Donna Bella, a twenty-six-foot cabin cruiser, was anchored directly under the Marine Park Bridge in Jamaica Bay. An electronics technician had told the sixty-five-year-old underboss of the Vignieri crime family, Anthony Cuccia, that the bridge’s metal would help to jam any electronic surveillance.
The old man wasn’t taking chances. He let the boat’s engine idle to cover his conversation with his nephew.
“You’re flying to Vegas gonna solve this problem or make it worse?” he asked. “It’s something you should consider.”
It was a hot afternoon in mid-July. A stiff ocean breeze pulled at the umbrella shading the two men sitting on the back of the boat. The old man sucked on his twisted cigar, a DeNobli. He removed it to speak again.
“We got more important things to discuss than your personal vendetta with some mameluke broke your jaw,” he said. “This Russian thing, for instance, it needs to come to fruition.”
The nephew, Nicholas Cuccia, was forced to speak without moving his mouth from a broken jaw he had suffered the week before. He leaned forward and pointed at his chin.
“He’s gotta answer for this,” he whispered.
The old man frowned as he sipped club soda from a glass. He watched as a pair of jet skiers raced under the bridge about a hundred yards from Donna Bella. When the jet skiers were out of view, he turned to his nephew again.
“That’s gotta mend, your jaw,” he said. “What are you gonna do out there wired up like that? What’s the point?”
The nephew closed his eyes in frustration.
“It’s also a far reach, Las Vegas,” the old man continued. “It isn’t like the old days. There’s protocol involved. Protocol takes time.”
The nephew strained to speak. “I need a green light here,” he said. “I want this guy whacked.”
The old man stared into his nephew’s eyes.
“There are rules,” the nephew said. “Wiseguys don’t get touched. What’s it all about, we let a guy get away with this? Where does it stop? I had my jaw broken. I’m a skipper, for Christ sake.”
The old man leaned back in his chair as a warm breeze brushed against his face. “You shoulda thought of that before you grabbed that broad’s ass,” he said. He was down to the end of his cigar. He tossed it over the side of the boat.
The nephew said, “I’m going out there because I want him to know it’s me. I want him fucked up and then I want him dead. I want to be there when it happens.”
“That’s cowboy shit.”
“Whatever. I want this guy to know it’s coming.”
The old man picked at a strand of tobacco stuck between his teeth. “That why you sent a couple guys from your crew out there?” he asked. “To stir up the shit? Make sure they leave a trail makes it easier for the law to come back to you?”
“They went out there to keep an eye on the guy. I gave them specific instructions.”
The old man waved it off. “You want to whack a guy for breaking your face, you should probably wait it out.”
“I’m not asking for permission here. It is what it is. The guy has to die.”
The old man lit a fresh cigar and let the moment pass. He watched the jet skiers returning in race formation under the bridge.
“Last week we saw two broads racing topless on those things,” he said. “They had their tops tied around their necks like scarves. They drove them things with their tits bouncing for whoever wanted to watch.”
The nephew sipped club soda through a straw.
“You ever hear of getting your tit in a ringer?” the old man asked. “Like them broads, they get pulled over by the Coast Guard or something. Or they take a spill, maybe lose a tit, a couple guys drinking on a boat chase them down. Or worse maybe.”
The nephew frowned.
“Because that’s what this could be like,” the old man said. “If the guy talked to people, filled out a police report you don’t know about. If maybe his wife mentioned it to somebody. Which is why it’s smarter to wait a few months. Maybe you change your mind by then, forget the whole thing. That would be even smarter, you forget it, this bullshit.”
“The guy goes,” the nephew repeated. “I’m reaching out. Either you help me or you don’t.”
The old man looked off toward Rockaway Island. “I have a guy out there in Vegas,” he said. “Semiretired. A goodfella from here in New York. He used to do work for us, me and your father, ten, fifteen years ago. I know he takes on work from time to time.”
The nephew wiped at drool forming at one corner of his mouth. “I’ll pay him whatever he wants.”
“We can’t go through Vegas, though,” the old man said. “Not through the people out there. It has to be a private contract. Strictly private. The guy running things out there, Jerry Lercasi, he don’t meet with nobody. He has some accountant he sends in his place. They dress it up for the feds. You go out there for a sit-down with Lercasi, you gotta make like it’s a real-estate investment or some shit. You gotta sign up for land development tours or golf club lunches. You drive around looking at new houses while you do business. Lercasi is very careful.”
“So I don’t go near Lercasi’s people. That’s not a problem.”“When I say you can’t go through protocol, you understand what I’m saying here? My guy in Vegas can’t be tied into Lercasi. My guy is strictly private. For everybody’s sake.”
The nephew nodded. “I understand.”
The old man belched into a fist. “You know enough about this guy you want to whack? You know where he’s staying and so on?”
“That’s what Vin Lano and Joey Francone are out there for.”
“And you’re sure he’s there?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re gonna do this thing whether I help or not. It’s better I help.”
“I appreciate it.”
“It’s too bad that other kid got scooped up last year, Jimmy Mangino.”
“Jimmy Bench-Press?”
“Whatever the fuck his name is, yeah. He was a machine, that kid. You pointed him and he went, got it done.”
“He’s not around. All I got is what I got. Francone and Lano. They know what to do.”
The old man used a matchbook cover to remove tobacco from between his teeth. “About that other thing,” he said. “What we’re here to discuss in the first place.”
The nephew reached into his front pants pocket to activate the wire he was wearing. “The Russian thing?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Are they ready to go?”
“This week sometime,” the old man said. “Few days. Week at the most.”
“Just say when.”
“It’s still in Jersey, right?”
“At my guy’s place.”
“The new guy?”
“The one with the trucks, yeah. Rizzi.”
“They won’t take it from there, the Russians. They want security.”
The nephew shrugged. “I can’t do everything.”
The old man spit loose tobacco from his mouth. He examined his cigar and tossed it over the side of the boat. “These fuckin’ things,” he complained. “They used to roll them tight. You open a box of six, you’re lucky you can smoke three.”
“You shouldn’t smoke that crap. At least go to Cubans.”
“Cubans are too expensive,” the old man said. He fished another cigar from his pocket, examined it a few seconds, and placed it unlit to one side of his mouth. “I think it’ll move this week,” he said. “Can you do it from Vegas?”
“No problem. I’ll have Rizzi fly out to Vegas to calm his nerves and you can take the truck. I can arrange it but you’ll have to oversee it.”
“I don’t expect otherwise. Couple million dollars is a lot of money.”
“Couple million in heroin is a telephone number.”
“Besides, who else I’m gonna send with that kind of money while you’re out there jerkin’ off in Vegas?”
The nephew waved at a dragonfly. “So, this week?”
The old man removed the cigar from his mouth. “Couple, tree days,” he said. “No more than a week. I want this over with already. I don’t like sweating this out. The more that shit sits, the more nervous it makes me. It’s one big headache, that stuff. These Russians have the money. Let’s make the exchange and give them the headaches.”
The nephew deactivated the wire. “And Charlie Pellecchia?” he asked.
"›The old man looked off toward the beach again. “Charlie who?”
The nephew smiled through the pain in his jaw.
“That was cute, your conversation on the boat,” federal Drug Enforcement agent Marshall Thomas told Nicholas Cuccia.
They were seated side by side in the first-class section of an America West flight to Las Vegas. Thomas looked younger than his thirty-five years. He wore navy blue sweatpants and a light blue North Carolina sweatshirt. He was a broad man. His left shoulder bumped Cuccia as he leaned over to look out the window.
“You check the flight for wiseguys?” Cuccia whispered. “Or you trying to get me killed before your big heroin bust?”
“That’s the second time today you used that word,” Thomas said. “But that doesn’t do me any good, you saying it. It’s your uncle I need to hear discuss heroin. Not ‘that other thing’ or ‘that Russian thing’ or ‘that stuff’ or anything else. I need to hear him talk about heroin. You see what I’m saying?”
Cuccia opened the Playboy magazine he had bought at an airport newsstand. He flipped toward the middle of the magazine to the centerfold. He held the book up to let the picture drop open.
“Where do you suppose she lives?” he asked Thomas.
Thomas turned away from the nude picture. He looked up at the male flight attendant serving cocktails.
“Naked broads make you nervous?” Cuccia asked. He folded the centerfold back inside the magazine and turned it upside down on the folding tray. “There,” he said. “Take deep breaths.”
Thomas leaned into Cuccia again. “Like I said, I heard you talk about heroin. I didn’t hear your uncle talk about it. I heard him talk about Russians.”
“The old man is careful. If I pushed it, he would have known something. Relax. The closer he gets to the money, the more he’ll talk.”
“What about the rest of your conversation? You were on that boat for three hours. You brought back less than two minutes of dialogue.”
Cuccia touched the edge of his chin. “Six fucking weeks I gotta have this thing in my mouth like this,” he said. “He’s got a guy debugs the boat every so often. I wasn’t taking unnecessary risks. It’s my ass, not yours.”
Thomas opened the New York Times he had brought with him. He pointed to a headline in the Metro section. It read: MOB INDICTMENTS IN BROOKLYN. “We’re in a race against time,” he said. “You’re in a race against time.”
Cuccia was still touching around his jaw with his fingertips. “There’s nothing I can do until the man wants to move. So why not relax about it, already. Have yourself a drink.”
The flight attendant leaned across Thomas to set a miniature bottle of Absolut vodka and a can of Canada Dry tonic water on a napkin.
“What’s in Vegas?” Thomas asked after the flight attendant returned to the galley.
“Pussy,” Cuccia said.
“How you gonna eat it with a broken jaw?”
“Who said I was gonna eat it?”
Thomas smirked. “I thought you guys were big on eating pussy. At least that’s what I read in all the books you guys write after you make your deals.”
“That’s just to make the books sell,” Cuccia said. “Me, I prefer going through the back door any day. Ask your wife, she’ll tell you.”
Thomas lost the smirk on his face. He leaned across his seat to whisper into Cuccia &rsqo;s ear. “Just don’t get yourself in too much trouble while we’re in Las Vegas, Nicky. Or your deal will go down the same shitter your mother flushed when you were born.”
Cuccia forced a chuckle. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “You stay up all night and work that one out? ‘Down the same shitter your mother flushed.’ You guys kill me.”
Thomas sat back in his chair. He grabbed the headphones in the seat pocket in front of him and placed them on his head.
Cuccia continued forcing himself to laugh. “What a jerk-off,” he said somewhere in the laugh.