“Four people?”
“That’s what they’re sayin’.” He digs some ear wax out of his ear with his little finger, inspects it, then flicks it at the empty space between me and the grizzled drunk who’s sitting two stools down from me.
“Hey, Benny!” he shouts at the small group crowded around another TV.
A young guy with a beard and a faded blue work shirt turns around.
Bartender says, “What’s the latest?”
Young guy says, “Which one? Airport or Lucky Peters?”
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 who.”
Carmine nods. “Helluva girl, that one.”
I wait.
He says, “Fuckin’ pity. Swear to God, I find out who clipped her, I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands.”
I say nothing in response, show nothing in my expression. What I’m thinking is Carmine’s got a huge head. I wonder how much gasoline it would hold.
“Unless it was you that killed ’em,” he says. “In which case I figure they had it comin’.”
I don’t speak.
Carmine says, “Heard you was bodyguardin’ Lucky. Figured you wouldn’t of taken that job less you was workin’ some kind of angle. Maybe you found a way to take over his business?”
Carmine waits for me to respond, but gets nothing.
He says, “God knows I tried.”
Then he says something that completely floors me: “How’d you find out Gwen was workin’ for me?”
45.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Shit.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Carmine says, “Can I turn that fuckin’ TV down?”
He reaches for the remote, presses the mute button. Says, “My wife’s asleep. If she wakes up and comes in to check on me, you won’t make her a part of this, will you?”
“She won’t be joining us tonight.”
Carmine’s face goes white. Well, whiter.
“Relax,” I say. “I just pennied her into the room.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I pressed a couple of coins into the door jamb. She won’t be able to open her door until someone removes the coins. If she starts banging the door, you’ll know she’s awake.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“You said Gwen was working for you.”
“Right.” He clears his throat. “Okay, it’s clear you’ve become, ah, ah…”
“Close to her.”
“Right.”
“So?”
“So you gotta understand, anythin’ I tell you happened before you and her ever met. And I don’t know shit about what happened these last few days.”
He pauses.
I say, “Don’t make me ask you again.”
“Right. Well, Gwen was on my payroll. I hired her to, ah, seduce Lucky. Well, she done it so well he up and asked her to marry him after a few fuckin’ weeks! So I give her permission, ’cause I want her to get me names, numbers, point spreads…you know, the works.”
I wait for him to continue.
“Well, she gets me nothin’. I mean, the motherfucker is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I think she’s lyin’ at first, so I threaten her a bit.” He looks at me and quickly adds, “No physical stuff. Just angry talk. You know.”
He looks at me, sees I’m not participating. Continues. “So anyway, I’m increasin’ the pressure on her, you know, turnin’ the screws, and then you come into the picture. Now I want no part of it, so I tell her I’m done, have a good life.”
He shakes his head. “And now this.”
I think about how Gwen asked me how much to kill Lucky. How much to kill Carmine. Now I know why. Carmine doesn’t like the way I’m looking at him.
He says, “I know this makes me look bad.”
“Ya think?”
“Let me tell ya somethin’,” he says. “I’ve known this girl since the first time she got knocked up.
I sigh. “Go on.”
“When she turned eighteen she started dancin’ for me.”
“By dancing, you mean?”
“In the strip clubs.”
I sigh again. Deeper, this time.
“That’s where she met Lucky,” Carmine says. “You really didn’t know this?”
“Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what was her stage name?”
“You don’t know?”
“I asked you, didn’t I?”
“Didn’t matter which club she danced,” Carmine says. “Her stage name was always the same: Vegas Moon.”