The Seventh Wave

by Fred Galvin

  ~~~

  As Frankie lay there motionless, a significant BFT (blunt force trauma) having caused his demise, the cop-lady and the mysterious WITSEC Agent Ortega who had come to her rescue were looking down at him and cursing at the same time. It would have been laughable if not for the fact that the blow had killed him.

  Agent Ortega, still holding the small bat in his right hand said, “I had to hit him! He was going to shoot you! What do we do now? Is he dead? Ronika, what do we do now? Shit!”

  So, the cop-lady’s name is Ronika. What kind of screwy name is that? Probably Cuban or Dominican or maybe Jamaican. This boat’s from Jamaica. Yeah, that’s it. She’s Jamaican. Frankie bounced the name around again in his dead brain, this time rolling the Rs. Rrrroneeeka. He got a chuckle out of that. Well, not a real chuckle. Let’s call it a dead man’s chuckle (if there is such a thing).

  Eyes wide and breathing heavily, Rrrroneeeka bent down and felt for Frankie’s pulse. He wanted to yell at her, “I’m dead, you stupid bitch! There is no pulse!”

  Finding none she said, “No question. He’s dead. Geez.” She took Agent Ortega by the shoulders and looked intently into his eyes. “It’s okay. You were defending me. Another second and he would have shot me. You saved my life.”

  Yes, I definitely would have shot you.

  She hugged Ortega tightly. “Now I need to think. Go back up and head the boat east away from the shore and let me think.”

  So Frankie was facedown on the cabin deck of the Sea Nymph while Ronika, the cop-lady, sat at the small table drinking coffee out of a Yankees mug held in her shaking hands. She stared down at him. “Well, you bastard. You weaseled out of it, didn’t you? You won’t have to formally answer for the death of Louie Calzone after all. It figures, you slippery little prick.”

  As she sat a while longer sipping her coffee, her hands eventually stopped shaking. She then got up and walked around and squatted facing Frankie’s head and unseeing open eyes. She leaned down as if to confide a secret, which, as it turned out, was exactly what it was.

  “Fast Frankie Finacci. Made Man in the Mariucci Family. I’m going to tell you something no one else knows, neither my partner Dan nor even my brother Roje, who, by the way, is the actual identity of Agent Ortega.”

  Ah. So “Agent Ortega” was the cop-lady’s brother, Roje. Rrrrohay. Another dead man’s chuckle. Now he was about to hear the real story. There was no witness protection here. Actually, the only witness was dead.

  She continued. “I know you remember Louie Calzone. I really liked him. He was one of my CIs. That means confidential informant, in case you didn’t know. When you attacked him, you also attacked me, in a way. Unlike you and your kind, he was a good man. Granted, he was flawed and a bit shady, but harmlessly so. Overall he was trustworthy and decent. As you well knew, he had a problem: an addiction to gambling, which you mercilessly exploited. He just needed some help getting by.”

  Mockingly, she continued. “Now, I believe that if you were still alive and were actually listening to me say this, you’d come up with something eloquent like, ‘What the fuck did you mean when you said I was attacking you when I whacked Calzone?’ Okay, pinhead. I’ll tell you.”

  She paused as if considering whether or not to continue. Then she smiled down at Frankie’s dead eyes mockingly.

  “You see, Louie wasn’t only my CI, he was also my, how shall I put it, my representative, my proxy in a way. I’m sure you’re probably confused, not only because you’re dead, but mainly because you are, or were, not too bright. Even if you were really able to hear me I’d figure you’d say something profound like, ‘Huh? What’s a proxy?’ Well, let me explain and I’ll keep it simple for you.”

  She leaned even closer to Frankie’s dead ear and hissed, “He placed bets with you for me! Yes, you heard me. Well, not actually heard me, but somehow I have the feeling that this is getting through to you wherever you may be. Louie and I had something in common. We both gambled … a lot. I guess you could say we had the same problem, the same addiction.”

  Frankie was shocked, at least as shocked as a dead man can be. So the twenty-plus grand Calzone owed, some of it (probably most of it) was hers?

  “But I had to be careful, didn’t I? Think about it. Being a police detective and a gambling addict are not really compatible, are they? Even you could connect those dots. Besides, if you ever knew that you were making bets for me, I’d wager that you would waste no time in using that knowledge as leverage against me and I’m sure that bet would be one that I’d win.”

  She finally leaned back, out of Frankie’s face. She walked over to the small galley, refilled her coffee cup and sat down again, crossing her legs. Frankie had to admit, she filled out those jeans quite well. Hell, if he were alive he might take a shot at that. But alas …

  “This outcome wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for you tonight. You see, I really just wanted you alone in a situation that I controlled completely. On my terms. One you couldn’t just walk away from, like you did two years ago if the questions started hitting too close to home. So I asked my brother if he would like to be a WITSEC agent and captain the Sea Nymph on a mission. I would serve as his crew and you would be his passenger, albeit a nonpaying one. He agreed and, well, here we are.

  “Our quickly conceived idea was to convince you that we would protect you from that cold-blooded killer Lefty Lucci and get you off the hook for all that money you owed the family. In return, you’d finger Lefty and anyone else up the Mariucci ladder that needed fingering. I knew we had you hooked when you fell for my brother being a WITSEC agent. I could barely keep a straight face during that phone call. I guess it’s true what they say about gullible people: they believe what they want to believe.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the term Mickey Finn. You know, ‘I slipped him a Mickey and he was out for six hours.’ It’s actually chloral hydrate, or ‘knockout drops’ in mob-speak. It just took a couple to put you to sleep after I dropped them into your coffee at the diner. All we had to do was get you into the car and you took a nice nap. When you awoke, my brother and his boat were waiting. What I really wanted was some alone time with you so I could get you to confess to Louie Calzone’s murder. Once I had that, and I guarantee you, I’d get that confession, I’d use that leverage to our advantage and maybe even turn you to our side. Flip you like a burger. I figured it was a long shot, you being a loyal Made Man and all, but I saw it as a win-win. Either you’d help us bring down the Mariucci influence on the Lower East Side or you’d end up in Attica busting big rocks into little rocks for the murder of Louie Calzone. Perhaps both.

  “Except, as I said, it hasn’t gone precisely to plan, has it? You had to be a tough guy and point my own gun at me. If it’s any comfort to you, I do feel humiliated that you were able to get your hands on my Glock. But my brother came to my rescue, and from behind, no less. Didn’t they ever teach you to always be facing the door?

  “In a way you did me a gruesome favor when you killed Louie Calzone two years ago. You forgave my debt—didn’t you, you moron. I suppose I should have been grateful. But actually, I was devastated with guilt because I was the reason you whacked him even though you didn’t have a clue. So I needed to make you accountable.

  “So, here we are. Roje is heading us out to sea a bit so we can figure out what to do with you without any interference. It looks like the weather is taking a turn so that should help keep us isolated. You know what comes to mind? Do you remember that famous scene from The Godfather when Sonny Corleone receives a dead fish wrapped in Luca Brasi’s bulletproof vest? It was a Sicilian mob message saying ‘Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.’ You want to sleep with the fishes, Frankie? Too bad you’re not wearing a vest. We’d send it with a fish in it to Lefty Lucci. ‘Fast Frankie Finacci sleeps with the fishes.’ That would have been cool. Doesn’t matter anyway, as we’d rather keep your eventual destiny to ourselves.”

  If Frankie could shudder, he would be doing so in a major way. He
never was too fond of the ocean and couldn’t swim very well. He also preferred daylight over being in the dark and the ocean at night is about the darkest place there could be. No, being tossed into the deep was not how he wanted to spend eternity.

  As it turned out, that dark eternity lasted just a few days.

  ~~~

  After the cop-lady and her seafaring brother had unceremoniously rolled and bound Frankie up in sheets, he could feel The Sea Nymph pitch and roll with the huge Atlantic swells as they lumbered along. The powerful Cummins diesel truck engine kept her on course paralleling Long Island’s south shore barrier islands. It was windy and raining steadily. Lightning lit up the clouds. Occasionally the lightning and the deafening thunder crack were almost simultaneous, indicating the bolt was very close even though Frankie couldn’t actually see or hear either.

  The Nymph was chugging along without any running lights as its revised mission on this dark and stormy night now required stealth. While the possibility of detection was extremely slight, given the conditions, Captain Roje Deveaux and his lone crew member, his sister Ronika, were taking no chances.

  Roje had to yell over the sounds of wind, rain, and thunder. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Ronika shouted in return. “Besides it’s too late to turn back now, isn’t it? Even if we did, what would we do with him?” She jerked a thumb down toward the sheet-wrapped corpse on the deck.

  “Okay then. Let’s be done with it. This storm’s getting worse by the minute. The Nymph is a hardy boat but she won’t stand up to a tropical storm. We need to start heading in. Come on.”

  Then Frankie was being hefted off the deck by head and foot. His dead weight—literally—plus the weight of an old anchor chain to help sink him, combined with the slickness due to the heavy rain and the pitching of the boat to cause them to drop him twice onto the deck. Idiots! Then with some mighty grunts, Frankie was momentarily balanced on the rail before gravity took command and he went over the side into the frothy whitecaps.

  Frankie sensed the rope around the sheet at his neck had loosened such that the sheet had opened and his head was exposed. Yes! He took full advantage and stared mockingly up at them both with those dead eyes. “You haven’t seen the last of me!” he screamed internally.

  The cop-lady screamed, “Shit! Sink, Frankie, you worthless fucker, sink!”

  After an agonizing minute that seemed like an eternity, the anchor chain started to drag Frankie down feet first, then he stopped and bobbed kind of like a mocking middle finger with the head still staring at them with those dead eyes. Finally, he slowly vanished into the murky depths to sleep with the fishes. He thought, “Anyone seen Luca Brasi around here? I could sure use the company.”

  Yelling down into the blackness, he could hear the cop-lady yell loudly over the sound of the waves hitting the boat’s hull, “Your fast talk won’t do you any good now, Frankie! Nobody’s going to hear you but the whales and sharks. You ain’t so fast any more are ya, asshole.” It wasn’t a question.

  She thought, That one was for you, Louie Calzone. Now you can rest in peace. Turning to Roje, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Roje returned to the helm and gunned the engine on a course west–northwest toward the city.

  ~~~

  What they didn’t know was that on the way down, the anchor chain around Frankie’s waist was beginning to slip. Its weight was being pulled down against the natural buoyancy of the corpse, at least one that hasn’t drowned. It wouldn’t be long before it would fall free leaving Fast Frankie Finacci suspended under the churning Atlantic surface. Eventually, he would start a slow ascent to the waves above and a journey toward Long Island’s barrier islands.

  Along the way, as he slowly rose to the surface, curious marine life would swim by, take a look, and try to figure out if this unusual thing in their world was worth eating or perhaps was going to eat them. A few took some swipes at Frankie and that really pissed him off. But no real harm was done as he eventually made it all the way to the surface where the waves began to seriously influence his journey shoreward.

  When he finally surfaced it was daylight. While on the surface, he wasn’t too conspicuous since he was half submerged in the swells. Now within sight of land, he was amused to notice some half-naked women sunning themselves on a boat. They were totally oblivious to his presence. Two of them actually jumped into the water to cool off not more than fifty feet from him. If only he could move or make some noise, he could have a good laugh. But it was not to be.

  He sensed that there were series of waves relentlessly making their way toward the shore and bringing him in with them. If he could count them he’d notice that about every seventh wave would give him a significant shove toward the shore.

  As the water became shallower, it became warmer and he would float more on the surface. Eventually, on this bright sunny day, one final large seventh wave took him all the way onto the beach where he floundered around with the shore breakers until he attracted the attention of a surfer and a beachgoer, who, curiously, was dressed in business clothing, not the usual beachwear.

  If Frankie could actually see, he may have recognized this man as the cop who had accompanied that cop-lady, what was her name … oh yeah, Rrrroneeeka, when he was questioned for knocking off that Calzone idiot a couple of years back. The beach cop seemed to have no idea that it was Fast Frankie Finacci facedown on the wet sand. Guarded from the gulls by more beach people, Frankie was soon gathered up by cops in those Smokey Bear hats and whisked away to a cold morgue, his odyssey finally over. His only satisfaction was that Lefty Lucci would never find all that skimmed loot. Maybe nobody would.

  Frankie did feel bad if Papa had been whacked on his account, which was most certainly the case. As for his wife? Well, he suspected they would let her go once they were sure she didn’t have the cash. It was an unwritten mob rule not to whack innocent women, especially wives. But it wouldn’t be pretty for her. And Tina? Screw her, as he had done so many times.

  So the cold of the morgue finally put Fast Frankie Finacci to sleep for good.

  Chapter 24: And the sea gave up the dead …

  Now, I am in no way a Bible aficionado nor am I a deeply spiritual man. I wouldn’t even say semi-deeply. In fact, my thoughts on the Bible and its origins should be reserved for another time. Contemplating the concept of a god of creation and one who hears prayers and trying to reconcile all that with empirical scientific evidence really confuses me.

  However, I will admit to having derived comfort when I visited St. Augustine Church. Hypocritical? Maybe. I prefer to just live and let live, each by his and her own beliefs.

  Interestingly, at St. Augie’s I have heard a particular passage. It’s from the Book of Revelation 20:13. Here it is:

  And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works.

  It has stuck with me because I thought it quite appropriate given what happened in the days and weeks after the Atlantic coughed up the corpse that surfer Dante Immelman and I discovered on that June day at Garbage Cove on Long Island’s south shore.

  ~~~

  It had been a couple of years since my retirement from the NYPD. Jen’s illness and passing had quashed all thoughts that I would be able to live with the quiet peace of mind of the ideal retirement lifestyle.

  I had briefly contemplated requesting reinstatement to full-time status as a detective first grade in the Homicide Division but quickly dismissed the idea. After all, they had given me a watch and it would have been bad form to unretire and keep it, and worse form to give it back. In fact, I had no idea where it was. As I have said, I had no need to know what time it was in my retirement life. I had viewed wearing a watch as a shackle to my previous detective regimens. I didn’t even know where the hell it was. How about this for a philosophy for retired life: my day and night activities would be governed by the sun and
the moon and the whims of fancy.

  Barf!

  All I wanted to do was basically nothing. Jen’s death left a huge void in my life and I was unable to fill it with anything remotely approaching emotional satisfaction. But the problem with doing nothing was that I was never ever any good at it.

  I tried, really I did. I slept in. Right! What a joke. “Sleeping in” for me is forcing myself not to rise until seven. I would be showered, shaved, and breakfasted (is that a real word?) by 7:45. Yes, I also made the bed. Jen would come back with a vengeance if I didn’t make the bed. She might haunt me anyway for not smoothing out all the wrinkles and putting on all six of the decorative pillows.

  Then I’d read the paper, a real live newspaper, if you could call the New York Daily News one of those. Yes, I admit it. Guilty as charged. In the internet age I was one of those old fossils. I was—dare I say it—a page turner. I’d go to the sports section first and read all baseball-related articles, then the main body of the paper. I would then do the daily crypto puzzle, the Jumble, and the crossword. That got me to 8:30 or 8:45 depending on how tricky the crypto was.