Vegas Moon

43.

Carmine “The Chin” Porrello is hard of hearing, I decide, based on the sound coming from the speakers in his theater room. He’s so busy watching the Lucky Peters drama unfold, he doesn’t even notice me standing behind him.

Until he does.

“What the fuck?”

Carmine’s in his early seventies, barrel-chested, with thin arms and wispy gray hair. He appears to have more hair coming out of his ears, nose and underwear than he has on his head.

I take the seat to his left. It’s a couple feet closer to the screen, and the angle isn’t as good as his. But it’s a perfect spot for me to keep an eye on him and the door behind him at the same time.

Carmine isn’t happy I’m in his home. On the other hand, he’s still alive. He recovers quickly, as tough guys usually do.

“Pour you a drink?” he says.

“No. I’m good.”

“I’m still alive,” he says. Then adds, “How come?”

“I want some answers.”

“Any old answers? Or do I gotta tell the truth?”

He laughs until he sees I’m not laughing. Then he stops.

“I’m willing to overlook the disrespect,” he says. “If you do two things.”

Normally I wouldn’t let him try to establish control like that, but I’m busy deciding how I want to kill him. Do I want to mince his flesh and set him on fire? Hammer nails into his head? Cut off his nuts, sew them in his mouth, and tickle his ass with a feather? So many choices.

He clears his throat. “I said…”

“I don’t care what you said, Carmine. It’s what you say next that matters.”

He starts to say something, but I raise an eyebrow. He changes his mind and says, “Whadya wanna know?