The trick was recognizing Carol’s words in the Internet chat rooms, which wasn’t very hard because Beau knew his wife too well for her to chat without being noticed. He could recognize her favorite sayings and slogans. In fact, there were times when Beau thought he could actually hear Carol speaking the words he would read online as she typed them.
A few weeks ago, he had recognized his wife’s chat style from a screen name called LVBARTENDER35. Beau also recognized a similar style from the screen name RUN&HIDE. Once he gave the two CompuServe addresses, along with a couple of hundred dollars, to a technician, Beau was told the two addresses were from the same line. Then he paid another hundred dollars for the address of the telephone number.
Now Beau was closing in on his wife again. He already drove past the address twice during the day, but Beau hadn’t seen his wife. He called both telephone numbers, but no one answered.
Until now, that is. A woman’s voice he knew wasn’t Carol answered. Beau listened to the woman’s voice before hanging up.
He guzzled half a can of beer before letting go of a loud belch. He turned on the laptop computer he had bought back in Alabama after his wife first took off on him. He plugged the motel telephone line into his modem, then powered up the CompuServe program.
He kneeled back down to type in his password one key at a time.
HUNTER, he typed.
Chapter 18
Agent Thomas followed the short, bald man from the Bellagio to a gymnasium he assumed was the one the smart-ass organized crime detective had mentioned the day before. Vive la Body was located alongside a huge condominium development on Spring Mountain Road. A large parking lot blocked the gym from the boulevard.
Thomas managed to verify the owner of the gym as Jerry Lercasi, the head of the Las Vegas mob. The name he wasn’t able to get was that of the short, bald man Thomas had followed to the gym, the same man who had visited Nicholas Cuccia at the Bellagio Hotel.
He assumed the short man was a liaison for the Las Vegas mob. Although he didn’t expect very much help from FBI agents based in Las Vegas, Thomas expected he would learn enough to figure out what the hell Cuccia was doing there.
Half an hour later, after talking with an organized crime task force supervisor in New York, Thomas found out.
He managed to get over to Harrah’s a few minutes after Charlie Pellecchia left the hotel. Thomas used his badge to find out where Pellecchia might have gone. When the girl at the reception desk tried the operator, they learned that Pellecchia had left a message for a Samantha Cole, should she call.
Pellecchia had gone to a music studio on Paradise Road. He was expecting to return to his hotel before five o’clock. Thomas jumped back inside the rental car and whipped around the small circular driveway at Harrah’s. He had a general description and a faxed photo of Pellecchia to identify the man he had learned broke Nicholas Cuccia’s jaw.
Thomas suspected that Nicholas Cuccia was in Las Vegas to kill Charlie Pellecchia.
He glanced at the fax of Pellecchia on the front passenger seat as he drove through the traffic on Sahara Avenue. When the light ahead turned yellow, Thomas cut across a grass divider to make the turn onto Las Vegas Boulevard.
It was well after noon when Pellecchia finally left Harrah’s. Renato Freni was parked in the driveway for more than half an hour waiting for his mark to leave the hotel.
Freni was driving a stolen car with Nevada license tags as he followed Pellecchia’s taxi to a downtown music studio. He parked at the curb across the street from the studio when Pellecchia stepped inside. Freni noted the time and laid his head against the headrest.
Charlie had been angry again when he left the hotel. Lisa still hadn’t called him, and the Las Vegas police had left him feeling like a criminal.
He wasn’t in the mood to lift weights or work out his frustrations aerobically anymore, and his fingers and body were too bruised to hit a heavy bag.
When he decided to vent his frustration on a set of drums instead, he found a music studio where he could rent a private room for twenty dollars an hour. He brought his Cream and Steely Dan CDs to the studio for music he could follow on his headphones.
When Charlie sat at the set of black Pearl drums, he instantly recognized the smell of the percussion wood. He felt the weight of the sticks he had bought at the front desk and noticed they were lighter than the Regal Tips, size 5-B drumsticks he used at home. It was awkward holding them with his bruised fingers. He turned the stick in his left hand upside down for better control and less pain. He took a roll around the tom-toms for a sound check. He winced when the back end of a stick caught his left pinky finger on the rebound.
Freni grew tired waiting in the stolen car. He checked his watch for the time. Twenty-five minutes had passed. His back was starting to ache. He needed to stretch his legs.
He felt the Beretta 9mm inside the waist of his pants. He could just as easily walk inside the studio and take care of business as sit in a hot car all fucking day.
This was what he decided to do. He got out of the car and headed for the music studio across the street. He pulled down the baggy shirt he was wearing to cover his waist. He felt the gun through the shirt as he held the door open for a broad man wearing sunglasses.
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.”
<
br /> “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.
When he was finished picking out his handguns, the gun dealer said, “Is there anything else I can interest you in?”
Lano looked up and down the rows of tables. The gun show was being held inside the tennis bubble of a local high school. He saw everything from assault weapons to swords on the tables. He saw military camouflage outfits, army boots, parachutes and catalogs for missile launchers. He wondered what the hell anybody would do with a missile launcher.
He pointed at one on the cover of a military catalog. “Who buys those things?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t know,” the gun dealer said. “Except we’re supposed to report it when somebody asks for one.”
Lano was curious. “Ever sell one?”
The gun dealer shook his head. “Not a missile launcher, no.” He leaned across the table to whisper. “Grenades, yes. A few. A few mines, too. Claymores, I sold two of those. But never a missile launcher.”
Lano smiled at the gun dealer. “Grenades?”
Francone joined Cuccia by the windows looking out over the pool. Both men leaned against the glass to better view the women lounging around the pool. Cuccia used binoculars.
“You believe the protocol?” he asked Francone. “They send me a fuckin’ mouthpiece instead of one of our own.”
“That guy, Fein, right? Yeah, I didn’t like him either. He seemed like a real smart-ass, you know. Like he was better than me.”
Cuccia followed a short woman in a pink thong bikini as she walked behind the far end of the pool with a drink in her hand. “All Fein wanted was his five grand,” Cuccia said. “My uncle said the guy running things out here don’t come out of his hole. Lives like a hermit to stay off the cameras. Pro’bly has guys like Fein to run his business errands.”
“You do what you gotta do,” Francone said.
Cuccia pulled the binoculars away from his face. “Speaking of which,” he said. “This guy, Fein... he ever do what I just give him five grand to do? Except for that single fuckin’ tooth, I don’t have a clue why I paid him.”
“Everything went fine. Except for Lano. The Pellecchia broad was where they told us she went. The guy broke your jaw they served up on a dish. Fein was the one brought the guy over to us at the construction site.”
“So they did the right thing?”
“Vinnie took off with their money,” Francone said. “It was wrong. Besides the other shit h
e said and did.”
Cuccia rubbed at his crotch as he watched another woman in a tinbikini giggling in the shallow end of the pool. Three men surrounded her. “Fuckin’ waste, you ask me,” he said, peering through the binoculars again. “Imagine having all this trim around and all you can do is lay low? Forget about it. I’ll take my fuckin’ chances. There’s no way I ignore this, I’m a skipper out here.”
Francone noticed the time. “What do we do about Lano?”
Cuccia was watching the short woman in the pink thong again. She was leaning forward. Her breasts were perfect balls of flesh beneath the thin pink top. He rubbed his crotch a second time.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “The talent parading around this place would make me crazy, I lived here.” He turned to face Francone. “What about Lano?”
“The guy’s a pain in the ass. We should whack him. We shoulda whacked him as soon as you got upped.”
“What happened?” Cuccia asked again, annoyed he had to repeat the question.
“First of all, he wanted me to fugazy a tooth for you. He wanted me to go to a fuckin’ dentist, you can believe it. He thought we were goin’ too far goin’ after the broad. Everything we did was goin’ too far for Lano.”
“He said that?”
“He said a lotta things, boss. A lotta things.”
Cuccia held his best angry stare. He had practiced the stare in mirrors for years before being made.
“Subversive?” he asked.
Francone scratched his chin unconsciously before looking away. “All negative,” he said. “Yeah, like I said back in New York. He ain’t takin’ to the changes.”
“Don’t beep him no more.”
“What’s the use? I stopped since last night. He’s either gone or dead from those cigarettes he smokes all day and night.”
“If he ain’t dead, he will be. That’s yours. Soon as we locate him, get our money back, you can take him out.”
Francone grinned.
“I may have something else for you,” Cuccia continued. He watched as a tall blonde man joined the woman in the pink thong. “Tony Rizzi is coming out to join us. He thinks he’s ready to make his bones. I think he’s starting to pull back on his money. If I don’t read where this cocksucker Pellecchia is found dead by tomorrow morning, maybe you take Rizzi and take care of everything before we leave.”
Charlie Opera Page 9
