Charlie Opera (23 page)

“It was kind of rushed,” he said when he was standing alongside her bed. “I thought you were out shopping.”

Lisa was trying to smile through her stitched mouth. “I felt horrible,” she said. “I still do.”

Charlie didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much to say. It was the first time he had spoken to his wife since she left him for another man. Each of them had since been assaulted. Each of them had suffered. Each of them had unknowingly dragged innocent victims into danger. Each of them was sorry for dragging out their own misery together.

“Are you all right?” Lisa asked.

Charlie managed a half smile. His wife didn’t know about the new woman in his life.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“What happens next?”

“Whatever you want. We sit down and file for divorce. I don’t expect either of us will contest anything.”

It was a half question. Lisa shook her head.

“It should go pretty fast,” Charlie said.

Lisa pointed to her face. “What about this other mess?”

“I think it’s over,” Charlie said. “Your friend John was a big help.” He wasn’t sure if it was his place to go any farther. He had no idea of what his wife was aware of. “I think he cares for you very much,” he added.

Lisa was silent. She began to cry as Charlie shifted from foot to foot alongside her bed.

“Do you hate me?” she asked.

It was an awkward question. He had felt anger and frustration but never hatred. “What makes you ask that?”

“Do you?”

“Of course not.”

“The way it happened. I didn’t plan it that way. I panicked, I think. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Charlie said. “It’s over.”

Lisa wiped her eyes with a tissue.

“And think of the good stuff,” he joked. “You don’t have to listen to any more opera.”

Lisa laughed through her tears. She reached for his hand. He accepted it but somehow felt funny holding his wife’s hand. Somehow, he felt as if he were betraying Samantha. He let Lisa’s hand go.

A few minutes later, Charlie stopped outside Samantha’s room. He could hear her talking to another woman—a nurse, he assumed.

“This should teach me not to invite strange men into my house,” he heard Samantha say.

“From the looks of it, you’re a lucky lady,” the woman said.

“He ruined a perfectly good gam there,” Samantha said.

“Nothing a garter belt couldn’t cover,” the woman said.

Samantha laughed and said, “A garter belt? I have a friend thinks along the same lines as you.”

Charlie leaned against the wall in the hallway. He couldn’t bring himself any closer to Samantha. The detective’s words haunted him.

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

He pushed himself off the wall and turned away from the room. Detective Iandolli was waiting for him.

“She might be better off, you keep your distance,” Iandolli said.

“I’m in love with her,” Charlie said.

“Then at least until this is settled,” Iandolli said.

“And when’s that?”

Iandolli couldn’t answer. “In the meantime, you’re doing the right thing.”

The elevator doors opened, and Gold was standing there. Iandolli and Charlie stepped onto the elevator to join him. They rode the car down to the lobby in silence. When they got off, Charlie spotted Denton and walked his way. The detectives headed for the vending machines.

Iandolli inserted a dollar bill into a soda machine and pushed a Diet Sprite button. The can of soda bounced its way down the chute to the open bin. Iandolli grabbed the soda and held the cold can against his forehead a few seconds before pulling the tab to open it.

“He’s up against it,” Iandolli said.

Gold made a face. “Pellecchia?”

“Big time,” Iandolli said. “He won’t tell us anything about anything. He’s afraid for the girlfriend.”

“Did you press him?”

“What’s the point? How’d you make out with the other one?”

“The lawyer?” Gold asked. “Forget about it. I threatened to involve the Effa-Bee-Eye, but he’s too well in tune with the law to bite.”

“Lano left behind those pictures for his own reasons,” Iandolli said. “I think we can assume they each have a set. They probably think the film is protection of some kind.”

“These two clowns can’t have delusions about getting away with this after another week or so,” Gold said.

“That’s the other kicker,” Iandolli said. “I think Pellecchia intends to stay in Las Vegas. He’s in love.”

Gold’s eyebrows furrowed. “Who does he think he is, this Pellecchia? Suppose we don’t want him here? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Iandolli laughed as he counted on his fingers. “A guy came to Vegas for a vacation with his wife, got dumped, got assaulted, found out his wife was assaulted, met some other broad who got shot by some nut chasing another broad all over the country. That’s the point, I guess. Pellecchia thinks we look stupid for even asking.”

“Yeah, well, I got one of ours over at another hospital who’s staring at life for killing his wife. The doctors tell him he’ll never be able to speak again for the bullet he tried to kill himself with. So excuse me for not feeling any sympathy for Mr. Pellecchia right now.”

“Well, our two out-of-town mobsters aren’t about to press charges,” Iandolli said. “Right about now, I’d say they’d both like to leave the country.”

“Hey, it’s none of my fucking business anyway,” Gold said. “What happens to wiseguys or this other wiseass from New York with his marital problems. Give him the key to the city, you want.”

“I have another idea.”

“I don’t know that I want to hear it.”

Iandolli nodded. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Minh Quan had heard from his wife immediately after the Italian was dead and cut up in the restaurant basement. She had told Minh they were waiting for a private sanitation truck to take his body parts away with the rest of the perishable garbage. One of Jerry Lercasi’s men had already delivered the balance on the contract. It was good news.

When he called the hospital and learned that his brother had slipped into a coma, Minh’s good mood instantly turned sour. He hung up on the nurse explaining the situation as he stared at the man responsible. Charlie Pellecchia was standing with a detective Minh recognized from the local newspapers, somebody with an Italian name.

Minh reached down under his seat and grabbed the 9mm Beretta he had brought with him. He racked the slide and set the gun on the passenger seat. He covered the gun with a plastic bag. He lit a cigarette and noted the time.

If Minh had the opportunity, he would kill Pellecchia in a drive-by. He would wait until the detective was gone and pull up alongside the man who had clubbed his brother. Then he would beep his horn to get Pellecchia’s attention. Then he would shoot until the Beretta’s magazine was empty.

Agent Thomas looked at pictures of Cuccia and Francone tied together on a bed at the Bellagio Hotel. He dropped the pictures on a folding table in a small office in the Federal Building in downtown Las Vegas. Federal agent Dale Walsh, the Special Agent In Charge with the FBI organized crime task force in Las Vegas, combed his reddish-gray hair back with both hands as Thomas rubbed his eyes.

“You get any sleep?” Walsh asked.

“No. Not a minute. Not for two days, I don’t think. Maybe three.”

“I’ve been apprised of your situation,” Walsh said. “I spoke with your field supervisor back in New York. I spoke with our own people in New York as well. And I just spoke with a regional director in Washington.”

Thomas took a seat across from Walsh and sipped at a cup of stale coffee. “So, what’s the punch line?” he asked.

“I can have somebody freshen that for you,” Walsh said.

“It’s okay.”

Walsh referred to a set of notes on a legal pad. “We think Vincent Lano killed himself early this morning. Out in the desert. We think he blew himself up. We don’t know the device he used yet, but he was in a car when it went up.”

“That’s one less to account for.”

“The other one, Joseph Francone, he skipped out of the hospital but he wasn’t being held on anything. Apparently he was a victim.”

Thomas chuckled. “Yeah, right.”

Walsh ignored the sarcasm. “Our investigations here in Vegas revolve around Jerry Lercasi and his crew,” he continued, “so we aren’t as familiar with the New York crew that came into town last week.”

“How public are the pictures? To save us both some time.”

“The locals, our department and now you,” Walsh said. “Nobody else. Certainly not the media.”

“And what about the locals? That prick Iandolli gave me nothing but headaches from the get-go. What’s the guarantee he doesn’t talk about the pictures, if not show them around? What do you have, his word?”

“Detective Iandolli was first on the scene,” Walsh said. “He’s a pain in the ass, but I have a relationship with him here. I’m sure he won’t do anything out of line without telling us first. Nobody else knows about the pictures.”

“As far as you know,” Thomas said.

“As far as we know.”

Thomas picked up a few of the pictures: Francone with a dildo sticking out of his rectum, Francone with the dildo lying across his neck, Francone with the dildo in his mouth. Cuccia tied between Francone’s legs.

“How the fuck did this happen?” Thomas asked. “Does anybody know?”

“No clue.”

“Those pictures are a death sentence. You know that, right?”

“The Bureau wants to work something out.”

“Cuccia’s deal is with us,” Thomas said. “It’s a DEA case.”

“We think we might be able to use those pictures here as well, to get at Jerry Lercasi,” Walsh said. “Through Allen Fein, the man the New York crew contacted.”

“Use the pictures? Are you crazy, use the pictures?”

“It’s being discussed. You may as well get used to it.”

“You show those pictures outside of this office and those two are dead men,” Thomas said. “I can live with losing Francone, but Nicholas Cuccia is the key to a major drug operation back East, which you obviously already know about.”

Walsh used his hands to comb his hair again. “Jerry Lercasi has been our version of the Teflon don for at least ten years now,” he said. “We want him. If we can get him, we will. If those pictures can help us, we’ll use them.”

Thomas was incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“We intend to go after Allen Fein, because this was obviously his deal with your friend from New York,” Walsh said. “Fein is no tough guy. If we can tie him into this, he’ll flip on Lercasi. He won’t have a choice.”

“And my people know about this back in New York?” Thomas asked. “They’re putting up with this bullshit? Just say so. Because if they are, I’m taking the next fucking flight home alone.”

The telephone rang. Walsh answered it.

“Walsh,” he said. He listened as he looked up at Thomas. “Right,” he said. “Okay.”

Thomas opened both his hands when Walsh hung up. “Well?” Thomas asked. “What’s it going to be?”

“Allen Fein is dead,” Walsh said. “The pictures are yours.”

When Charlie left his first wife, their sons were twelve and fourteen years old. Leaving had been tough. He was absorbed with feelings of guilt and abandonment a long time afterward. Sometimes it still bothered him.

Leaving Samantha now was just as hard, maybe harder, but there was no way he would put her back into jeopardy after she had already been shot. The fact that it had been Carol’s ex-husband who shot Sam didn’t ease Charlie’s concerns. After what the mob had done to Lisa and what he had redone to Nicholas Cuccia’s jaw, Charlie was certain the vengeful gangster would do anything to get back at him.

He waited in the lobby until he learned she would be going home in a few hours. Then he searched for Detective Iandolli again and was anxious when he found him.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“You thought it out, huh?”

“What do you need me to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Iandolli said. “Maybe nothing. Maybe testify. Gold wants you to testify. The DEA sure doesn’t.”

“My friend Gold,” Charlie said. “Where’s he out crusading?”

“He’s back at Harrah’s trying to learn what happened with that Asian kid you mentioned.”

“What can I do to protect Samantha?” Charlie asked.

“Like I said, you can testify, but I’m not sure yet. The Feds won’t want you to, but it isn’t their life. It could be dangerous once you get home, you testify out here.”

“That’s almost funny,” Charlie said.

“Hey, it’s the nature of the beast,” Iandolli said. “The way these guys operate, they have a protocol. Mostly it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but you’re caught in the chaos of it right now. This guy you busted up again, he wants you dead, my friend, make no mistake.”

“What can you do for me here, in Las Vegas?” Charlie asked.

“What do you mean, what can I do?”

“I’m worried about a woman upstairs.”

“Which one?”

“Take your pick.”

Iandolli scratched his forehead. “I get your point.”

Gold sat in the control room above Harrah’s casino floor and replayed the video of the assault outside an elevator bank from the day before. He watched in slow motion as Charlie Pellecchia avoided the knife and stepped into an overhead swing with a small baseball bat. He saw the bat make contact with the mugger’s forehead. A shorter, second swing followed the first. The mugger fell into the elevator doors to his right.

When he called in for information on the assailant, Gold learned the mugger’s name was Minh Nguyen, the younger brother of Minh Quan, the head of the Black Dragons, a local Vietnamese street gang who operated out of a section of Las Vegas recently nicknamed Little Saigon by the ethnic gang squad.

Gold knew that the connection between Minh Nguyen and Pellecchia wasn’t a coincidental mugging. Ethnic gangs didn’t stray that far from their turf without a reason. Little Saigon and Harrah’s might as well be in different states.

Gold paged Iandolli to let him know there were more than a few mobsters trying to kill Charlie Pellecchia.

Reporters were pressing the police for information. A detective with a badge hanging from his neck took questions as Charlie made his way out of the hospital. When a reporter shoved a microphone at Charlie’s face, he quickly veered away and jogged back inside the lobby. He found Iandolli, and they exited the hospital through a back door.