Charlie Stella
Charlie Opera
Copywright © 2003 by Charlie Stella
Charlie Opera is dedicated to my wife, Ann Marie.
Acknowledgments
Apples don’t fall far from their trees… and such is the case with Dave and Ross Gresham. Since Dave retired from teaching, I’ve been trying to give him a break (he’s put up with my writing attempts for 25 plus years now-it may well be what sent him and his wonderful wife, Linda, packing to live on a boat). Enter Ross… who was an innocent kid when I first met him (he wasn’t a Dallas Cowboys fan yet) and has since graduated from Harvard and earned an M.A. at the University of Southern Mississippi married Jess Randall, a Columbia graduate, has taken a teaching position at the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs, and has proved every bit as valuable as his dad to this writer. Luckily, Ross and Jess have a son of their own now (young William), so the Gresham-Randall line of genius continues. I sincerely thank Ross for his careful and insightful eye with Charlie Opera.
Others I need to acknowledge here are: my editor (and maestro), Peter Skutches; my heartbeat, Ann Marie (I fall more in love with you every day); my mother, Speranza (Hope) (for always, always, always being there); The Palm Too (the best steak joint in the world); my beloved New York State Buffalo Bills; the wonderful city of Las Vegas (heaven on earth); and, of course, our fierce (and never groomed like some puffy show dog) Bichon Frise, Rigoletto.
This town needs an enema.
– The Joker (Batman)
Chapter 1
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.”