Charlie Stella - Charlie Opera

Thomas suspected that Nicholas Cuccia was in Las Vegas to kill Charlie Pellecchia.

He glanced at the fax of Pellecchia on the front passenger seat as he drove through the traffic on Sahara Avenue. When the light ahead turned yellow, Thomas cut across a grass divider to make the turn onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

It was well after noon when Pellecchia finally left Harrah’s. Renato Freni was parked in the driveway for more than half an hour waiting for his mark to leave the hotel.

Freni was driving a stolen car with Nevada license tags as he followed Pellecchia’s taxi to a downtown music studio. He parked at the curb across the street from the studio when Pellecchia stepped inside. Freni noted the time and laid his head against the headrest.

Charlie had been angry again when he left the hotel. Lisa still hadn’t called him, and the Las Vegas police had left him feeling like a criminal.

He wasn’t in the mood to lift weights or work out his frustrations aerobically anymore, and his fingers and body were too bruised to hit a heavy bag.

When he decided to vent his frustration on a set of drums instead, he found a music studio where he could rent a private room for twenty dollars an hour. He brought his Cream and Steely Dan CDs to the studio for music he could follow on his headphones.

When Charlie sat at the set of black Pearl drums, he instantly recognized the smell of the percussion wood. He felt the weight of the sticks he had bought at the front desk and noticed they were lighter than the Regal Tips, size 5-B drumsticks he used at home. It was awkward holding them with his bruised fingers. He turned the stick in his left hand upside down for better control and less pain. He took a roll around the tom-toms for a sound check. He winced when the back end of a stick caught his left pinky finger on the rebound.

Freni grew tired waiting in the stolen car. He checked his watch for the time. Twenty-five minutes had passed. His back was starting to ache. He needed to stretch his legs.

He felt the Beretta 9mm inside the waist of his pants. He could just as easily walk inside the studio and take care of business as sit in a hot car all fucking day.

This was what he decided to do. He got out of the car and headed for the music studio across the street. He pulled down the baggy shirt he was wearing to cover his waist. He felt the gun through the shirt as he held the door open for a broad man wearing sunglasses.

Charlie was feeling Steely Dan’s “Big Black Cow ” as he played the twenty-inch ride cymbal above the hard beat. His head swayed with the rhythm as he carefully press-rolled on the snare. He bounced his sticks off the mounted tom-toms before he turned his beat on the high hat.

Charlie’s head hung cocked to the left as he picked up the pace. He played the beat with a closed high hat until he heard someone yell. When he looked up, a broad man stood in the doorway of the private studio. Charlie hit the STOP button on the portable CD player and pulled the headphones away from his ears.

“They told me you were into opera,” the broad man said.

“Who are they and who are you?” Charlie asked. He held both sticks up straight with one hand against his left leg.

“Agent Marshall Thomas,” the broad man said. “DEA. Drug Enforcement Agen” He presented a badge to Charlie.

Charlie ignored the badge.

“It’s not about drugs,” the agent said.

Charlie removed the headphones from around his neck. “Is it about opera?”

“Not that either, no.”

“You want to get to the point? I’m paying twenty dollars an hour for this room.”

The door to the studio opened. A stocky man in a baggy shirt stood in the doorway. He looked from Charlie to the broad man and excused himself. “Sorry,” he said.

Thomas stared at the stocky man until he was gone. When he turned back around, Charlie was setting his sticks on top of the base drum.

“A little more than a week ago you were involved in a fight in a New York nightclub,” the agent said.

Charlie nodded.

“The man you hit is Nicholas Cuccia, a captain with the Vignieri crime family in New York. His uncle is the acting underboss.”

“That explains a few things.”

“Nicholas Cuccia obviously has a lot of clout. And very long arms.”

“And big balls and no conscience,” Charlie quickly added. “He attacked my wife and knocked a few of her teeth out.”

“Yes, I know. And he probably had you assaulted, too.”

“And he can’t be touched because my wife won’t press charges or testify. I’ll assume you already know about me and my wife.”

Thomas nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What about you? Now that you know who assaulted you.”

“I assume I can’t press charges, either. Not if I want to live.”

“You could call it even,” Thomas said.

“Except that big-shot gangster hit my wife.”

“His men. Not him. But she left you anyway, right?”

Charlie glared at the agent then. “What do you want from me?”

“To warn you, first of all. To make you aware.”

“What else?”

“To make a deal. I’m sure I can back Mr. Cuccia off. In fact, I know I can do that.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re skeptical?”

“That’s not even close to cute.”

Thomas held up his right hand. “I swear it. Nicky Cuccia won’t bother you again.”

“For what?” Charlie asked. “What is it you want?”

“To keep it between us.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes at the agent. “You’re protecting him?”

“What’s the difference?”

Charlie gave it some thought.

“He won’t go near you again,” Thomas said.

“Like I have a choice,” Charlie said.

Thomas pulled a card from his wallet.

“How do you know about the opera?” Charlie asked.

Thomas fidgeted as he walked the card over.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Charlie said.

“The New York City O.C. unit,” Thomas said. “Organized crime. They saw your opera ticket purchases on your credit card.”

Charlie shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“You beat up a mobster, Mr. Pellecchia. An arrogant one. I think the New York police got a kick out of it. They put a name to it, not me. They’re the ones calling you ‘Charlie Opera.’”

“Great,” Charlie said.

“You’ll be a legend with the organized crime guys.”

“Whether I want it or not.”

“Whatever. Look, Mr. Pellecchia, the New York task force also knew that Nicholas Cuccia would make a move on you for breaking his jaw.”

“And they didn’t do a thing to stop it,” Charlie said. “They allowed me and my wife to wiggle on a hook like bait. If you’re trying to endear me to your cause, you’re doing a lousy job.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Where’s he staying?” Charlie asked.

“You don’t want to go there. Forget it.”

“Let’s put it this way,” Charlie said. “I don’t like to wiggle.”

The last time Charlie saw John Denton was after his wife had confessed her affair two years earlier. His wife’s admission back then had devastated him. It was an emotional upheaval Charlie wasn’t prepared for.

His first reaction back then was to stalk Denton the following day. His wife’s lover had been in New York on a business trip. Charlie found him leaving The Palm Too steak house. He approached the attorney while Denton attempted to hail a taxi on Second Avenue.

“You know who I am?” Charlie had asked.

Denton stuttered a few times before he could answer. “Yes,” he finally said. “I know you. I know who you are.”

“Good. You and Lisa decide what you want to do and do it. But I don’t want it in my face. Keep it out of my house and off of my telephone. Understand?”