Charlie Opera

by Charlie Stella

  Thomas took a seat across from Walsh and sipped at a cup of stale coffee. “So, what’s the punch line?” he asked.

  “I can have somebody freshen that for you,” Walsh said.

  “It’s okay.”

  Walsh referred to a set of notes on a legal pad. “We think Vincent Lano killed himself early this morning. Out in the desert. We think he blew himself up. We don’t know the device he used yet, but he was in a car when it went up.”

  “That’s one less to account for.”

  “The other one, Joseph Francone, he skipped out of the hospital but he wasn’t being held on anything. Apparently he was a victim.”

  Thomas chuckled. “Yeah, right.”

  Walsh ignored the sarcasm. “Our investigations here in Vegas revolve around Jerry Lercasi and his crew,” he continued, “so we aren’t as familiar with the New York crew that came into town last week.”

  “How public are the pictures? To save us both some time.”

  “The locals, our department and now you,” Walsh said. “Nobody else. Certainly not the media.”

  “And what about the locals? That prick Iandolli gave me nothing but headaches he get-go. What’s the guarantee he doesn’t talk about the pictures, if not show them around? What do you have, his word?”

  “Detective Iandolli was first on the scene,” Walsh said. “He’s a pain in the ass, but I have a relationship with him here. I’m sure he won’t do anything out of line without telling us first. Nobody else knows about the pictures.”

  “As far as you know,” Thomas said.

  “As far as we know.”

  Thomas picked up a few of the pictures: Francone with a dildo sticking out of his rectum, Francone with the dildo lying across his neck, Francone with the dildo in his mouth. Cuccia tied between Francone’s legs.

  “How the fuck did this happen?” Thomas asked. “Does anybody know?”

  “No clue.”

  “Those pictures are a death sentence. You know that, right?”

  “The Bureau wants to work something out.”

  “Cuccia’s deal is with us,” Thomas said. “It’s a DEA case.”

  “We think we might be able to use those pictures here as well, to get at Jerry Lercasi,” Walsh said. “Through Allen Fein, the man the New York crew contacted.”

  “Use the pictures? Are you crazy, use the pictures?”

  “It’s being discussed. You may as well get used to it.”

  “You show those pictures outside of this office and those two are dead men,” Thomas said. “I can live with losing Francone, but Nicholas Cuccia is the key to a major drug operation back East, which you obviously already know about.”

  Walsh used his hands to comb his hair again. “Jerry Lercasi has been our version of the Teflon don for at least ten years now,” he said. “We want him. If we can get him, we will. If those pictures can help us, we’ll use them.”

  Thomas was incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “We intend to go after Allen Fein, because this was obviously his deal with your friend from New York,” Walsh said. “Fein is no tough guy. If we can tie him into this, he’ll flip on Lercasi. He won’t have a choice.”

  “And my people know about this back in New York?” Thomas asked. “They’re putting up with this bullshit? Just say so. Because if they are, I’m taking the next fucking flight home alone.”

  The telephone rang. Walsh answered it.

  “Walsh,” he said. He listened as he looked up at Thomas. “Right,” he said. “Okay.”

  Thomas opened both his hands when Walsh hung up. “Well?” Thomas asked. “What’s it going to be?”

  “Allen Fein is dead,” Walsh said. “The pictures are yours.”

  Chapter 50

  When Charlie left his first wife, their sons were twelve and fourteen years old. Leaving had been tough. He was absorbed with feelings of guilt and abandonment a long time afterward. Sometimes it still bothered him.

  Leaving Samantha now was just as hard, maybe harder, but there was no way he would put her back into jeopardy after she had already been shot. The fact that it had been Carol’s ex-husband who shot Sam didn’t ease Charlie’s concerns. After what the mob had done to Lisa and what he had redone to Nicholas Cuccia’s jaw, Charlie was certain the vengeful gangster would do anything to get back at him.

  He waited in the lobby until he learned she would be going home in a few hours. Then he searched for Detective Iandolli again and was anxious when he found him.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “You thought it out, huh?”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Iandolli said. “Maybe nothing. Maybe testify. Gold wants you to testify. The DEA sure doesn’t.”

  “My friend Gold,” Charlie said. “Where’s he out crusading?”

  “He’s back at Harrah’s trying to learn what happened with that Asian kid you mentioned.”

  “What can I do to protect Samantha?” Charlie asked.

  “Like I said, you can testify, but I’m not sure yet. The Feds won’t want you to, but it isn’t their life. It could be dangerous once you get home, you testify out here.”

  “That’s almost funny,” Charlie said.

  “Hey, it’s the nature of the beast,” Iandolli said. “The way these guys operate, they have a protocol. Mostly it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but you’re caught in the chaos of it right now. This guy you busted up again, he wants you dead, my friend, make no mistake.”

  “What can you do for me here, in Las Vegas?” Charlie asked.

  “What do you mean, what can I do?”

  “I’m worried about a woman upstairs.”

  “Which one?”

  “Take your pick.”

  Iandolli scratched his forehead. “I get your point.”

  Gold sat in the control room above Harrah’s casino floor and replayed the video of the assault outside an elevator bank from the day before. He watched in slow motion as Charlie Pellecchia avoided the knife and stepped into an overhead swing with a small baseball bat. He saw the bat make contact with the mugger’s forehead. A shorter, second swing followed the first. The mugger fell into the elevator doors to his right.

  When he called in for information on the assailant, Gold learned the mugger’s name was Minh Nguyen, the younger brother of Minh Quan, the head of the Black Dragons, a local Vietnamese street gang who operated out of a section of Las Vegas recently nicknamed Little Saigon by the ethnic gang squad.

  Gold knew that the connection between Minh Nguyen and Pellecchia wasn’t a coincidental mugging. Ethnic gangs didn’t stray that far from their turf without a reason. Little Saigon and Harrah’s might as well be in different states.

  Gold paged Iandolli to let him know there were more than a few mobsters trying to kill Charlie Pellecchia.

  Reporters were pressing the police for information. A detective with a badge hanging from his neck took questions as Charlie made his way out of the hospital. When a reporter shoved a microphone at Charlie’s face, he quickly veered away and jogged back inside the lobby. He found Iandolli, and they exited the hospital through a back door.

  Charlie explained everything that had happened as they walked through a staff parking lot. He told the detective about the fight in the New York nightclub and the subsequent turn of events since he had come to Las Vegas on vacation. Iandolli listened carefully. He excused himself when his cell phone rang.

  Charlie looked back at the hospital while the detective spoke on the cell phone. Charlie stared at the rooms on the third floor. One of them was Samantha’s room.

  Iandolli folded his cell phone and frowned at Charlie. “That was Gold,” he said.

  “My pal.”

  Iandolli waved a finger at Charlie. “He’s having a rough couple days,” he said. “A kid on the frce he was close to killed his wife and tried to commit suicide in the middle of all this yesterday. Gold’s under a lot of stress.”

  Charlie
remained silent.

  “He just reviewed the videotapes at Harrah’s,” Iandolli said. “The kid who tried to cut you is with a local Vietnamese gang here in Las Vegas.”

  “Great,” Charlie said. “Everybody wants a piece of me.”

  “You mentioned the Asian kids with the cars stopping you and your girlfriend, right?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “That had to come from here,” Iandolli explained. “From one of our wiseguys here in Las Vegas. Jerry Lercasi, specifically.”

  “This mean I’m moving to the Philippines?”

  “I’m afraid they can probably get you there, too. But I’m pretty sure I can deal with Lercasi. Especially since yesterday.”

  Charlie looked confused as he opened the door. Iandolli waved at him to get in the car. “I’ll explain later,” he said. “Let’s take a ride.”

  Chapter 51

  Bouncing bedsprings in the room next door woke Francone. He called Caesar’s Palace to make sure Anthony Rizzi was still checked in. After he left a phone message for Rizzi, Francone washed himself and left the dump of a motel.

  He was still feeling pain from the stitches in his rectum as he sat in a taxi. He popped the last two painkillers while on his way to Caesar’s Palace. As soon as he could find a water fountain inside the casino, Francone drank until his stomach hurt.

  He used a house telephone to call Rizzi’s room. The wannabe from Jersey City answered on the second ring.

  “Anthony, it’s Joey,” Francone said.

  “Ah-oh, hey, what’s up?” Rizzi asked, sounding nervous. “I-ah, I’ve been trying to get you guys for two days already.”

  “I’m here now,” Francone said. “I’m downstairs by the sports book, but I can’t come up without a hotel card. Come down and bring me back up.”

  “The sports book?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m watching the track screens and having a drink. Hurry up.”

  When he hung up with Rizzi, Francone wasn’t sure if the stitches in his rectum would hold if he kept moving around. He found a chair with a desktop to sit at. He asked a cocktail waitress for an orange juice and a glass of water. There was no point drinking booze, he was thinking. Between the medication he was taking and the fact that it had been more than two full days since his last decent workout, how could he poison his body with booze?

  Anthony Rizzi told the valet that he had changed his mind about checking out but would he please take the bags downstairs anyway. The valet looked confused until Rizzi palmed him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I got a friend’s gonna stay in my place until the end of the week,” Rizzi said.

  “That’s fine with me, sir,” the valet said. “You want I should prepare these here bags for a taxi? I’ll keep ’em close to the bell desk.”

  “That’ll be fine, buddy,” Rizzi said.

  He waited until the valet left before stopping to examine himself in a mirror. Rizzi was minutes from leaving Las Vegas and his New York mobster friends for good. He had talked it over with his brother back in New Jersey and decided that a mob life wasn’t for him after all. He would return to New Jersey and talk to somebody in law enforcement about the truck Nicholas Cuccia had im to keep in one of his warehouses. Rizzi wasn’t exactly sure what was inside the truck, but he knew it was hot.

  He stood up straight and nodded at himself in the mirror. Francone was waiting for him downstairs. It was time to get out of there.

  He took the elevator down to the lobby, crossed the huge casino floor, and found the sports book. He spotted Francone sitting at one of the desks, but the young bodybuilder wasn’t watching the screens. Francone seemed to be leaning forward as he touched himself in the crack of his ass.

  “Joey?” Rizzi asked from behind.

  Francone shifted fast on his chair. His face expressed pain when he looked up at Rizzi. “Hemorrhoids,” he said. “Most painful fuckin’ thing in the world.”

  Rizzi watched as Francone struggled out from the desk he was sitting at. “Everything all right?” Rizzi asked when he noticed his friend was limping.

  “Not since I got these. But there are a few problems. You talk to Nicky yet?”

  “Nicky? Ah, no, not yet. I’ve been trying to get you guys.”

  Francone grabbed onto one of Rizzi’s arms for support. “Why don’t we go upstairs and talk about it. It ain’t good. Lano, that rat, did a flip on us while he’s out here. He turned on Nicky.”

  Rizzi felt his stomach drop.

  “Why don’t you go up and I’ll be right there,” he said. “I was just going to get some money out of the deposit box.”

  Francone had looked upset that Rizzi was excusing himself. Then, at the mention of getting money, Francone seemed at ease again. “Money? Yeah, that’s always a good idea. Gimme the room key and I’ll use the bathroom while you’re down here.”

  “Sure,” Rizzi said. He handed Francone the flat electronic room key. “I’ll be right up.”

  Francone stopped Rizzi. “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t even kiss me hello.”

  Rizzi leaned forward to exchange the traditional cheek kisses. The two men exchanged phony smiles.

  “Don’t lose anything on the way back up,” Francone joked.

  Rizzi continued to smile until Francone wasn’t looking. Then he walked away as fast as he could.

  Chapter 52

  “This unofficial harassment or the official kind?” Jerry Lercasi asked Detective Iandolli. The gangster ignored Charlie.

  The three men stood behind the building model on the Palermo construction site. Charlie noticed that they were standing fewer than ten yards from where he had been assaulted. He looked back to the ditch where he had been left unconscious. The ditch was half-filled with gravel now.

  “I wanted you to meet somebody,” Iandolli told the Las Vegas gangster.

  Lercasi nodded without looking at Charlie.

  “His name is Charlie Pellecchia,” Iandolli continued. “He’s the poor bastard some wiseguy from New York is trying to kill.”

  Lercasi glanced at Charlie and turned back to the detective. “He looks alive to me,” he said.

  “He looks better than your accountant.”

  “My accountant? What happened to him now?”

  Iandolli held both his hands up. “Let’s not blow smoke at each other.”

  Lercasi looked in the direction of a bulldozer pushing dirt about a hundred yards from where the three men were standing. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “I wanta trade-off,” Iandolli said. “This guy gets a pass for information you can use when the shit hits the fan back East.”

  Lercasi shrugged. “What makes you think I can do anything for this guy?”

  “Some Vietnamese kid in a hospital downtown,” Iandolli said. “He got his head cracked trying to stab Mr. Pellecchia here. That one had to go through you, whether Nicholas Cuccia approached you or not.”

  “You give me way too much credit, pal.”

  “So let’s make believe it went through you. For argument sake. The bottom line is you can get him a pass.”

  “Really? You think I’m that powerful, huh?”

  “I know it. Which is why I don’t want to go back and forth with you right now, just to waste time. I have something you can give to New York in exchange for that pass for Mr. Pellecchia here. So when he goes home, he doesn’t have to hide under a couch.”

  “I’ll ask you again,” Lercasi said. “What makes you think I can do anything in New York?”

  “Because Allen Fein arranged the assault at the Palermo,” Iandolli said. “And he arranged the assault of a woman at a motel in town. Which you have to know by now or else Allen Fein wouldn’t have a tag on his foot in the city morgue.”

  “That’s very dramatic,” Lercasi said.

  “And true,” Iandolli said. “Hey, nobody is complaining. The world is definitely a better place. Maybe the Feds care. Maybe not.”

  Lercasi checked his watch
. “I’m running a little late,” he said. “You want to tell me what I get out of all this?”

  “Information. Except first I want your word that you’ll help Mr. Pellecchia here. You call off the Viet Cong and talk to New York.”

  “What’s the information?”

  “Say the magic word.”

  Lercasi thought about it a few seconds, then said, “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Nicholas Cuccia and the DEA,” Iandolli said.

  Lercasi was impressed. “The DEA?”

  “The one and only. Which means you’ll have clout dealing with New York.”

  “What about proof? I won’t have anything but a headache without proof.”

  “Trust me,” Iandolli said. “I have pictures.”

  Lercasi seemed impressed again. “They say those are worth a thousand words,” he said. “Still, I can’t make promises.”

  “I know how that is,” Iandolli said. “It’s the same way for me sometimes. I say I can do things, then find out later I can’t deliver. You’re going to get some federal flak from what’s been going on here this week. If things don’t happen the way we agreed, for Mr. Pellecchia here, there might be a few new things you can’t avoid.”

  “Things like what? I’m just curious.”

  “Whatever our surveillance picked up,” Iandolli said. “Where you ate yesterday. Who you ate with. A few back-and-forth telephone calls to the same restaurant. A surveillance tape with Mr. Fein and Nicholas Cuccia and another one of the New York crew. The Feds are much more meticulous than us local yokels, should they get the tape. They’d probably look into every detail, an indictment at a time. I don’t have to turn that information over to the Feds. It could slip my mind.”

  Lercasi looked from Charlie to Iandolli. “Suppose they already have it, the Feds?”

  “You’ in cuffs by now,” Iandolli said. “This place would be crawling with Feds. Your gym, your house, all your other fronts in this town. They’d be upside down from search warrants. This is a tourist town, Jerr. Nobody wants violence like this. Much less in the hotels themselves.”