Charlie was feeling Steely Dan’s “Big Black Cow” as he played the twenty-inch ride cymbal above the hard beat. His head swayed with the rhythm as he carefully press-rolled on the snare. He bounced his sticks off the mounted tom-toms before he turned his beat on the high hat.
Charlie’s head hung cocked to the left as he picked up the pace. He played the beat with a closed high hat until he heard someone yell. When he looked up, a broad man stood in the doorway of the private studio. Charlie hit the STOP button on the portable CD player and pulled the headphones away from his ears.
“They told me you were into opera,” the broad man said.
“Who are they and who are you?” Charlie asked. He held both sticks up straight with one hand against his left leg.
“Agent Marshall Thomas,” the broad man said. “DEA. Drug Enforcement Agen” He presented a badge to Charlie.
Charlie ignored the badge.
“It’s not about drugs,” the agent said.
Charlie removed the headphones from around his neck. “Is it about opera?”
“Not that either, no.”
“You want to get to the point? I’m paying twenty dollars an hour for this room.”
The door to the studio opened. A stocky man in a baggy shirt stood in the doorway. He looked from Charlie to the broad man and excused himself. “Sorry,” he said.
Thomas stared at the stocky man until he was gone. When he turned back around, Charlie was setting his sticks on top of the base drum.
“A little more than a week ago you were involved in a fight in a New York nightclub,” the agent said.
Charlie nodded.
“The man you hit is Nicholas Cuccia, a captain with the Vignieri crime family in New York. His uncle is the acting underboss.”
“That explains a few things.”
“Nicholas Cuccia obviously has a lot of clout. And very long arms.”
“And big balls and no conscience,” Charlie quickly added. “He attacked my wife and knocked a few of her teeth out.”
“Yes, I know. And he probably had you assaulted, too.”
“And he can’t be touched because my wife won’t press charges or testify. I’ll assume you already know about me and my wife.”
Thomas nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What about you? Now that you know who assaulted you.”
“I assume I can’t press charges, either. Not if I want to live.”
“You could call it even,” Thomas said.
“Except that big-shot gangster hit my wife.”
“His men. Not him. But she left you anyway, right?”
Charlie glared at the agent then. “What do you want from me?”
“To warn you, first of all. To make you aware.”
“What else?”
“To make a deal. I’m sure I can back Mr. Cuccia off. In fact, I know I can do that.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Because you’re skeptical?”
“That’s not even close to cute.”
Thomas held up his right hand. “I swear it. Nicky Cuccia won’t bother you again.”
“For what?” Charlie asked. “What is it you want?”
“To keep it between us.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes at the agent. “You’re protecting him?”
“What’s the difference?”
Charlie gave it some thought.
“He won’t go near you again,” Thomas said.
“Like I have a choice,” Charlie said.
Thomas pulled a card from his wallet.
“How do you know about the opera?” Charlie asked.
Thomas fidgeted as he walked the card over.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Charlie said.
“The New York City O.C. unit,” Thomas said. “Organized crime. They saw your opera ticket purchases on your credit card.”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“You beat up a mobster, Mr. Pellecchia. An arrogant one. I think the New York police got a kick out of it. They put a name to it, not me. They’re the ones calling you ‘Charlie Opera.’”
“Great,” Charlie said.
“You’ll be a legend with the organized crime guys.”
“Whether I want it or not.”
“Whatever. Look, Mr. Pellecchia, the New York task force also knew that Nicholas Cuccia would make a move on you for breaking his jaw.”
“And they didn’t do a thing to stop it,” Charlie said. “They allowed me and my wife to wiggle on a hook like bait. If you’re trying to endear me to your cause, you’re doing a lousy job.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Where’s he staying?” Charlie asked.
“You don’t want to go there. Forget it.”
“Let’s put it this way,” Charlie said. “I don’t like to wiggle.”
Chapter 19
The last time Charlie saw John Denton was after his wife had confessed her affair two years earlier. His wife’s admission back then had devastated him. It was an emotional upheaval Charlie wasn’t prepared for.
His first reaction back then was to stalk Denton the following day. His wife’s lover had been in New York on a business trip. Charlie found him leaving The Palm Too steak house. He approached the attorney while Denton attempted to hail a taxi on Second Avenue.
“You know who I am?” Charlie had asked.
Denton stuttered a few times before he could answer. “Yes,” he finally said. “I know you. I know who you are.”
“Good. You and Lisa decide what you want to do and do it. But I don’t want it in my face. Keep it out of my house and off of my telephone. Understand?”
“Yes. Of course. Sure.”
Charlie had wanted to hit his wife’s lover, but he didn’t. He pointed to a taxi on the next block instead. “Why don’t you get yourself a cab before I shove you in front of one,” he had said.
Ten minutes after his first encounter with Denton, Charlie felt stupid for what he had said. It had been a reaction of jealousy and anger he couldn’t control.
Now he was about to meet with Denton a second time. He wasn’t sure how he would react. He was nervous as he walked the length of the hospital hallway.
Before Charlie could think about it anymore, Denton was standing outside the room. Neither man offered the other a handshake.
“How is she?” Charlie asked.
“Bad. They knocked out a tooth. The dentist pulled another two. She’ll need a bridge.”
“Can I see her?”
“She’s in recovery.”
“Did she tell the police anything?”
“Nothing. She’s afraid. She’s very afraid. For you, too.”
Charlie let an uncomfortable moment pass. “There was an agent came to see me today,” he said.
“FBI?”
“DEA. Did he come here?”
“Not yet.”
It was an awkward moment for both of them. Finally Denton said, “I’m sorry.”
Charlie ignored the apology. “Tell her to give me a call when she can talk,” he said.
“I’ll give you three hundred,” Vincent Lano told the gun dealer. He was pointing at a Smith & Wesson.380 on the display table.
The gun dealer, a fat, middle-aged man with a heavy beard, took a deep breath. “I can’t give it to you with bullets for that price,” he said.
“That’s okay,” Lano said. “I’m not done yet.”
He added a Beretta 9mm and a used.38 snub-nosed revolver. The snub-nose was the same type of weapon Lano had made his first hit with thirty-one years ago.
He had booked himself a room at a motel just outside of Las Vegas. He spent most of his first day in broken sleep and gazing out the window at the mountains. When he finally slept soundly, Lano had dreamed about his death.
He had the five thousand dollars he stole from Cuccia plus the fifteen hundred he had originally brought to Las Vegas. He guessed he had enough money to live in the desert at least another month.
Except now he was no longer sure he wanted to live another month.
When he saw the advertisement for a local gun show, Lano decided it was an omen. He would use some of the money to purchase a few weapons. Then he would spend another night at the motel on the edge of the desert. If his lungs permitted, he thought he might even get drunk.