Charlie Opera (22 page)

Two emergency service workers waited while the hotel security guard untied the series of belts that seemed to hold the men in place.

“You two are mobsters?” Iandolli asked.

The conscious man spoke as soon as the pair of socks was pulled from his mouth. “Vincent Lano!” he yelled at Iandolli. “He did this! Lano! He’s registered in this room with me. Vincent Lano, the motherfucker!”

“You really want to press charges?”

“Fuck!” the conscious man said.

Iandolli pulled out a notepad. “Well?”

The conscious man remained silent.

The security guard brought a paper bag to Iandolli. “This was left here,” the guard said. He held it up so Iandolli could read the writing on the bag. “They wrote ‘FBI’ on it. See?” the guard said.

Iandolli took the bag and looked inside. When he saw the camera, he chuckled. “Right,” he said.

“Should we secure the area?” the guard asked.

Iandolli winked at the guard. “That or sell tickets.”

Minh Quan had circled around the neighborhood a few times before he spotted the commotion with the ambulance and police. Then he saw Charlie Pellecchia get inside the ambulance.

“Shit,” Minh said.

He waited for the crowed to disperse before he drove by the address where the police were now investigating. Minh wrote the address on an extra delivery menu and turned his car around to follow Charlie Pellecchia yet again.

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked Iandolli outside Francone’s room. He had come off the elevator with a contingent of hotel security.

The detective smirked as he thumbed at the room. “In there? A lovefest.”

Thomas pointed to the bag Iandolli was holding. “What’s that?”

“Lunch.”

Thomas saw the writing. “It says ‘FBI.’”

“Yeah, it does. Not ‘DEA,’ though. Too bad.”

Thomas motioned at Iandolli to hand over the bag. “I’ll pass it on,” he said.

Iandolli sneered. “Yeah, right. I don’t think so.”

Thomas stood his ground. “Then we both will.”

“Not anytime soon,” Iandolli said as he pointed to Francone’s room. “I’m heading to the hospital. From the look of things in there, so’s your boy.” He held the bag up. “I’ll have one of my guys bring this to Walsh, the FBI honcho in Vegas.”

Thomas scowled. “And I’ll go with him.”

Iandolli shrugged. “That’d be up to you, but he isn’t handing this bag to anyone but Walsh, so get used to the idea. It says ‘FBI,’ it goes to the FBI.”

Thomas clenched his teeth and motioned at Francone’s room. “Is Charlie Pellecchia in there?”

“Not exactly,” Iandolli said

“Cuccia?” Thomas asked as he crossed the hall to the door.

“Bingo.”

“Are you guys kidding me?” Charlie said. “I haven’t even seen my girlfriend yet. She was shot in the leg, for Christ sakes.”

“You can see her later,” the detective named Gold said. “After you answer some questions.”

Charlie shook his head. “I already told the cops in the emergency room,” he said. “I found her on the walk outside her apartment. She was bleeding from the leg, and her head was all banged up. There’s a guy did that to her driving around someplace. The police have a description. They know his fucking name.”

The detective named Iandolli showed Charlie a set of pictures. “What about these?” he asked.

Charlie shrugged at the pictures. “What about them?”

“Fucking wiseass,” Gold said.

“Fuck you,” Charlie said.

Gold stepped chest to chest with Charlie. “Fuck me?” he said.

Iandolli pulled Gold back as he spoke to Charlie. “You and Mr. Denton and Mr. Lano are on Bellagio hotel cameras,” he said. “We kind of know what happened. We want you to fill in the blanks. It might save your life.”

“Save my life?” Charlie said as his face turned red. “That’s what that asshole DEA agent told me, how he was going to make sure this punk stayed away from me. That was about an hour before some Asian kids tried to cut me in my hotel. I tell you what, I’ll save my own life.”

Iandolli looked to Gold. “What Asian kids?”

“Forget about it,” Charlie said. “I’m not pressing charges against them either.”

Gold pushed Iandolli out of his way. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he asked Charlie.

Charlie glared from Gold to Iandolli. “He’s close if he’s trying to get me to take a swing,” he said.

Gold reached for his handcuffs. Iandolli stopped him.

“What were you doing at the Bellagio?” Iandolli asked.

“I took a room at the Bellagio. I checked out of Harrah’s, and I needed a room. I decided to stay in Las Vegas a few extra days. To be with my girlfriend.”

“You trying to get her killed, too?” Gold asked.

“Enough,” Iandolli told Gold. “What happened at Harrah’s?” he asked Charlie.

Charlie was still glaring at Gold.

“Mr. Pellecchia?” Iandolli said.

“No way,” Charlie said. “I’m not going there.”

“Take him in,” Gold said as he made another attempt at Charlie.

“Hold it!” Iandolli said, pulling Gold back a second time. “Damn it, Abe.”

“Take me in for what?” Charlie asked Iandolli. “For getting beat up? For trying to protect myself?”

Gold tugged at Iandolli’s arm. “I’m not in the mood for this bullshit,” he said. “Not with what happened to Gentry. I’m not listening to this now.”

“Look,” Charlie said, pointing his finger toward the elevators, “my girlfriend is upstairs. They just removed a bullet from her leg. I haven’t seen her yet.”

“One minute,” Iandolli said. He held on to Gold’s left arm as he walked the senior detective across the hallway. “Let me handle this for now,” he whispered. “You’re too upset. Go get a soda. Talk to the other one, the boyfriend. Let me talk to this one alone.”

Gold, clearly frustrated, pulled his arm from Iandolli’s grip and walked away.

Iandolli returned to Charlie. “Go and visit your girlfriend,” he said. “We’ll talk again later.”

Charlie nodded.

“Go ahead,” Iandolli said.

Charlie watched as the detective took the stairs. As he waited for an elevator, Charlie felt uneasy about the pictures Vincent Lano had taken at the Bellagio. If the police already had pictures, the film he was holding on to would no longer serve as a deterrent to mobsters trying to cover their embarrassment.

He knew he couldn’t beat the mob much longer. Once the men in the picture were on the street again, he knew they would come looking for him. The thought of the mob going after Samantha was even more terrifying.

He headed for the elevator but stopped a few feet from an open car. He felt himself sweating. He couldn’t move.

The Chinese restaurant was empty when Renato Freni walked inside. Except for the young woman working the counter and the two cooks in the kitchen, Freni was alone. He dropped his right hand inside his right pants pocket to touch the end of the Firestorm 10 Shot .22 Semi Automatic he was carrying.

The woman behind the counter had large oval eyes and thick lips. She smiled at Freni. “May I herp you, prease?” she asked in a heavy Asian accent.

Freni gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to meet a friend,” he said.

“Mr. Recasi?” she asked.

“Close enough,” Freni said.

The woman pointed over her shoulder. “He in back,” she said. “Waiting for dumpring.”

Freni watched as the woman packaged a container of steamed dumplings and hot mustard. She handed it to Freni and pointed down the hall toward a door at the far end of the restaurant.

“Take prease,” she said. “Mr. Recasi waiting for dumpring.”

Freni did a double take at the woman before shrugging and taking the small package from her. He saw two doors in the rear, one leading outside. He was unsure of where to go.

“In back,” she said, still pointing. “Through door outside. On patio.”

“Oh,” Freni said. “Sure, no problem.”

Phuc Hanh
was twenty-four years old, a part-time prostitute and killer, and Minh Quan’s wife. Her name in Vietnamese meant
blessing from above, as in good family. It also meant happiness.

Today she was executing a new contract the Italians had paid her husband thirty-five thousand dollars for. She had backup gang members in the basement and bathroom because she had never used a gun to kill before. A Walther P22 had been hidden under loose menus under the front counter. She had briefly hefted the gun before it was hidden.

After the man she was to kill took the package and headed down the hallway toward the back of the restaurant, Phuc Hanh
reached under the counter for the Walther. The man was about five feet from the counter when
Phuc
Hanh shot him in the back of the head. His body went into spasm on the floor, and she leaned over to fire a bullet into his right temple. She yelled something in French, and both cooks quickly dragged the body into the basement.

Phuc
Hanh returned to the front counter, wiped sweat from her forehead, and used the telephone. When she hung up, she opened a can of Coke. She was perfectly calm a few minutes later when an Asian couple came in to order take-out.

After stalling his meeting with Renato Freni, Jerry Lercasi relaxed as he watched the highlights of a Dodgers-Giants game on satellite television. The next few days were going to be busy. He expected several more visits from the local authorities. He expected harassments from federal agents as well.

Then there would be the request for a meeting by the New York crew he would have to deal with. Without Allen Fein to run interference, Lercasi was thinking he might have to handle New York by himself.

He was waiting for a call. He stretched his arms out wide as he yawned. He heard his bones crack as he tightened his arm muscles.

When the telephone rang, Lercasi picked up the receiver but didn’t speak.

“Your order is ready,” a woman with an accent said.

“I think you have a wrong number,” Lercasi said.

After taking care of all the business he could think of for one day, Lercasi thought about finishing the day off with some more Chinese. He dialed the reception desk and asked if Brenda was still around. When the girl working the desk told Lercasi that his girlfriend was gone for the day, he asked about the Asian woman who was giving Mr. Fein his massages the past few days.

Was she free? Lercasi wanted to know. And did she want a permanent job working at Vive la Body?

Joey Francone received five stitches in his rectum at the emergency room. He was given codeine for his pain and gauze bandaging for the bleeding. He was told the stitches would dissolve but that it would be a good idea to come back to the hospital in a few days to have the wound checked.

Francone was too embarrassed to care what the doctors in the emergency room had told him. He wanted out of there. He needed to find Nicholas Cuccia.

When he searched for his boss, Francone spotted two men he knew were federal agents outside the recovery room. He didn’t bother to ask why they were there. Cuccia had either made a deal or was about to. Francone wasn’t sticking around to find out.

Suddenly he saw himself for what he was in the bigger picture of the Vignieri crime family. He was a “nobody” in the mob world. Cuccia was a made man, a “somebody.” Cuccia also was a skipper running his own crew, somebody directly linked to an underboss. Cuccia had clout. Francone had nothing.

This was one reason why he retraced his steps to the emergency room. He saw a pocketbook hanging from the back of a chair in the waiting area and snatched it. He found an exit and left the hospital. He knew he couldn’t head back to the Bellagio yet, so he limped two blocks in pain to a taxi stand in front of a shopping mall instead. He waited ten minutes before a taxi could take him to a cheap motel off the Strip.

Francone was grateful for what was inside the small purse: $253. He paid for the taxi with a $10 bill and stashed the rest of the cash inside his pants pocket.

He took a room at a short-stay dump for one night. He left a $20 bill for local telephone calls at the front desk. Francone called Anthony Rizzi at Caesar’s Palace to make sure the wannabe still was in Las Vegas. Rizzi was supposed to meet them with cash reinforcements. Rizzi was one way out of Las Vegas. Francone wasn’t sure if there was another.

Once he was checked out of his motel in Las Vegas, Beau Curitan drove south on Highway 95. Beau had never meant for things to get so carried away. He never intended to shoot the woman hiding his wife. He never intended to touch or to undress her.

Except Samantha Cole had seemed to respond to his teasing as she awoke from her chloroform sleep. It was just like the abducted women in the paperback books Beau had read. Samantha seemed to enjoy what he was doing to her. He swore she had responded verbally to his advances. He was positive he had heard her say “Yes.”

Now Beau was fleeing the scene of what he guessed would be breaking and entering, assault, attempted rape, and attempted murder charges. He pulled off the highway when he spotted a cheap motel. He took a room for a short stay while he tried to retrace what had gone so wrong for him. Beau realized he had stolen money and credit cards from the wallet in Samantha’s purse. Taking the money and credit cards would add robbery to the list of charges he was fleeing.

Then he realized he had left his gun behind, a Beretta .380 his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday.

He needed to get out of Nevada. He was sure the state police had a description of his car. They might even have his license plate numbers. Beau needed to either change cars or license plate numbers or have the car painted. He checked outside his window and saw he could steal license plates from another car parked in the lot.

He used the telephone book to locate used-car dealers and mechanics. The nearest city Beau recognized on a map was Laughlin, less than an hour’s drive. He unfolded his map of Nevada on the bed and plotted a route to the resort town in the mountains.

A drop of blood dripping from his nose landed on the map. Beau touched the tip of his nose and winced.

Charlie couldn’t bring himself to see Samantha yet. He had started and stopped twice. He decided to see his wife first.