefty would be anticipating that and would have theirs out and blazing before he could get his out of his shoulder holster. That left denial and pleading, both abhorrent to him, but they seemed to be all that was left.

  In the five seconds it took for those thoughts to go through Frankie’s mind, Lefty Lucci beckoned Stump to join him facing Frankie. Stump hesitated, looking like he was going to faint. Lefty beckoned again. “Come on, Stump. It’s okay.” Reluctantly Stump walked to Lefty’s side, avoiding eye contact with Frankie. Lefty put his arm around Stump’s shoulder in a reassuring manner.

  Papa stood and came around the table. “Lefty, don’t do this. It’s not necessary. Stump’s got nothing to do with any of this. Let’s sit Frankie down and work this out.”

  Lefty didn’t even look in Papa’s direction. “Shaddup. Now Frankie, you’re going to tell me about your skim, when you started it, how much you’ve skimmed, and where the real Book is. Get me? Start talkin’.”

  Frankie’s brain was racing. He had no idea why Lefty had brought Stump into the middle of this. He was also shocked and disillusioned at the way Lefty was treating Papa, disrespectfully dismissing him. It was clear that he considered Papa as part of the problem, given that he was Frankie’s original sponsor and Frankie was his protégé.

  “What real Book? Lefty, I gave you the Books you wanted. There’s no other—”

  Lefty cut him off by pulling his gun and putting it against Stump’s temple.

  “Lefty, NO!” Papa was holding his hands out. “We can talk this out.”

  Lucci’s grip on the terrified Stump’s shoulder was now viselike. He waved his gun toward Papa and Frankie. “You two drop your pieces on the floor, nice and easy. NOW!” Papa and Frankie complied. “Kick them across the floor.” Again they complied. He put the gun back against Stump’s temple. “Now I’m going to say this one more time. Tell me about the skim and where the real Book is, the one with the numbers in it before your skim.” The clear implication was that if he didn’t get his answers, poor Stump would pay the price.

  Frankie’s eyes were wide and his hands were shaking. But his instinct told him that Lucci wouldn’t dare kill Stump. Stump was just a low-level foot soldier whose primary job was to keep the Delancey Social Club ready for any Mariucci Family members who wanted peace, quiet, seclusion, and female companionship. So the voice in Frankie’s head told him to deny, deny, deny.

  “Lefty, I would never—”

  BANG! Stump started screaming as he fell to the floor holding his right foot, which now had a bullet hole in it courtesy of Lefty Lucci’s Glock.

  Both Papa and Frankie stepped back and simultaneously yelled, “Oh SHIT!” Frankie started to hyperventilate. Papa held up his hands to Lucci. “Lefty, that’s not necessary. Let me deal with Frankie. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll resolve this whole thing.” Stump was moaning on the floor, holding his bloody foot. Eyes wide as saucers, Frankie kept looking from Stump to Lucci to Papa.

  Lucci stoically looked at Papa. “Yeah? Twenty-four hours and you’ll resolve this whole thing, huh? Frankie’s been your boy all along, right? You sponsored him when he got made into the Family. You been nursing him along, helped make him the hotshot bookie of the Lower East Side. How do I know you ain’t in on the skim?” He shifted the gun’s aim from Stump’s temple to Papa’s forehead.

  “STOP, Lefty. Stop! Okay, okay.” Frankie had found his voice, albeit several octaves higher than normal. “Lefty, please put the gun down. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Lucci kept the gun pointing at Papa’s forehead. “Keep talkin’. I’ll deci
de when to put the gun down.”

  Frankie went on to blurt out that he’d been skimming for two years, so far to the tune of $200,000. “I swear Papa had nothing to do with it. It was all me. He never knew. I swear on my mother’s grave.” Idiot! His mother was still alive, but he was fairly sure Lucci didn’t know that.

  “And the real Book?”

  “It’s in a safe in my apartment.”

  Frankie had no more to offer. He knew that his life, and Papa’s, were now in the hands of this psycho mobster.

  Lucci seemed to be considering his options. The room was quiet except for Stump’s weakening moans and pleads for an ambulance. “Please! I’m bleedin’ to death here!”

  That seemed to snap Lucci back to reality. He pointed his gun at Stump’s head and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening, blood and brains spattering on Frankie and Papa.

  Frankie yelled, “NOOOO!” and turned and vomited. Papa just stared down at Stump’s corpse.

  Seemingly unaffected by his actions, Lucci calmly pointed the gun at Papa’s head. Looking at Frankie he said, “He’s next if you don’t show up here in twelve hours with the real Book and 250K. Get me?”

  “Two fifty? It was only two hundred!”

  “Yeah, but you of all people should understand there’s always a vig. Two fifty is letting you off easy. Papa goes with me. If you want to keep livin’ along with Papa, your wife, and your hot mistress, meet me back here at nine tonight with the money and the Book. Don’t be late. Keep an eye on that nice Rolex timepiece of yours. Get me?” He gestured down to Stump. “Now get somebody to come clean up this mess. ”

  Chapter 21: WITSEC Squad

  Ronnie could wait no longer. It had been nearly a half hour since Papalini, Lucci, and Finacci entered the Delancey Social Club with no activity since. Finacci’s Lexus and the black Town Car were still parked in front of the club with the Town Car’s driver sitting behind the wheel smoking.

  Detective’s bladder or not, she just had to go. She cringed at the thought of using the coffee container and desperately looked around. There were no convenience stores in the immediate area. Besides, she couldn’t afford to take her eyes off the club entrance. Behind and to the left of her car was a narrow passageway between two buildings with a line of sight to the entrance. Seriously? A pang in her bladder answered that question. The passageway would have to do. She backed the car up so that it blocked the view from the Town Car. She looked up and down the sidewalk and saw that two people had passed and were walking away. No one else was coming.

  As quickly as possible she exited the car and slipped into the passageway. The odor immediately told her that she was not the first, male or female, to use the area in that manner. Still facing the club, she dropped her jeans and let go. It was a beautiful relief. Within thirty seconds she was zipping up and stepping back behind the wheel grinning like a kid who had just boosted a Snickers bar from the deli. She decided that someday she’d have to share this little adventure with DD. He’d be proud.

  As she quietly closed the car door she thought she heard a muffled bang come from inside the club. She was immediately totally alert and unsnapped the strap on her holster. It could have been a gunshot but she wasn’t sure. The club was undoubtedly soundproofed to some extent. She did notice the Town Car’s driver suddenly sit up. He was closer and she had no doubt he had heard it too. Less than three minutes later she heard another bang, louder than the first. She was pretty sure two gunshots had been fired inside. The driver had opened his door and was standing next to the car, his hand reaching into his suit coat, undoubtedly ready to pull his gun if necessary. That clinched it for her. She drew her service pistol from her holster, chambered a round, and rested it on the seat next to her easily within reach.

  Something told her she had probably just heard the demise of Fast Frankie Finacci. She sat watching the club’s entrance for a few minutes debating whether or not to call for backup (or at least call DD) or to just let this play out. Just as she was about to call to request backup, the club’s door opened. She slid lower behind the wheel and froze. Two men emerged, neither of whom was Finacci. She recognized Papalini and the other man she suspected as being Leonardo Lucci, a.k.a. Lefty. She could not be certain but it sure looked like Lucci’s left hand had a gun shoved into Papalini’s back “urging” him along into the Town Car. Lucci said something to the driver. They all got in and drove off in a hurry.

  Ronnie Deveaux’s instincts were usually spot on. Her reputation within the Homicide Division was such that if she had a hunch, it would be wise to go with it.

  As she sat watching the drama unfold her instinct was to sit tight rather than follow the Town Car. Finacci’s Lexus was still there and somehow it had to be dealt with. If Finacci was still alive, he’d emerge soon. If not, well, then some other mobsters would come by to take it away. Maybe they would even put his body in it and drive off to burn it somewhere or deposit it in the river in the wee hours.

  Then it got even more interesting. A few minutes later a black SUV pulled up and four men who can only be described as mob goons emerged, unpacked what looked like cleaning supplies, and entered the club. Again, her instinct told her that the recipient, or recipients, of the two gunshots needed cleanup.

  Another twist immediately followed. Right after the goons entered, the club’s door reopened and, to Ronnie’s shock, Fast Frankie Finacci emerged. He looked very agitated and was clearly in a hurry to get to his Lexus. He stumbled and fell to one knee, breathing hard. She wondered if he had been shot and had somehow survived. Maybe he had done the shooting. She immediately dismissed both notions.

  When the mob wanted someone dead, that person ended up dead. The traditional mob execution included a coup de grâs, or “blow of mercy” which came in the form of a bullet in the back of the head. Finacci obviously had not been the subject of such an action. Then who were the victims of the two gunshots she heard?

  She knew that it was time to move before Finacci got in the Lexus. She started her car and whipped across the street, screeching to a halt next to Frankie as he staggered back to his feet. He saw her coming and froze. He stared at her. It was then that she noticed the blood and—What was that?—bone and what looked like brain matter. His face and all down the front of his suit were covered. He stood between his Lexus and Ronnie’s car.

  He was dazed and trying to comprehend what was happening when she powered down her passenger window and yelled, “Get in, NOW!”

  “Who? What?”

  “Finacci, if you want to stay alive, I can help you. Get in the fucking car NOW!”

  Hearing his name snapped Frankie back to reality. He didn’t know who this was but she sure knew him and she was talking about keeping him alive. The prospect of surviving past nine p.m. was appealing to him given that he couldn’t think of how he could come up with 250K by then. He wasn’t kidding himself either. Even if he managed to cough up the cash, there was no way Lucci would let him off the hook. Shit, Papa was probably dead already. He opened the door and got in. What did he have to lose?

  Ronnie floored it, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. No sign of the goons. She headed for the Williamsburg Bridge. She had noticed his shoulder holster under his suit coat was empty. Good. That was one less thing for her to deal with.

  Fast Frankie Finacci was breathing hard. He rasped, “You got any water?”

  Ronnie despised this wretch of a human and wanted very much to nail him for the murder of Louie Calzone. But she knew the case against him was weak and that she needed leverage. In these types of situations, said leverage was more easily attained by fostering a sense of trust with the “leveragee,” thus enabling her to lure him in and then slam the door shut. So, as disgusted as she was by him (he stank of sweat, blood, brain matter, and had probably pissed himself) she played the game.

  “There’s a water bottle on the back seat. Help yourself.”

  Frankie reached for the bottle and gulped down half, water slurping out the sides of
his mouth. Pig. “Thanks.” He started to settle down and finally looked closely at his host. “Who are you and where did you come from? And what did you mean about helping me stay alive?”

  Ronnie didn’t answer. She paid the toll for the bridge and drove east toward Brooklyn.

  Then a spark of recognition hit Frankie. He squinted his eyes at her. “Wait a minute. You’re that detective.” Then he was suddenly aware of his surroundings. He looked out at the East River passing below him. “Where are we going? What the hell is going on?”

  “Frankie, like I said. I can help you. Now tell me what happened in the club this morning. I take it from all that shit splattered all over your nice suit that something bad went down and that it isn’t all over yet. Am I right?”

  That brought Frankie back to the club and the image of poor Stump writhing on the floor holding his foot. Then he recalled the image of his head exploding and covering Papa and him with blood, bone, and brains. He started shaking. “Oh shit. You have no idea. He just shot him. Stump. He just shot him right in the head!”