Charlie Stella - Charlie Opera

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked Iandolli outside Francone’s room. He had come off the elevator with a contingent of hotel security.

The detective smirked as he thumbed at the room. “In there? A lovefest.”

Thomas pointed to the bag Iandolli was holding. “What’s that?”

“Lunch.”

Thomas saw the writing. “It says ‘FBI.’”

“Yeah, it does. Not ‘DEA,’ though. Too bad.”

Thomas motioned at Iandolli to hand over the bag. “I’ll pass it on,” he said.

Iandolli sneered. “Yeah, right. I don’t think so.”

Thomas stood his ground. “Then we both will.”

“Not anytime soon,” Iandolli said as he pointed to Francone’s room. “I’m heading to the hospital. From the look of things in there, so’s your boy.” He held the bag up. “I’ll have one of my guys bring this to Walsh, the FBI honcho in Vegas.”

Thomas scowled. “And I’ll go with him.”

Iandolli shrugged. “That’d be up to you, but he isn’t handing this bag to anyone but Walsh, so get used to the idea. It says ‘FBI,’ it goes to the FBI.”

Thomas clenched his teeth and motioned at Francone’s room. “Is Charlie Pellecchia in there?”

“Not exactly,” Iandolli said

“Cuccia?” Thomas asked as he crossed the hall to the door.

“Bingo.”

“Are you guys kidding me?” Charlie said. “I haven’t even seen my girlfriend yet. She was shot in the leg, for Christ sakes.”

“You can see her later,” the detective named Gold said. “After you answer some questions.”

Charlie shook his head. &lquo;I already told the cops in the emergency room,” he said. “I found her on the walk outside her apartment. She was bleeding from the leg, and her head was all banged up. There’s a guy did that to her driving around someplace. The police have a description. They know his fucking name.”

The detective named Iandolli showed Charlie a set of pictures. “What about these?” he asked.

Charlie shrugged at the pictures. “What about them?”

“Fucking wiseass,” Gold said.

“Fuck you,” Charlie said.

Gold stepped chest to chest with Charlie. “Fuck me?” he said.

Iandolli pulled Gold back as he spoke to Charlie. “You and Mr. Denton and Mr. Lano are on Bellagio hotel cameras,” he said. “We kind of know what happened. We want you to fill in the blanks. It might save your life.”

“Save my life?” Charlie said as his face turned red. “That’s what that asshole DEA agent told me, how he was going to make sure this punk stayed away from me. That was about an hour before some Asian kids tried to cut me in my hotel. I tell you what, I’ll save my own life.”

Iandolli looked to Gold. “What Asian kids?”

“Forget about it,” Charlie said. “I’m not pressing charges against them either.”

Gold pushed Iandolli out of his way. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he asked Charlie.

Charlie glared from Gold to Iandolli. “He’s close if he’s trying to get me to take a swing,” he said.

Gold reached for his handcuffs. Iandolli stopped him.

“What were you doing at the Bellagio?” Iandolli asked.

“I took a room at the Bellagio. I checked out of Harrah’s, and I needed a room. I decided to stay in Las Vegas a few extra days. To be with my girlfriend.”

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

“Enough,” Iandolli told Gold. “What happened at Harrah’s?” he asked Charlie.

Charlie was still glaring at Gold.

“Mr. Pellecchia?” Iandolli said.

“No way,” Charlie said. “I’m not going there.”

“Take him in,” Gold said as he made another attempt at Charlie.

“Hold it!” Iandolli said, pulling Gold back a second time. “Damn it, Abe.”

“Take me in for what?” Charlie asked Iandolli. “For getting beat up? For trying to protect myself?”

Gold tugged at Iandolli’s arm. “I’m not in the mood for this bullshit,” he said. “Not with what happened to Gentry. I’m not listening to this now.”

“Look,” Charlie said, pointing his finger toward the elevators, “my girlfriend is upstairs. They just removed a bullet from her leg. I haven’t seen her yet.”

“One minute,” Iandolli said. He held on to Gold’s left arm as he walked the senior detective across the hallway. “Let me handle this for now,” he whispered. “You’re too upset. Go get a soda. Talk to the other one, the boyfriend. Let me talk to this one alone.”

Gold, clearly frustrated, pulled his arm from Iandolli’s grip and walked away.

Iandolli returned to Charlie. “Go and visit your girlfriend,” he said. “We’ll talk again later.”

Charlie nodded.

“Go ahead,” Iandolli said.

Charlie watched as the detective took the stairs. As he waited for n elevator, Charlie felt uneasy about the pictures Vincent Lano had taken at the Bellagio. If the police already had pictures, the film he was holding on to would no longer serve as a deterrent to mobsters trying to cover their embarrassment.

He knew he couldn’t beat the mob much longer. Once the men in the picture were on the street again, he knew they would come looking for him. The thought of the mob going after Samantha was even more terrifying.

He headed for the elevator but stopped a few feet from an open car. He felt himself sweating. He couldn’t move.

The Chinese restaurant was empty when Renato Freni walked inside. Except for the young woman working the counter and the two cooks in the kitchen, Freni was alone. He dropped his right hand inside his right pants pocket to touch the end of the Firestorm 10 Shot.22 Semi Automatic he was carrying.

The woman behind the counter had large oval eyes and thick lips. She smiled at Freni. “May I herp you, prease?” she asked in a heavy Asian accent.

Freni gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to meet a friend,” he said.

“Mr. Recasi?” she asked.

“Close enough,” Freni said.

The woman pointed over her shoulder. “He in back,” she said. “Waiting for dumpring.”

Freni watched as the woman packaged a container of steamed dumplings and hot mustard. She handed it to Freni and pointed down the hall toward a door at the far end of the restaurant.

“Take prease,” she said. “Mr. Recasi waiting for dumpring.”

Freni did a double take at the woman before shrugging and taking the small package from her. He saw two doors in the rear, one leading outside. He was unsure of where to go.

“In back,” she said, still pointing. “Through door outside. On patio.”

“Oh,” Freni said. “Sure, no problem.”

Phuc Hanh was twenty-four years old, a part-time prostitute and killer, and Minh Quan’s wife. Her name in Vietnamese meant blessing from above, as in good family. It also meant happiness.

Today she was executing a new contract the Italians had paid her husband thirty-five thousand dollars for. She had backup gang members in the basement and bathroom because she had never used a gun to kill before. A Walther P22 had been hidden under loose menus under the front counter. She had briefly hefted the gun before it was hidden.

After the man she was to kill took the package and headed down the hallway toward the back of the restaurant, Phuc Hanh reached under the counter for the Walther. The man was about five feet from the counter when Phuc Hanh shot him in the back of the head. His body went into spasm on the floor, and she leaned over to fire a bullet into his right temple. She yelled something in French, and both cooks quickly dragged the body into the basement.

Phuc Hanh returned to the front counter, wiped sweat from her forehead, and used the telephone. When she hung up, she opened a can of Coke. She was perfectly calm a few minutes later when an Asian couple came in to order take-out.