Bartender looks at me. “You hear about the airport?”
“Yeah.”
Bartender nods and yells, “Peters! They identify the bodies yet?”
“They think it’s him and his wife, and two body guards.”
“Have they made a positive ID yet?” I ask.
“Dunno. Want a drink?”
“It’s a bar, right?”
“It’s the only bar, three miles, every direction.”
“Then I’ll have whatever your best bourbon is.”
“Water, ice, twist?”
“Are you shitting me?” I growl.
He stares at me.
“Straight up,” I say.
With a heavy heart I toss the bourbon down my throat and join the group huddled around the TV broadcasting news instead of ballgames.
“They’re showin’ pictures of Lucky and Gwen Peters,” one of them says as I pull up a stool.
“Anyone here know them?” I say.
They look around at each other.
“Just heard of Lucky, is all,” the young guy with the work shirt says. “You?”
“Nope.”
The cameras are live, at Lucky’s house. On the screen, they superimpose several photos. There’s a shot of Lucky accepting some sort of giant check. Next, a shot of the vacant lot with a giant sign that says Vegas Moon. Next, a photo of Lucky and Gwen, taken at their Vegas church wedding a few months ago. She’s wearing the same cutoff jeans she had on earlier today. Or yesterday, or whenever it was. She’s got one foot on the floor, other in the air showing off the white lace garter on her thigh. One of the guys says, “Now that there is one fine piece of ass.”
My mood is so foul, had he insulted her, I would’ve killed him.
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?
44.
“Tell me everything you know about Gwen. And don’t say Gwen
