Charlie Opera

Chapter 49

Minh Quan had heard from his wife immediately after the Italian was dead and cut up in the restaurant basement. She had told Minh they were waiting for a private sanitation truck to take his body parts away with the rest of the perishable garbage. One of Jerry Lercasi’s men had already delivered the balance on the contract. It was good news.

When he called the hospital and learned that his brother had slipped into a coma, Minh’s good mood instantly turned sour. He hung up on the nurse explaining the situation as he stared at the man responsible. Charlie Pellecchia was standing with a detective Minh recognized from the local newspapers, somebody with an Italian name.

Minh reached down under his seat and grabbed the 9mm Beretta he had brought with him. He racked the slide and set the gun on the passenger seat. He covered the gun with a plastic bag. He lit a cigarette and noted the time.

If Minh had the opportunity, he would kill Pellecchia in a drive-by. He would wait until the detective was gone and pull up alongside the man who had clubbed his brother. Then he would beep his horn to get Pellecchia’s attention. Then he would shoot until the Beretta’s magazine was empty.

Agent Thomas looked at pictures of Cuccia and Francone tied together on a bed at the Bellagio Hotel. He dropped the pictures on a folding table in a small office in the Federal Building in downtown Las Vegas. Federal agent Dale Walsh, the Special Agent In Charge with the FBI organized crime task force in Las Vegas, combed his reddish-gray hair back with both hands as Thomas rubbed his eyes.

“You get any sleep?” Walsh asked.

“No. Not a minute. Not for two days, I don’t think. Maybe three.”

“I’ve been apprised of your situation,” Walsh said. “I spoke with your field supervisor back in New York. I spoke with our own people in New York as well. And I just spoke with a regional director in Washington.”

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.”