Charlie Opera (10 page)

“A couple from New York,” Gold said. “They come here on vacation, but they don’t last three days. She splits with a former boyfriend. Leaves the husband a note while he’s down playing the tables, getting drunk at one of the bars. He goes out later and gets drawn into the construction site at the Palermo, behind the model. He catches a beating from two guys.”

Iandolli nodded.

“Then, the wife is with her boyfriend at some motel off the Strip. Two guys show up there the next day and assault her. Knock one of her teeth out.” He held a finger up for emphasis. “They take a tooth with them. One tooth. One of them leans over and pulls it from her mouth after punching her.”

“And the boyfriend?”

“One of the guys held a gun on him. They left after the other one took the tooth.”

Iandolli squinted.

“Exactly,” Gold said. “I got the call at the motel. I went there and listened to the boyfriend. I figured it was the husband followed them or something. Then I ran the name at the station and found out about the husband. Same last name pops up on a hospital report, how he got jumped the night before but didn’t want to report it. I sent two of my guys to talk to the husband, but he didn’t have anything to say. They tried to poke him a little, but the guy didn’t bite.”

“And the Palermo is Jerry Lercasi’s turf.”

“Public knowledge,” Gold said through a yawn. “And there’s a twenty-four-hour guard posted there. So how did this guy, the husband, wind up behind the model?”

“You look like shit,” Iandolli said. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Two, three days ago. What do you think?”

“It’s a good question. You don’t get onto the Palermo construction site without a pass.”

Gold popped Chiclets gum into his mouth. “I figure maybe they’re running from somebody in New York. Which is why I came here to see you.”

“The plot thickens.”

“What do you mean?”

Iandolli held out an open hand. “Can I have one of those?” he asked.

Gold handed Iandolli the small red box of Chiclets.

“I had a federali here,” Iandolli said after he popped two squares of the gum into his mouth. He chewed as he spoke. “He was dancing around a couple of guys in town from New York. Two guys flew up ahead of their boss.”

“FBI?”

“DEA. Which is the same shit when it comes to the interference they run for each other. Anyway, he came asking about two guys with a New York crew. I called New York. There are two guys here. Three, you count their skipper. They’re with the Vignieris. I don’t know what the DEA wants with them, nor do I care. But I’ll lay eight to one somebody caught a beating at the Palermo, our man in Vegas don’t know about it.”

“Jerry Lercasi.”

“Which means somebody pulled an end run.”

“This bookmaker they found, Benny Bensognio? The one in the news?”

“That was strictly skimming,” Iandolli said. “These assaults were out-of-town shit, somebody working through one of Lercasi’s diplomats. Allen Fein, for one, although I don’t see that little pervert getting into the muscle end of the business.”

“Maybe he wants to feel powerful.”

“Maybe.”

Gold leaned back in his chair. He didn’t like it that a simple assault was quickly blossoming into an organized crime case. “And it could just be coincidence or some other crazy shit,” he said. “Maybe the boyfriend had some friends take care of the husband, and the guy retaliated. A general cluster fuck or something.”

“That’s a stretch. Especially if the one guy is a lawyer.”

“You’re right, so’s the wife a lawyer. What about somebody back East going it on their own?”

“If they’re gonna do something like this, they’d send some of their own guys ahead of them, but they’d also ask permission. They’d need the help with logistics, like the Palermo, for one thing. They’d need somebody knows the turf. Then there’s the protocol bullshit.” Iandolli made a fist and pumped it a few times. “The respect for each other’s turf.”

“They don’t trust our wiseguys to handle things?”

“Would you?”

Gold remembered the other reason he was there. “You know Jack Gentry’s kid? He’s working vice. Just promoted up to detective a few months back.”

“I knew Jack Gentry,” Iandolli said. “Died last year, didn’t he?”

Gold nodded.

“What’s up with his kid?”

“If you know anybody over at vice can keep an eye on him, I’d appreciate it. He just found out his wife’s sleeping around.”

“Oh, boy. How old is he?”

“Thirty-two. And he just picked up his shield. He’s working vice, the latest ring of hookers rolling johns in the casinos.”

Iandolli shook his head. “Talk about a cluster fuck,” he said.

“Gentry knows she’s out there,” Gold continued. “He asked me to find out with whom.”

“What do you do with something like that?”

“Pray the kid don’t whack the boyfriend or his wife,” Gold said. “Or himself.”

“I’ll talk to somebody,” Iandolli said. “Sure.”

Gold had gone to the organized crime unit detective because he wasn’t sure of how to proceed with the investigation of the New York couple. Except for what had happened to the wife, the case had all the markings of a guy running from the mob. The victim was beat but not robbed. The victim was found on mob-protected turf. The victim wasn’t cooperating with the police.

Except the guy was still alive and the woman was assaulted in a very particular way.

Gold had other casework to investigate. Getting help from the organized crime unit was a favor he would have to return someday, but at the time, he was too busy to do everything by himself. He had break-ins and robberies and other assaults to deal with.

Gold also had a young detective to worry about. Donald Gentry was going through something Gold was all too familiar with. Gold had gone through it himself, losing his wife to another man. He had gone through it twice.

When he left Iandolli, Gold headed for the insurance office where Jennifer Gentry worked. Gold’s first guess was that Mrs. Gentry met her lover where most affairs seemed to start, at the workplace.

Although he hadn’t slept in a long time, Gold was anxious to find the man who was sleeping with Mrs. Gentry before Mr. Gentry found him.

When he was a teenager growing up in a mob family, Nicholas Cuccia listened carefully to the conversations among his father and his two uncles. All three brothers were captains in the Vignieri crime family and expected to one day rule the New York underworld.

As he matured, Cuccia also noticed how none of his uncles and father trusted each other. Conversations between any two always concerned the absent brother. It wasn’t until his father died in prison while serving a life sentence for murder and racketeering that Nicholas understood the distrust among the three brothers. It was a philosophy of mob life he would forever embrace.

Assume the worst. Never trust anybody. Me first.

This was why he didn’t trust his blood relations any more than he trusted the hired help. After putting up forty thousand dollars in cash for a hit on a civilian vacationing in Las Vegas, Cuccia was starting to wonder if maybe the last surviving brother, his uncle the underboss, had put a move on him. Maybe the government had made two sets of deals. Maybe the hit man who shook him down for an extra fifteen grand was whacking the money with Uncle Anthony instead of whacking Charlie Pellecchia.

Another day had passed without word of Pellecchia’s death. Cuccia was starting to think if he wanted the guy dead, he would have to do it himself.

He went down to the pool when he spotted the blonde without her black boyfriend or husband or pimp or whatever the fuck he was. Cuccia was surprised to see the blonde swimming laps. He stood at one end of the pool, waiting for her to finish. When she finally stopped, some fifteen minutes later, Cuccia handed her a towel as she climbed out of the pool.

“That explains your shape,” he told her.

She was wearing an aquamarine one-piece thong. He could hardly keep his eyes off of her body. She thanked him for the towel but ignored the compliment.

“You from around here?” he asked.

The blonde shook her head as she dried herself.

“Where you from? Because I think I may move there.”

The blonde looked up at him and pointed. “You’re drooling,” she said. “What’s wrong with your mouth?”

Cuccia could feel his facial expression change with his embarrassment. He wiped the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked the blonde up and down before saying: “I guess you just go for the dark meat, huh, honey?”

The blonde winked at him. “I just like them big,” she said.

Cuccia stormed off, kicking empty lounge chairs on his way back inside the hotel.

Later, after he stopped at Joey Francone’s room to vent, Cuccia’s mouth was drooling all over again. This time it was from aggravation. When he saw the empty twin bed in Francone’s room, he immediately remembered Vincent Lano.

“Jesus Christ,” Cuccia said through his wired jaw. “What the hell is going on in this shit city?”

Francone combed his hair in front of a mirror. Except for royal blue silk bikini underwear, he was naked. “I think we can forget Lano,” he said. “The guy either flipped or he’s dead from cancer.”

Cuccia sat on the edge of what should have been Lano’s bed. The covers were untouched. “You see this motherfucker Pellecchia last night?”

Francone tightened his chest in the mirror. “Please. I sat in that fuckin’ lobby all night. Security come over to me it musta been a dozen times. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ ‘Anything wrong, sir?’ Yeah, you can help me. Yeah, there’s something wrong.”

“So the answer is no, you didn’t see him.”

Francone shook his head in the mirror. He turned to one side and flexed his arm muscles.

“Oh, quit posing over here,” Cuccia said. “You look to see he’s still checked in?”

“I did that. He’s still checked in. No answer when I call the room.”

“This is bullshit. I think I got stung by the old man.”

“Your uncle?”

“Between this bullshit and Lano taking off, yeah.”

“You think your uncle —”

“Go put a fuckin’ shirt and pants on,” Cuccia said. “I don’t get turned on lookin’ at your hairy ass.”

Francone went to the closet to pick a shirt. There were three polo shirts hanging inside; all were black. He grabbed one off a hanger.

“We could always get this fuck when he comes back to New York,” Francone said. “It’d be a lot easier back home.”

“Except I already paid for a hit out here,” Cuccia said.

“At least we know it’ll get done.”

Cuccia nodded. It made him think one more time about taking care of Charlie Pellecchia himself.

It was noon before Charlie woke up. The first thing he did was stand under the shower while listening to the opera
Tosca
. He sang in the shower. The crescendo of the “Te Deum” filled him with adrenaline. He pictured the villain of the opera, Scarpia, his hands shaking with ecstasy as he stands in the church singing his confession of lust. Charlie sang along with the villain.

“Tosca, me fei dimenticar, Iddio!”

Charlie’s body tensed as a second rush of adrenaline surged through him from head to foot. He let the aria end before stepping out of the shower to dry off. When he heard someone giggling in the hallway, he turned the opera down.

As he was getting dressed, Charlie noticed he had a phone message. He dialed for the message and learned Samantha was pushing their date back to later in the day. He frowned when she didn’t leave her phone number on the recording.

He examined his bruises again in the mirror. The black-and-blue discoloration in his face had started to change color. The edges of the bruises were yellow-green. It was ugly but a good sign. Charlie guessed he had another four days, maybe five, before the bruises would disappear completely.

If he had the chance to date Samantha again, he would extend his Las Vegas vacation an extra day or two.

He didn’t like the idea of being run out of Dodge. If things were going well with Samantha, Charlie would hang around long enough for his bruises to heal and maybe make up for his lame kisses the night before.

“You kissed?” Carol asked Samantha. “That’s a start, baby. And then what?”

They were sipping ice tea on the porch. Carol was up early after waiting tables through the night. Samantha was anxious about her second date in as many days.

“And then nothing,” Samantha said. “It was awkward. His mouth is still swollen. I think it hurt him to kiss.”

Carol moved her chair directly into the path of the sun. The umbrella in the middle of the table was closed. Samantha had to squint to see her.

“I can think of a way for him to forget his pain, baby,” Carol said.

“I’m sure you can,” Samantha said. She stood up to open the umbrella.

“Well, how was he? Swollen mouth and all.”

“Gentle. But I think he was holding back. He’s interesting. He has a lot of interesting hobbies.”

“Any of ’em include sex?”

“I didn’t ask. But if it helps, he has two sons, so he must not be a virgin.”

“The man has potential.”

“The man also has a wife, and I’m not totally sold on his story yet.”

They were quiet for a while before Carol said, “I can feel Beau again. I hate to admit it to myself, but I just know he’s around.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I can feel him.”

She had sensed her husband’s presence at work the night before. When the diner was slow, after the rush, Carol had felt as if she was being watched from somewhere out on the street. She volunteered for counter work so she could avoid being seen through the diner windows.

Later, when the night manager asked if she could work a few extra hours because another waitress had called in sick, Carol was eager for the overtime. She would work until the sun came up, she had thought. At least then she could see who might be watching her.

She told Samantha about her premonitions the past few days. She started to tear when she mentioned she had packed her things again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try the police?” Samantha asked.