Charlie Stella - Charlie Opera

Fein turned away from Wilkes. “What about that thing at the Palermo? There a police report or not?”

“Nothing.”

“And you’re sure about Lano?”

“The guy’s name hasn’t come up. How many times you want to hear me say it?”

Fein hung up. When he stepped away, Wilkes could see the familiar manila envelope. “That’s yours,” Fein said.

Wilkes looked around as he stepped up to the phone. He cradled the receiver against his neck as he tucked the envelope into his rear pants pocket. He fished change from his front pants pocket and dropped it in the coin slot. He dialed Jennifer Gentry’s home number as he watched Fein drive away in a black BMW convertible.

“Jenn?” he asked when someone picked up. “It’s me.”

Whoever picked up wasn’t answering.

Wilkes quickly hung up. He leaned into the phone until his head was touching the receiver. He closed his eyes tightly and felt a wave of panic rushing through his body.

It was nearly midnight before Agent Thomas could talk to Cuccia in private. The New York gangsters standing at a roulette table watching the action among a group of Asians playing a fifty-dollar-minimum game. Thomas noticed that Cuccia was shuffling two black chips in his hands.

“Those fakes, or you just afraid to bet them?” Thomas asked.

Cuccia smirked when he saw it was the agent. “I was wondering what happened to you.”

“What’s up?”

“You’d know, you were doing your job,” Cuccia said. He leaned over to watch a middle-aged Asian woman push five green chips onto the number fourteen.

Thomas watched the croupier spin the roulette wheel. “No more bets,” the croupier announced.

“I never understood that,” Thomas said. He pointed at the roulette wheel. “It’s like a bazaar. Everything is a long shot.”

“No guts, no glory,” Cuccia said.

Thomas waited until the ball was bouncing on the wheel before he leaned into Cuccia again. “I found out why you’re here.”

Cuccia ignored the remark.

Thomas spotted drool in the corner of Cuccia’s mouth. He dabbed at it with a napkin. “You’re dribbling.”

The gangster was startled. He stepped away from Thomas. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Who was the short guy with Francone this afternoon?”

“You tell me.”

“An emissary to Jerry Lercasi?”

“Who’s Jerry Lercasi?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Double zero, green,” the croupier announced as he set the marker on the number at the top of the board.

Both men watched the croupier take down the losing bets before paying the winners.

“I spoke to Charlie Pellecchia,” Thomas said.

Cuccia’s face tensed for a moment. “Who’s Charlie Pellecchia?”

“Charlie Opera. The guy broke your face for grabbing his wife’s ass.”

“Charlie who?”

“It’s what the organized crime unit nicknamed him. The guy cracked your jaw. Charlie Opera. O.C. was in the nightclub when you caught that beating.”

Cuccia forced a smirk. “Ever hear of Pearl Harbor? The guy japped me.”

Thomas took another glance around the casino. “I don’t know. I just met the guy. He’s a pretty big boy.”

“You’re needling me. What’s the point?”

“Nothing can happen to Mr. Pellecchia. I want to make that clear.”

“Please,” Cuccia said. “Trust me, I’ve got better things to do.” He pointed to his watch. “In ten minutes I have a date,” he said. “You should give it a try. It’s legal here in Nevada.”

“I’m serious, fuckwad,” Thomas said. “Or your deal gets flushed.”

“Fuckwad?”

“You understand me?”

Cuccia forced himself to chuckle. “Flushed?” he said. “Like down the same shitter where I was born?”

Charlie couldn’t sleep. He slipped on his pants and shirt and found his way back into the kitchen. He thought about calling his wife and her lover to see if the DEA agent had contacted them yet but decided to check for messages first.

When he called his room at Harrah’s, he found he had several messages, all hang-ups. He replayed them and counted fifteen in total.

A few days had passed since the assaults on him and his wife. If the mob re thoughtwanted him, Charlie figured he didn’t stand much of a chance, regardless of any promise the DEA agent had made.

He decided to find Nicholas Cuccia. He used a phone book and started with the most expensive hotels. When the operator at the Bellagio told him to hold for the connection, Charlie hung up.

This time Daria was wearing a white body suit with black high heels. She was racing from a line of cocaine she had just shared with Nicholas Cuccia. She told him that her usual partner, Kim, was recovering from a bachelor party at the Mirage the night before.

“How many guys?” he asked. He wiped a spill of drool from his chin.

“Ten,” she said. “But there’s always two or three more once you get there. The service knows it, but they let it slide. Especially when a girl is working solo.”

His condition required an extra moment to process the information. When it registered, Cuccia was impressed. “Solo? She gonna do ten guys by herself?”

Daria took a large gulp of vodka from a highball glass. Her eyes required a moment to focus. “Not all the guys will want to do anything,” she said as she shook her head. “Maybe half. Sometimes more. Hey, if it pays enough, why not? That’s the business.”

Cuccia sipped vodka from his own glass. “I guess so.”

She laid out another line of cocaine on a small mirror. “What you do is a few of these. And you work fast. It’s over before you know it.”

He wiped vodka from his chin.

“Is your mouth okay, honey?” she asked.

Cuccia didn’t hear her question. He was picturing the blonde, Kim, taking on a line of men at the bachelor party.

“You’re smart to call the service,” Daria said. “There’s been a lot of rollings going on.”

“Rolling? What, like joints?”

Daria giggled. “Like johns, silly. The girls cruising the casino bars. They put their johns to sleep and rip them off.”

He touched one of her nipples through the sheer body suit.

“Mmmmm,” Daria said. “You about ready, hon?”

The cocaine was numbing. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t feel my dick.”

Daria giggled again. “I can help you with that,” she said as she reached down to fondle him. “You like that?”

His eyes were struggling to focus. “Like what?”

It was very early in the morning when Lano left his hotel room. He took a long glimpse of the sun rising over the mountains before heading for Valley Hospital, where he had located Lisa Pellecchia in room 2116.

He brought the weapons he had purchased at the gun show with him. Two of the guns remained in the car, along with the hand grenade. He had paid a total of twenty-six hundred dollars for the tiny arsenal. A Smith & Wesson.380 was well concealed in a tightly fitted ankle holster.

Lano felt a need to absolve himself for the assault of Lisa Pellecchia. It had been one more mistake in a life full of mistakes. Although the assault was something Lano never wanted any part of, he had allowed himself to go along with it. His conditions for taking part in the assault made him sick now. They were cheap.

“I’ll stand guard, but I’m not touching that broad,” he had told Joey Francone.

He could have stopped Francone. He should have stopped him.

The more he thought about the entire fiasco, the angrier Lano was with himself. He couldn’t respect anybody who would hit a woman, much less the likes of Cuccia or Francone.

Going after the husband also had been wrong. The guy had defended his wife. Who could blame him?