Both men watched the croupier take down the losing bets before paying the winners.
“I spoke to Charlie Pellecchia,” Thomas said.
Cuccia’s face tensed for a moment. “Who’s Charlie Pellecchia?”
“Charlie Opera. The guy broke your face for grabbing his wife’s ass.”
“Charlie who?”
“It’s what the organized crime unit nicknamed him. The guy cracked your jaw. Charlie Opera. O.C. was in the nightclub when you caught that beating.”
Cuccia forced a smirk. “Ever hear of Pearl Harbor? The guy japped me.”
Thomas took another glance around the casino. “I don’t know. I just met the guy. He’s a pretty big boy.”
“You’re needling me. What’s the point?”
“Nothing can happen to Mr. Pellecchia. I want to make that clear.”
“Please,” Cuccia said. “Trust me, I’ve got better things to do.” He pointed to his watch. “In ten minutes I have a date,” he said. “You should give it a try. It’s legal here in Nevada.”
“I’m serious, fuckwad,” Thomas said. “Or your deal gets flushed.”
“Fuckwad?”
“You understand me?”
Cuccia forced himself to chuckle. “Flushed?” he said. “Like down the same shitter where I was born?”
Charlie couldn’t sleep. He slipped on his pants and shirt and found his way back into the kitchen. He thought about calling his wife and her lover to see if the DEA agent had contacted them yet but decided to check for messages first.
When he called his room at Harrah’s, he found he had several messages, all hang-ups. He replayed them and counted fifteen in total.
A few days had passed since the assaults on him and his wife. If the mob re thoughtwanted him, Charlie figured he didn’t stand much of a chance, regardless of any promise the DEA agent had made.
He decided to find Nicholas Cuccia. He used a phone book and started with the most expensive hotels. When the operator at the Bellagio told him to hold for the connection, Charlie hung up.
This time Daria was wearing a white body suit with black high heels. She was racing from a line of cocaine she had just shared with Nicholas Cuccia. She told him that her usual partner, Kim, was recovering from a bachelor party at the Mirage the night before.
“How many guys?” he asked. He wiped a spill of drool from his chin.
“Ten,” she said. “But there’s always two or three more once you get there. The service knows it, but they let it slide. Especially when a girl is working solo.”
His condition required an extra moment to process the information. When it registered, Cuccia was impressed. “Solo? She gonna do ten guys by herself?”
Daria took a large gulp of vodka from a highball glass. Her eyes required a moment to focus. “Not all the guys will want to do anything,” she said as she shook her head. “Maybe half. Sometimes more. Hey, if it pays enough, why not? That’s the business.”
Cuccia sipped vodka from his own glass. “I guess so.”
She laid out another line of cocaine on a small mirror. “What you do is a few of these. And you work fast. It’s over before you know it.”
He wiped vodka from his chin.
“Is your mouth okay, honey?” she asked.
Cuccia didn’t hear her question. He was picturing the blonde, Kim, taking on a line of men at the bachelor party.
“You’re smart to call the service,” Daria said. “There’s been a lot of rollings going on.”
“Rolling? What, like joints?”
Daria giggled. “Like johns, silly. The girls cruising the casino bars. They put their johns to sleep and rip them off.”
He touched one of her nipples through the sheer body suit.
“Mmmmm,” Daria said. “You about ready, hon?”
The cocaine was numbing. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t feel my dick.”
Daria giggled again. “I can help you with that,” she said as she reached down to fondle him. “You like that?”
His eyes were struggling to focus. “Like what?”
It was very early in the morning when Lano left his hotel room. He took a long glimpse of the sun rising over the mountains before heading for Valley Hospital, where he had located Lisa Pellecchia in room 2116.
He brought the weapons he had purchased at the gun show with him. Two of the guns remained in the car, along with the hand grenade. He had paid a total of twenty-six hundred dollars for the tiny arsenal. A Smith & Wesson.380 was well concealed in a tightly fitted ankle holster.
Lano felt a need to absolve himself for the assault of Lisa Pellecchia. It had been one more mistake in a life full of mistakes. Although the assault was something Lano never wanted any part of, he had allowed himself to go along with it. His conditions for taking part in the assault made him sick now. They were cheap.
“I’ll stand guard, but I’m not touching that broad,” he had told Joey Francone.
He could have stopped Francone. He should have stopped him.
The more he thought about the entire fiasco, the angrier Lano was with himself. He couldn’t respect anybody who would hit a woman, much less the likes of Cuccia or Francone.
Going after the husband also had been wrong. The guy had defended his wife. Who could blame him?
If it had been Lano’s wife, Cuccia would be dead.
Lano found his way down a short hallway to an elevator. He took the elevator up one flight. He followed a sign with room numbers the length of another hallway. He stood outside 2116 and immediately felt uncomfortable. A man he guessed was Lisa Pellecchia’s boyfriend sat beside her bed. The man glanced up at Lano and quickly stood.
Lano held both his hands up. “I just want to talk,” he said. “Just talk.”
Chapter 23
They were both sitting up in bed having their coffee. It was still early in the morning. Samantha set her cup on the night table as she told Charlie more about herself and her family.
Both her parents were still alive. She had an older sister teaching high school back in North Dakota, but they didn’t speak. She had tried to stay in touch with her family, but they were upset with her for leaving them.
“Sometimes it’s hard for parents to let go,” he told her.
“What about your sons?” she asked.
“I didn’t raise them myself,” he said. “They both lived with their mother. I came around once a week. I bought them lunch or baseball gloves or tickets to a rock concert. They were out of the house before I knew it. Before I was married to Lisa. Next thing I knew, they were both in and out of college and doing their own thing. Sometimes I feel guilty about it, not being there, but they’re both good kids. They turned out fine.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “Sometimes I miss my family,” she said. “I don’t think they care, though. Not really.”
“I do.”
It was a simple two-word statement, but it meant the world to her then. She hugged him.
“Tell me your favorite opera,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Your favorite opera. What is it?”
“There are a lot. Don Giovanni. Rigoletto. Tosca. One of those three. Le Nozze di Figaro. I get chills from the Mozart overtures. Then there are the German operas. Fidelio, Tristan, Der Rosenkavalier, The Flying Dutchman. I could go on and on about this, you know. I warn you.”
She laughed. “I can see.”
“When you get to arias, though, that’s another story,” Charlie continued. “Then it’s Puccini. ‘Recondita armonia,’ from Tosca, is probably my favorite favorite, but that’s because I’m a romantic at heart. Then there’s ‘Nessum dorma,’ from Turandot, ‘Che gelida manina,’ from Bohème. All Puccini. The ‘Improviso’ from André Chénier is a good one, too. And ‘Una furtiva làgrima.’”
Samantha was smiling at him.