Charlie Stella - Charlie Opera

Samantha mentioned how long it had been since her last relationship with a man and how she was trying to be extra careful with men since she was so close to erasing the final debts from her marriage to a compulsive gambler.

“So you don’t trust men anymore to punish yourself,” he said.

Samantha was taken off guard. “Huh?”

“That’s what it sounds like. You’re pissed at yourself for what happened with your deadbeat husband so now you don’t take chances.”

She looked at him with one eye closed. “Is this a trick question?”

Charlie smiled again.

“I hada boyfriend from where I work until six months ago,” she said. “A partner.”

“Like I had a wife.”

“I guess. Only he didn’t live here. But he wanted too much too soon.”

“Marriage?”

“And kids.”

“Ouch.”

“Exactly. So we broke up. So it has been a while.”

“For what it’s worth,” Charlie said, “it’s been a while for me, too.”

It was pretty late by the time they finished their coffee. He asked Samantha if it would be all right if they went out again before he returned to New York.

“Take off your glasses,” she said.

“My eyes are black.”

“I can tell a lot more about you if I can see your eyes.”

He took the sunglasses off. She stared into his eyes a moment and giggled. “You look silly,” she said. He put the sunglasses back on. Samantha took them off again. “No. It looks even sillier with them on.”

“This part of a ritual? Humiliation before a simple yes or no?”

“I’m sorry. I can get used to your eyes like that. Well, not used to them, but, you know. I’d rather see your eyes.”

“Well, will you go out with me again?”

“Of course. Whatever made you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The glasses?”

Charlie stayed through dinner, and they learned a little bit more about each other.

Samantha loved dogs but was afraid to leave one alone while she worked. Charlie loved dogs, too, but he could never find the time to train one. Samantha loved to cook French cuisine. Charlie could cook a limited number of Italian dishes, hamburger, or steak. She loved to swim. He preferred walking. She had always wanted a house. He couldn’t wait to sell his. She was a basketball fan. He watched football and boxing. They were both morning people, but Samantha required eight hours of sleep to Charlie’s five. She loved country music. He was an opera aficionado.

“Ah, the hobby that drove your wife crazy,” she said. “I don’t know. You don’t look that old.”

She giggled into his arms. He was surprised. He held her loosely, barely touching her back with his fingertips. She smiled up at him and pecked him on the lips.

He was more surprised at the kiss. He held her until she stood up on her toes to kiss him again. The kiss was casual at first, their lips barely making contact. They held it for a few seconds before smiling at each other. Then they kissed again, and their mouths became involved. It was awkward for Charlie with his bruised upper lip. He held her tighter. She leaned into him. They kissed for a few minutes before they eventually backed off from each other.

They said good night when the taxi he had called finally arrived. She watched him leave from her doorway. She smiled when she saw he turned to look back at her from the taxi.

Detective Abe Gold sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup at the end of a hallway in Summerlin Hospital. At fifty-five years of age, the veteran detective found he couldn’t make it for more than six hours without caffeine.

He was near the end of a double shift that had started when he was asked to respond to a motel mugging off the Las Vegas Strip. A couple had been assaulted in their room. The woman had been hurt.

Gold rubbed his temples. Random violence had become too common over the past few years. While Sin C’s base population had blossomed from family-oriented promotional campaigns, a more transient populace had brought random and rampant crime. The woman at the motel appeared to be another victim.

When he learned that the woman had left her husband midvacation for a younger boyfriend she had had a previous affair with, and that the husband’s name was showing up at another hospital as a mugging victim from the night before, Gold didn’t know what to think.

The two detectives he sent to talk to the husband had come up empty. Charlie Pellecchia’s story had checked out. Although they knew the husband wasn’t telling them everything, there was nothing the detectives could do about it. Not without a formal complaint.

The married couple was from New York. They were supposed to be on vacation. Gold wondered if they were a pair of fruitcakes who had decided to take their marital frustrations to Las Vegas to see what the desert heat might stir up.

Then he wondered if they had arranged for each other to be assaulted.

Then Gold wondered what the hell the wife’s boyfriend might have had to do with it.

He finished his cup of stale coffee as the young vice detective he was with ended a cellular telephone call.

Gold was a short, balding man. At five-foot-five, he had to look up at the young, baby-faced, six-foot detective.

“You still married?” Gold asked.

The young detective, Donald Gentry, was the son of Gold’s ex-partner. Since Gentry’s father had died the year before, Gold had become his mentor.

“I have two more hours,” Gentry replied.

Gold held up a short, stubby finger. “Better make it one, you wanna stay married.”

Both men forced smiles. Gold wasn’t looking forward to their conversation. Gentry suspected his wife was having an affair. Gold knew from experience, his own included, that once you suspected an affair, there usually was one.

“I found her diaphragm gel,” Gentry told Gold. “I’ve been keeping an eye on it. One day it’s there, in her night table drawer, the next day it’s gone. I know she’s not using it with me.”

Gold was too familiar with the sinking feeling he knew was in the pit of Gentry’s stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“At least she was taking it out of the house,” Gentry added. “Until this afternoon. I called her from the courthouse. She didn’t answer. I stopped by a few hours later. She wasn’t home. But the bed was a mess, and the gel had been used. There was gunk all around the nose. I probably just missed them. In my own fucking house.”

“You know who?” Gold asked cautiously. He was concerned that Gentry did know.

“No idea. That’s why I came to you. To find out.”

Gold took a deep breath. It had been a long, lousy day. It was about to get worse.

“Let’s get some coffee,” he heard himself say.

Nicholas Cuccia expected to see Vincent Lano and the missing five thousand dollars when he opened the door to his suite. Instead, he saw Joey Francone and a short, bald man he had never seen before.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked the short man.

“He’s Allen Fein,” Francone said.

Fein extended his right hand to Cuccia.

Cuccia looked to Francone before taking Fein’s hand. “He’da said Allen Funt, the Candid Camera guy, I might know him.”

“He works for -” Francone started to say.

Fein interrupted. “I work for Jerryercasi. I’m the one who arranged things.”

Cuccia clapped twice and opened his hands. “That’s great. And what can I do for you?”

“There’s a five-thousand-dollar bill outstanding,” Fein said. “One of your men took off with it.”

Cuccia turned to Francone. “You wanna tell me the rest, or do I have to hear this twice?”

It was a frustrating position. The DEA had followed the heroin from Florida up the eastern coastline to New Jersey. The heroin was trucked from the New Jersey docks to a warehouse in Jersey City operated by a known associate of Nicholas Cuccia. He had stumbled into the case the night Cuccia killed his partner in the heroin deal, a Russian gangster Agent Thomas had been keeping under surveillance at the time.