John Locke - Vegas Moon

43.

Carmine “The Chin” Porrello is hard of hearing, I decide, based on the sound coming from the speakers in his theater room. He’s so busy watching the Lucky Peters drama unfold, he doesn’t even notice me standing behind him.

Until he does.

“What the fuck?”

Carmine’s in his early seventies, barrel-chested, with thin arms and wispy gray hair. He appears to have more hair coming out of his ears, nose and underwear than he has on his head.

I take the seat to his left. It’s a couple feet closer to the screen, and the angle isn’t as good as his. But it’s a perfect spot for me to keep an eye on him and the door behind him at the same time.

Carmine isn’t happy I’m in his home. On the other hand, he’s still alive. He recovers quickly, as tough guys usually do.

“Pour you a drink?” he says.

“No. I’m good.”

“I’m still alive,” he says. Then adds, “How come?”

“I want some answers.”

“Any old answers? Or do I gotta tell the truth?”

He laughs until he sees I’m not laughing. Then he stops.

“I’m willing to overlook the disrespect,” he says. “If you do two things.”

Normally I wouldn’t let him try to establish control like that, but I’m busy deciding how I want to kill him. Do I want to mince his flesh and set him on fire? Hammer nails into his head? Cut off his nuts, sew them in his mouth, and tickle his ass with a feather? So many choices.

He clears his throat. “I said…”

“I don’t care what you said, Carmine. It’s what you say next that matters.”

He starts to say something, but I raise an eyebrow. He changes his mind and says, “Whadya wanna know?

44.

“Tell me everything you know about Gwen. And don’t say Gwen who.”

Carmine nods. “Helluva girl, that one.”

I wait.

He says, “Fuckin’ pity. Swear to God, I find out who clipped her, I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands.”

I say nothing in response, show nothing in my expression. What I’m thinking is Carmine’s got a huge head. I wonder how much gasoline it would hold.

“Unless it was you that killed ’em,” he says. “In which case I figure they had it comin’.”

I don’t speak.

Carmine says, “Heard you was bodyguardin’ Lucky. Figured you wouldn’t of taken that job less you was workin’ some kind of angle. Maybe you found a way to take over his business?”

Carmine waits for me to respond, but gets nothing.

He says, “God knows I tried.”

Then he says something that completely floors me: “How’d you find out Gwen was workin’ for me?”

45.

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Carmine says, “Can I turn that fuckin’ TV down?”

He reaches for the remote, presses the mute button. Says, “My wife’s asleep. If she wakes up and comes in to check on me, you won’t make her a part of this, will you?”

“She won’t be joining us tonight.”

Carmine’s face goes white. Well, whiter.

“Relax,” I say. “I just pennied her into the room.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I pressed a couple of coins into the door jamb. She won’t be able to open her door until someone removes the coins. If she starts banging the door, you’ll know she’s awake.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You said Gwen was working for you.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Okay, it’s clear you’ve become, ah, ah…”

“Close to her.”

“Right.”

“So?”

“So you gotta understand, anythin’ I tell you happened before you and her ever met. And I don’t know shit about what happened these last few days.”

He pauses.

I say, “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“Right. Well, Gwen was on my payroll. I hired her to, ah, seduce Lucky. Well, she done it so well he up and asked her to marry him after a few fuckin’ weeks! So I give her permission, ’cause I want her to get me names, numbers, point spreads…you know, the works.”

I wait for him to continue.

“Well, she gets me nothin’. I mean, the motherfucker is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I think she’s lyin’ at first, so I threaten her a bit.” He looks at me and quickly adds, “No physical stuff. Just angry talk. You know.”

He looks at me, sees I’m not participating. Continues. “So anyway, I’m increasin’ the pressure on her, you know, turnin’ the screws, and then you come into the picture. Now I want no part of it, so I tell her I’m done, have a good life.”

He shakes his head. “And now this.”

I think about how Gwen asked me how much to kill Lucky. How much to kill Carmine. Now I know why. Carmine doesn’t like the way I’m looking at him.

He says, “I know this makes me look bad.”

“Ya think?”

“Let me tell ya somethin’,” he says. “I’ve known this girl since the first time she got knocked up.

I sigh. “Go on.”

“When she turned eighteen she started dancin’ for me.”

“By dancing, you mean?”

“In the strip clubs.”

I sigh again. Deeper, this time.

“That’s where she met Lucky,” Carmine says. “You really didn’t know this?”

“Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what was her stage name?”

“You don’t know?”

“I asked you, didn’t I?”

“Didn’t matter which club she danced,” Carmine says. “Her stage name was always the same: Vegas Moon.”

46.

“I’m going to ask you just once,” I say.

“Did I kill her? No. Did I have her killed? No. Would I kill her?”

I arch my brows.

He pauses a minute, then says, “Yeah. I would’ve. If she stole from me.”

“And did she?”

“She was paid to get me information. After she married a millionaire, and didn’t deliver the goods, I felt a reimbursement was due.”

“How much?”

“Fifty, give or take.”

I look at this old warrior and see a grandfather lying on a reclining theater chair, wearing a housecoat and slippers. His housecoat’s been open the whole time I’ve been here, his old man underwear showing, and he never even noticed. This was and is one of the most feared men in the country. Carmine “The Chin” Porrello, a man who once boasted he could lift his chin and cause the death of ten men.

And his underpants are showing.

He was and is one of the most ruthless mob bosses in the history of the mob, and his nuts are hanging out of his tighty-whities, along with a thatch of coarse, gray hair.

Some Indian tribes used to believe if you killed a powerful man, his power would add to yours. I doubt that’s true, but as with all things Native American, it wouldn’t surprise me, either. What does surprise me is Gwen working as a stripper for Carmine Porrello for two years, and taking money from the mob to marry Lucky. I mean, I’ve heard of women getting lucky, and women marrying for money. But this story takes it to a whole new level.

I think about it awhile, and realize none of this matters. And the reason it doesn’t matter is because, like Carmine said, it’s history. Okay, so she stripped in a club for a couple of years. Got knocked up a few times. Was part of the mob. Married a man she didn’t love. Took money to steal his secrets. Got off on fucking hot lesbians and powerful men.

But which of us is perfect?

I liked her. Might have even been able to love her, given the right opportunity.

“What happens now?” Carmine says.

What indeed?

My cell phone vibrates.

It’s Callie.

47.

“I tried to call you,” she says. “Several times.”

“I know. I had to go dark.”