Charlie Stella - Charlie Opera

She left him in the silk royal blue bikini underwear. She had laughed out loud at the sight of the underwear earlier and covered up by saying drinking made her giggly.

She was just finishing making herself up in the bathroom when she thought she heard him move on the bed. She frowned at the thought. She had given him enough codeine to knock out a horse. She put her lipstick in her bag and hurried out of the bathroom. She stopped with a gasp when she saw an older man across the room pointing a gun at her.

Lano’s eyebrows rose about as far up into his forehead as was possible once he was inside his room at the Bellagio. There was the young punk snoring in his sissy silk underwear, hands tied to his feet with a belt and a pair of pants. Lano smiled at the sight until he heard somebody in the bathroom across the suite. He stepped to the side and pulled the.380 from his ankle holster. He pointed the gun at the bathroom until a woman dressed like a hooker stepped through the doorway.

“Huhhhh!” the woman gasped.

Lano took the scene in again, looking from the punk to the hooker, and then back at Francone again.

“You rolled him?” he asked as he lowered the gun.

The hooker put both her hands up for emphasis. “I don’t know what happened to him, mister. He got all funny on me and then he passed out.”

“But he tied himself up before he passed out, right?”

Charlie’s room at the Bellagio was two floors above Nicholas Cuccia’s suite. Before he stepped inside the elevator, Charlie sent Denton to a hotel store for some changes of clothes. He gave him two hundred-dollar bills and a list of items to buy: T-shirts, sweat pants, and two hats. Denton wanted an explanation, but Charlie waved him off as he stepped inside the elevator.

He was feeling rage he hadn’t felt in a long time. He needed to control his anger before it got the best of him.

He had boxed in the New York City Golden Gloves when he was seventeen. After six easy victories in the heavyweight novice division, Charlie made it to the semifinals, where a much faster Hispanic kid defeated him on points. Charlie knocked the Hispanic kid down in the third round, but it was the only solid punch he had landed, a vicious left hook. Three one-minute rounds had just not been enough time for Charlie to stalk his prey.

Knocking the Asian kid unconscious had been instinct. Charlie saw the knife. He saw the kid swing. He reacted.

Breaking the wiseguy’s jaw in the nightclub was a similar reflexive action. He saw the gangster grab his wife. He saw the smack, and he reacted.

Going after the gangster now was no longer instinct. Charlie had decided to take the offensive. He knew who and where his enemy was. He would stalk Nicholas Cuccia, but he wouldn’t take his time about it.

Samantha was desperate to find out where Charlie had gone. She watched the story on the local news about a mugging at Harrah’s Hotel. She knew Charlie had gone there to check out. He told her he would call if anything were wrong.

She picked up the phone receiver at least three times before slamming it back down from fear of making things worse than they already were. When she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, Samantha called his room at Harrah’s and was told that Mr. Pellecchia had already checked out.

She was full of anxiety when the doorbell rang. She ran to the door, expecting to see him. Somehow, as she opened the door, Samantha knew it was careless not looking through the peephole first.

Before she could finish asking who the man standing there was, a fist caved in her solar plexus.

Instead of getting everything Charlie told him to buy, Denton bought whichever items he could find in one store and headed back to the elevators as fast as possible. When he didn’t find Charlie inside the room, Denton had a good idea where he had gone.

He could call Detective Gold one more time, or he could call hotel security and ask for help. He also could get the hell out of there before he regretted it for the rest of his life.

Except then he would have to face Lisa again. He would look and feel as helpless as he had felt back in the hotel room the night she was assaulted.

Denton wondered what the hell prison would be like as he stepped inside another elevator.

Agent Thomas called Cuccia immediately after Charlie Pellecchia called. He let the phone ring a long time before giving up. Thomas wanted to pound on the door across the hall, but it was too dangerous. No matter how frustrating the situation had become, he couldn’t compromise Cuccia.

Pellecchia had sounded as if he might go to the police after all. Thomas couldn’t blame him, except local criminal charges against Cuccia could create a boondoggle of paperwork between the DEA and the Las Vegas police department. It would take time Thomas didn’t have.

He had assured Pellecchia of his safety. He had insisted that Cuccia’s vendetta was over. Now he knew how foolish his claim had been. As long as the mobster had something the government needed, it was Cuccia who called the shots. As long as the heroin sat in a New Jersey warehouse, Cuccia could pretty much do whatever he wanted.

Thomas had to find out what the hell was going on before it was too late. He had come to Las Vegas to make sure nothing went wrong. So far, nothing was going right.

He knew Pellecchia was staying at Harrah’s. He could be there in fifteen minutes if he ran. He might make it in less time if he grabbed a car.

Nicholas Cuccia sipped at a vanilla milk shake through a straw as he watched the end of a pay-per-view action movie. He was forced to drink most of his meals since his jaw had been fractured. He was lucky he liked milk shakes.

The phone rang again, and Cuccia had to adjust the volume on the television to hear what was going on in the movie. He turned the ringer on the phone off and propped a few pillows against the headboard to rest against.

He was anxious to catch a nap before Francone returned with a hooker. He watched as a black woman in a tight black skirt danced on the television screen. It reminded him that he would need to call the black broad from the escort service if he wanted to score more cocaine for later.

He was just finishing the milk shake when there was a knock at the door. He set the large glass down on a tray as he pushed himself off the bed. He glanced back at the television as he headed for the door. Another knock startled him.

“Fuckin’ hold it!” he yelled.

He wiped his hands on a towel as he reached for the door.

“Maintenance,” a deep voice said as Cuccia started to open the door.

“Who?” Cuccia asked as the door slammed into him.

Cuccia was knocked to the floor. The back of his head slammed against the legs of a marble cocktail table as the pain ricocheted through his jaw.

When Cuccia was able to focus again, a big man stood over him. As the man removed his sunglasses, Cuccia’s eyes opened wide as he recognized the intruder. It was the guy from the nightclub in New York. The guy who should’ve been dead already. It was Charlie Pellecchia.

Cuccia clenched his teeth and immediately winced from the pain.

“Stand up, tough guy,” Pellecchia said. “Unless you want to take this beating laying on the floor.”

Cuccia was in agony from his jaw. He held both his hands up from where he lay. He pointed to his jaw with his right hand as he shook his head.

Pellecchia looked around himself before stepping toward Cuccia. “What’s that?” he asked. “You have a toothache? Which one is it?”

Cuccia’s eyes opened wide with terror as he realized what Pellecchia was about to do. He tried to block the kick with both hands, but he wasn’t going to make it.

He heard his jaw crack for the second time in less than two weeks. He felt a sharp pain as he experienced immediate dizziness. He felt his eyes rolling as the numbness took over.