Agent Thomas called Cuccia immediately after Charlie Pellecchia called. He let the phone ring a long time before giving up. Thomas wanted to pound on the door across the hall, but it was too dangerous. No matter how frustrating the situation had become, he couldn’t compromise Cuccia.
Pellecchia had sounded as if he might go to the police after all. Thomas couldn’t blame him, except local criminal charges against Cuccia could create a boondoggle of paperwork between the DEA and the Las Vegas police department. It would take time Thomas didn’t have.
He had assured Pellecchia of his safety. He had insisted that Cuccia’s vendetta was over. Now he knew how foolish his claim had been. As long as the mobster had something the government needed, it was Cuccia who called the shots. As long as the heroin sat in a New Jersey warehouse, Cuccia could pretty much do whatever he wanted.
Thomas had to find out what the hell was going on before it was too late. He had come to Las Vegas to make sure nothing went wrong. So far, nothing was going right.
He knew Pellecchia was staying at Harrah’s. He could be there in fifteen minutes if he ran. He might make it in less time if he grabbed a car.
Nicholas Cuccia sipped at a vanilla milk shake through a straw as he watched the end of a pay-per-view action movie. He was forced to drink most of his meals since his jaw had been fractured. He was lucky he liked milk shakes.
The phone rang again, and Cuccia had to adjust the volume on the television to hear what was going on in the movie. He turned the ringer on the phone off and propped a few pillows against the headboard to rest against.
He was anxious to catch a nap before Francone returned with a hooker. He watched as a black woman in a tight black skirt danced on the television screen. It reminded him that he would need to call the black broad from the escort service if he wanted to score more cocaine for later.
He was just finishing the milk shake when there was a knock at the door. He set the large glass down on a tray as he pushed himself off the bed. He glanced back at the television as he headed for the door. Another knock startled him.
“Fuckin’ hold it!” he yelled.
He wiped his hands on a towel as he reached for the door.
“Maintenance,” a deep voice said as Cuccia started to open the door.
“Who?” Cuccia asked as the door slammed into him.
Cuccia was knocked to the floor. The back of his head slammed against the legs of a marble cocktail table as the pain ricocheted through his jaw.
When Cuccia was able to focus again, a big man stood over him. As the man removed his sunglasses, Cuccia’s eyes opened wide as he recognized the intruder. It was the guy from the nightclub in New York. The guy who should’ve been dead already. It was Charlie Pellecchia.
Cuccia clenched his teeth and immediately winced from the pain.
“Stand up, tough guy,” Pellecchia said. “Unless you want to take this beating laying on the floor.”
Cuccia was in agony from his jaw. He held both his hands up from where he lay. He pointed to his jaw with his right hand as he shook his head.
Pellecchia looked around himself before stepping toward Cuccia. “What’s that?” he asked. “You have a toothache? Which one is it?”
Cuccia’s eyes opened wide with terror as he realized what Pellecchia was about to do. He tried to block the kick with both hands, but he wasn’t going to make it.
He heard his jaw crack for the second time in less than two weeks. He felt a sharp pain as he experienced immediate dizziness. He felt his eyes rolling as the numbness took over.
“Look, mister, I know how this looks,” the hooker said. “But he was into some strange shit.” She pointed at the plastic bag on the bed. “Look in there. He made me get one of those.”
Lano moved closer to the bed. He opened the bag with the barrel of the.380. His eyes squinted at the strap he saw inside the bag.
“The hell is it?” he asked. “A belt?”
“Look more,” she said.
Lano turned the bag upside down. Both the strap and the dildo spilled onto the bed. He looked from the items on the bed to Francone to the hooker and back. He laughed until he turned red from coughing.
“You all right?” the hooker asked.
“This is fuckin’ priceless,” he said through the rough coughing spell.
“You sure you’re all right? That’s some bad cough.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You should have it checked.”
Lano nodded. “I did.”
The hooker took a small step forward. “Can I go now?”
“You take anything of mine?”
“Just what was on him, I swear it.”
“You get his watch? It’s okay if you do. I want you to have it. That and that stupid fuckin’ money clip he carries.”
The hooker smiled. “I have them both.”
He remembered the envelope he was carrying inside his jacket pocket. He fished it out and tossed it to the hooker. “There’s a couple grand in there,” he said. “It’s yours now. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
The hooker felt the envelope with both hands and dropped it inside her bag. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot.”
Lano motioned toward the door with his gun. “And be careful,” he said. “They’re not all as stupid as this one.”