In the event his deal with the government turned sour, Cuccia wanted to be sure that the man who broke his jaw was already dead.
Charlie Pellecchia had become an obsession for Cuccia. Nothing else mattered.
He used a cellular telephone to call the room at Harrah’s. When Pellecchia answered the phone, Cuccia remained silent.
When he finally spotted the blonde he was looking for, Cuccia became unnerved about his recent injury. He was too self-conscious to talk to her through a wired jaw. He quickly turned his head when she looked his way.
Agent Thomas found the organized crime detective eating pizza at his desk. Thomas was there to try to find out why Nicholas Cuccia and two of his crew were in Las Vegas.
“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” Detective Albert Iandolli said as he folded a slice of pizza. He was a big man, 6-foot-4 at least, 230 pounds.
“It’s not about Vegas,” Thomas told the detective.
Iandolli stopped short of taking a bite of the pizza. “What’s it about?”
“Two connected guys from New York staying at the Bellagio. Their boss came in last night, early this morning. I’m here about him.”
Iandolli leaned forward to take a bite from the end of the pizza slice. He chewed while he held the pizza over a napkin on his desk. Oil from the end of the slice dripped into a reddish-gold stain on the napkin.
“And?” the detective asked after he swallowed.
“I was wondering if the two guys from New York are up to anything here in Vegas. If maybe they found themselves some trouble. Maybe you heard something here on your end.”
“The other two guys? You just said you were here about their boss.”
Here we go, Thomas thought. “Detective, I’m not here to break your balls. Please don’t break mine.”
Iandolli set the slice of pizza on the napkin. “You’re being vague,” he said. “How am I supposed to help you with the information you just gave me? Two connected guys from New York came out here. Two dozen connected guys from New York pro’bly came out here the last two nights. I can appreciate your need to keep things to yourself, being a federal agent and all, but the bottom line is, there’s nothing much I can do for you, you keep talking in circles.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Names, for starters. Then I need to know what I’m supposed to be looking for in the way of what the other two might be up to. What specific trouble they might be in. For instance, there’s been a rash of johns getting rolled by hookers the last few weeks in Las Vegas. Guys take a broad up to their room, get drugged, wake up later, and find they’re broke without gambling. That’s one kind of trouble they might find for themselves. Then again, you’d need to speak with somebody from vice about that. You see what I’m saying? It’s all very vague the way you described it.”
Thomas gave the organized crime detective two names: Francone and Lano. He didn’t mention Nicholas Cuccia. “I need to know if they met with Jerry Lercasi,” he said.
“Now you’re talking,” Iandolli said. “He’s my turf, Lercasi, but I can tell you right off something might save you a lot of time. Nobody meets with Jerry Lercasi. Nobody.”
“And why is that?”
“It’s his way. Lercasi doesn’t meet with outsiders. Not here in Vegas. That’s his protocol. Lercasi closd down the wiseguy tour business long before Hollywood made that
Thomas was doing his best not to explode. “What about the intermediaries? Could these two, Francone and Lano, have met with somebody around Lercasi?”
“Sure. I’ll ask around.” Iandolli was about to pick up the slice of pizza again when he looked up at Thomas with a smile. “Anything else?”
Thomas sarcastically smiled back at the detective. “You’re right. I am wasting my time.”
The semiretired hit man showed up wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a flower print shirt. Just like most of the tourists walking the Strip, Cuccia thought. He was a stocky but solid man. He had a thick neck and big shoulders. He seemed to have black hair with gray streaks. A Boston Red Sox baseball cap covered most of his head.
After they introduced themselves to each other, Cuccia walked Renato Freni toward a concession stand without talking. Cuccia decided to take the hit man’s lead. He glanced around the pool as they walked. The bright orange one-piece was easy to spot. She was sitting at the edge of the pool then, dangling her feet in the water.
“I missed a shoot-out with a pair of local cops, two detectives, by a few minutes last night,” Freni said.
“What happened?”
“That’s what I came here to find out. Why the fuck a pair of detectives are talking with a guy I’m supposed to whack out.”
Cuccia shook his head.
“I saw the guy was banged up,” Freni continued. “I saw his head was bandaged, but that’s none of my fuckin’ business. What is my business is I don’t get jerked around. Why didn’t your uncle mention the guy was hot?”
“It’s not like that. The guy isn’t hot. He’s a nobody. It’s got nothing to do with business.”
Freni noticed Cuccia looking toward the blond woman. “Hey, I didn’t come here to look at broads.”
“Sorry.”
“Let’s walk around the pool once or twice and see whether or not we can still do business. First, I think I need an orange juice. This heat is giving me a headache.”
Cuccia bought an orange juice for Freni and a Coke for himself. Freni immediately drank his juice. Cuccia sipped at his Coke through a straw as they continued to walk around the pool.
“You were that close, huh?” Cuccia asked.
“Two minutes. Maybe less. I come off the elevator and there he is with two detectives. They went down the hall into his room. I took off.”
“Shit, I have no idea what that was about,” Cuccia lied. “Maybe the guy got into it with somebody. Or he got mugged or something. Maybe his wife did it.”
“That’s the other thing,” Freni said. “His wife took off. Then she was mugged.”
“Huh?” Cuccia said. He acted surprised. “How do you know that?”
“That’s my business. Except nobody bothered to mention the guy would have a wife with him when he came to Vegas. I was given a name and a hotel. I found out about the wife after my near-miss with the law. Which is the second fuck-up with this job. I don’t intend to walk into a third.”
“What are you saying? You think my uncle is fucking with you?”
Freni tossed the empty juice bottle into a trash pail. “I’m saying somebody is jerking off the wrong guy, my friend.”
“I think maybe it’s miscommunication,” Cuccia said. “Trust me, nobody is out to jerk you off.”
“Good. Then nobody will mind showing some good faith with this mess.”
Cuccia let out a deep breath. “What is this, a fuckin’ shakedown now?”
“Call it a miscommunication,” Freni said. “You still want this guy dead, for whatever the fuck reason, give me a new number. Something I can live with.”
Cuccia stopped walking again. He looked around the pool until he spotted the blonde. She was with a tall black man. He watched with disgust as the blonde applied sun tan oil to the black man’s legs and arms.
“Thirty,” he said.
“Forty,” Freni said.
The blonde was bending over to kiss the black man. Cuccia nearly choked on his Coke when he saw the black man slip the blonde some tongue.
“Thirty-five,” he managed to say.
Freni stepped in front of Cuccia. “Forty.”
Cuccia frowned through his wired jaw. “All right.”
“Say it. The number.”
Cuccia hesitated a moment, then said, “Forty.”
