The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  Her panting slowed, and she asked in a labored voice, “What’s a pomegranate?”

  “Uh . . . it’s a cross between a grapefruit and a tomato.” An outright lie.

  “Oh, Phillip, you’re so educated.” And her breathing hissed again.

  Comfort untied Glenda’s robe, nudged her onto the bed, setting ablaze flashes of surging lust. At 5:30 the next morning, as the autumn-violet daylight sneaked in through the pleated sheer panels she did not resemble her painted face of the night before. He woke the hung-over woman, and half-carried her into the bathroom. The shower stall, commodious and marbled, was enclosed with a glass door that had a chrome towel rack affixed to it, fluffy white towels hanging from it. He rushed her along so she’d be home before her husband. He wished for Glenda to avert a beating by her husband.

  Comfort, tactfully, didn’t broach the subject of the vault room; he’d save that for another day. Discretion was one of Bobby Comfort’s qualities. Glenda slipped into the white dress, powdered her cheeks, and accentuated the eyelids with eyeliner. They embraced, and Comfort touched her chin. “Why don’t we see each other tonight? Same time, but not the same place.”

  On his first visit to the hotel lounge, Comfort had told Dean, the bartender, that his name was George St. John. But last night Dean wasn’t on duty, and he, Comfort, had presented himself to Glenda and the second bartender as Professor Phillip T. Pickens. And should Dean be working this evening, not to hazard his multiple identities colliding, he said to her, “When you’re done with your shift, come straight to my room. I’ll have champagne on ice waiting. What do you say?”

  She upped on her toes to reach his mouth and smacked a wet kiss there. “See you later, handsome.”

  “And leave your wedding band home. Okay?”

  Comfort offered to escort Glenda to her car, but she didn’t want her co-workers to surmise she’d spent the night in one of the hotel guests’ rooms. They kissed and she was gone.

  Sammy Nalo did not have as delightful a night. From sundown to sunup, the nasty bookmaker’s collector had been pressing him. An hour into this, he said, “If you ain’t got my money, borrow it. I don’t give a fuck how you do it. Just give me my fuckin’ money. Understand?”

  Nalo had blown his stake of the Sophia Loren score on gambling. Worse yet, Agent Hammer was advancing in solving the case, aligning Nalo in the FBI’s crosshairs. And the collector, Gus, was torturing the South American Lupe, carving Nalo’s name on her neck. Her screaming was unbearable, and Nalo couldn’t bear it. “Look, Gus. Leave the girl alone. Give . . . give me twenty-four hours. I’ll raise the cash.” It was hot in the apartment, and beads of sweat streamed out from under Sammy Nalo’s toupee. His brashness and tough-guy disposition had recoiled into meekness, a sheen of humidity glistening above his curved, narrow mouth, bringing to mind the perfectly painted lips of a doll.

  Gus said, “I’ll tell you what. I’m stayin’ here with this broad and wait for you to come back with the dough.” He pointed the knife at Nalo. “If you ain’t back in twelve hours, I’ll cut her tits off, and when I get to you I’ll stuff them down your throat. Now get your ass in gear before I ream it with a Roto-Rooter.”

  NICK SACCO

  Sammy was his own worst enemy. He was a degenerate gambler, but that was none of my business. I mean, I did a lot of gambling of my own, and went through millions of dollars. But Sammy had a worse habit. He couldn’t be trusted; he’d screw his own partners. He was always in need of money and an inch away from getting killed. If you gamble, usually you lose borrowed money, and not the kind that comes from banks. It’s cash you got from loansharks at five percent a week, and with such an outrageous vig you can never pay down the principal. Now you have shylocks breathing down your neck, and the first time you miss a vig payment they’ll put you in a hospital. The second time, you’ll be in the hospital longer. The third time, they won’t bother paying a couple of goons to break your bones; they’ll just kill you. It’s cheaper. Me, I never gambled with borrowed money; fortunately I always had plenty of it.

  That’s why gambling makes a thief out of someone who’s addicted to it, and Sammy was exactly that. If he had a chance to grab money that didn’t belong to him, he’d beat his own mother out of it. And now, once again Sammy was scrambling to stay alive.

  CHAPTER 5

  The 19th Hole was a nightclub/restaurant in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, covertly owned by Lucchese crime family consigliere Christie “the Tick” Furnari. The club, fiery with scantily dressed waitresses, music of the big band era in the background, was a front and nerve center for Furnari’s illegal operations. There his underlings and fellow Mafia gangsters flocked and hashed out the scheme of the day. One of Furnari’s affiliates was the Bypass Gang, a band of thieves who mapped out burglaries. Nick “the Cat” Sacco, a component of the gang, was Furnari’s most entrusted.

  On November 26, 1971, Christmas in the air, holiday decorations and pine-scented garlands festooned the walls and windows of the 19th Hole, softening the hard saloon atmosphere. Sacco was perched on a barstool, a vodka glass in hand, daydreaming about a cocktail waitress he had met last evening at 21 Club on West 52nd Street in Manhattan. To him, the Nordic-looking young lady resembled the actress Brigitte Nielsen.

  Two colleagues strolled into the 19th Hole and meandered toward the bar. One was Donald “the Greek” Frankos, who affectionately slapped Sacco on his back, jolting him from his reverie. “How yah doin’, Nick?”

  “All right . . . all right, Greek. What’s up?”

  Frankos bent over close to Sacco’s ear. “Nick, I gotta talk to you about a hell of a score.”

  Sacco put down his vodka. “Why don’t you guys have a drink?”

  The second friend, Al Visconti, a two-hundred-pound, five-foot-ten bruiser, also a burglar of Furnari’s Bypass Gang, welcomed the offer. “Sounds like a good idea. Make mine Canadian Club on the rocks.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Frankos the Greek said.

  Sacco hailed the bartender, Julie, a bouncy redhead whose lips seemed to be permanently puckered. “Julie, bring these guys two CC’s on ice, will you?” He then said to Frankos, “So what’s this score all about, Greek?”

  Grinning, the Greek, square-jawed and lanky, cocked his head to the side and shook it in a way that said Wait ’til you hear this.

  Julie served the cocktails and Visconti raised his glass. “Hey, cheers.” He was strong and had a trunk-like neck, and you could see the contours of his biceps and shoulders under his shirt.

  Sacco and Frankos answered in a chorus, “Cheers.” And in restrained excitement, Frankos told Sacco that he had been asked to take part in a theft of mammoth proportions.

  “Greek, can you give me a hint of what it’s about?” Sacco’s hazel eyes crinkled with curiosity.

  Frankos looped his arm around the broad-shouldered, six-foot-two Sacco, and darted his head to the left and to the right as if someone might’ve been eavesdropping. “Look Pal, this is too big a job. A lot of money can be taken. I mean a lot of money, and I don’t wanna say too much right here and now. All I can tell you is that Bobby Comfort and that miserable Turk, Sammy Nalo, are the ones putting together this score.”

  “I understan’. I understan’,” Sacco said as Visconti listened in.

  Frankos petted his black mustache, his jaw muscles flexing from edginess. “Nick, I want you to get Christie Furnari to sit down with us.” He waved his forefinger in circles, implying a bond between them. “We’re all gonna be in on it. You, Al, me, all of us. And if Christie comes through with what Comfort and Nalo need to pull it off, guess what?” The Greek raised his palms. “We’ll be set for good. I mean, I’m talkin’ about twenty-five to thirty million bucks.”

  Frankos’ details were sketchy, and Sacco was skeptical and didn’t commit to anything. The Greek sensed Sacco’s reluctance and underscored, “Nick, like I said, we’re lookin’ at twenty-five to thirty million dollars, man.”

  It sank in, and Sacco nodded enthu
siastically. “Christie doesn’t come here a lot, even though it’s his joint. But he’s supposed to be here tomorrow, and I’ll ask him if he’ll jump on this ride.”

  The three jewel thieves called for another round of drinks and salivated at the prospect of a potential super score.

  NICK SACCO

  I had been friends with Greek for years, and we trusted each other more than if we’d been brothers. We’d done a lot of jobs together and never had an argument. He didn’t talk much and at times acted as if he had the charm of a hippopotamus. But that was Greek’s way to throw you off balance. On the other hand, if he put his mind to it he could con the devil out of his balls. He was a contract killer primarily for the Genovese family underboss, Fat Tony Salerno. Greek was all business and had no time for games or bullshit. And if he didn’t want to go into details about a score he’d bring to me, I understood his reasoning. For one thing, he didn’t want to talk about it in a public place where anybody might’ve been snooping. If another thief happens to overhear you talking about a burglary, he could pull it off before you do, or if he’s an informant he could rat you out. And when you go to do the job, you find yourself in a hornet’s nest, and get arrested without ever knowing what the hell hit you.

  CHAPTER 6

  The promise of a windfall from the undertaking Frankos had put forth kept Nick Sacco awake the whole night. The next morning, the Cat was having breakfast with Christie Furnari, who, too, was drooling for a slice of so humongous a theft. And before finishing a saucer of espresso spiked with anisette, the Lucchese consigliere, a busy person, said he was willing to hear about Frankos and his partners’ idea over lunch. Furnari poured himself and Sacco a second round of the aromatic Italian coffee and raised his cup in toast. “Salut! Look Cat, let’s not waste time. Set up a meeting with the Greek and his boys, and we’ll see what can be done.”

  Sacco inhaled a drag of nicotine, and before sipping his coffee said, “Salut to you Christie. I’ll call the Greek as soon as I leave here.”

  The luncheon at the 19th Hole with Furnari was set for 12:30. Nick Sacco and the respected Lucchese consigliere had been at the bar chit-chatting while waiting to hear about Comfort and Nalo’s supposed mega-robbery. But annoyingly, frequent interruptions by runners, who delivered greetings and messages to Furnari, disrupted the conversation. The lunch customers were beginning to drift in, and the cooking flavors from the kitchen rustled Sacco’s hunger, the song “My Way” sounding from the ceiling speakers.

  The forty-seven-year-old Furnari nodded at his table. “Nick, let’s go sit down over there.” He raised his hand, and courteously called out to the bartender, “Freshen up our espressos, please.” Plowing through the restaurant’s patrons and tightly spaced tables, Sacco and Furnari walked to the corner table, a reserved spot exclusively for the Lucchese consigliere. He sat, his back to the wall, a Mafia precautionary tradition to avoid a bullet from behind. Furnari looked at his watch and sighed, impatience in his eyes. “It’s a quarter to one. They’re late, and already I don’t like it.” He was as punctual as the changing of the lunar faces and didn’t tolerate lateness. And one of the reasons why he appreciated Nick Sacco was for his timeliness. But Sacco had other characteristics that singled him out. The Cat was of his word, a man whose eyes affirmed what he said.

  “They’re comin’ from Hell’s Kitchen and probably got caught in traffic,” Sacco said apologetically.

  Furnari’s nose was slightly bent to the right, as if his face had been quartered and reassembled off-center. His mouth also lay askew, particularly when he’d get mad or upset, which he was at this moment. He waved a hand in disagreement. “Ah, that’s no excuse. If a man is late for an appointment, he’ll be late paying what he owes you. Remember that.”

  At last, Frankos strolled into the 19th Hole, Bobby Comfort and Sammy “the Arab” Nalo in tow. “Greek, over here,” Sacco hollered, his arm up high waving him over.

  The newly arrived sat opposite Furnari and Sacco. Amid the clanging of dishes and glasses, and the loud chatter from the crowd, Frankos introduced Comfort and Nalo, cigarette smoke thickening the air. Everyone shook hands, and as they settled at the table Furnari said, “So, Greek, let’s hear what your friends have to say.”

  Frankos, five-foot-ten, his sparse black hair parted to the side, held his chin. “Well, Christie, why don’t I have Bobby here give you the whole rundown?”

  Everyone seemed uneasy in Furnari’s presence, especially Comfort and Nalo. After all, to be face-to-face with the renowned Lucchese consigliere could fray one’s nerves, though it was a humbling experience for anybody who had the privilege of his company. But Comfort, articulate and collected, rose to the occasion. “Mr. Furnari, first of all, I want to . . .”

  Furnari interrupted him. “Call me Christie.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Comfort said, indicating Nalo. “Sammy and I want to thank you for taking the time. We know a lot about you, and by all accounts you’re a man of reason.”

  “That he is, that he is,” Sacco asserted, winking at Furnari.

  A few of minutes of wide-ranging conversations passed, and Comfort sketched out the bare essence of “the master scheme,” Nalo sporadically interjecting as he picked at his cuticles. Before coming to this summit, they had decided not to divulge details until Furnari confirmed his pledge to the project. But the consigliere, wise and a man of a few words, always insisted on all the particulars, and would not settle for Comfort and Nalo’s hazy proposition. And in his sedate but authoritative tone, he said, “Look, Bobby . . . what’s your partner’s name again?”

  “Sammy,” Comfort answered.

  Furnari pointed a fork at Comfort and Nalo. “Listen hotshots, as a practice I don’t swim in murky waters. If I can’t see the bottom of the pool, I stay out of it. I gotta know the whole story about this job. But all you’re giving me is an empty glass and double talk. I think you’re not for me. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Christie Furnari stood and was about to say goodbye.

  CHAPTER 7

  Furnari was on the verge of walking away. Comfort and Nalo swallowed hard, knowing the opportunity to gain the support and backing of a Mafia boss, a consigliere no less, was fading faster than a candle in a hurricane. Startled and embarrassed, Frankos, Comfort, and Nalo glanced at Sacco, who gently grasped Furnari’s elbow and said to his guests, “Christie here wants to know the whole deal upfront so he knows exactly what he’s gettin’ into. Understand?” He raised his eyes up at Furnari. “Christie, I don’t think Bobby and Sammy meant to hold back.” The Cat pointed at the consigliere’s seat. “Here, sit. We can hash this out.”

  “Yeah,” Frankos chimed in, “they’re not here to play games. Please . . . please sit Christie and let’s start over.” He plucked a pack of Pall Malls from his shirt pocket and offered a cigarette to Furnari and to everybody else at the table. The consigliere declined, but Sacco accepted, sliding one out and sticking it in his lips. Frankos lighted it, as he did one for himself, shaking the match to snuff it out.

  Taking the lead, and grateful for the second chance, Bobby Comfort signaled to Nalo not to do the talking. He leaned into the table and began a more thorough narration of his plot. The tension was easing, and the strategy seemed doable.

  Sacco let out a stream of smoke and flicked his cigarette into an ashtray. “What’s everybody’s cut gonna be?”

  Comfort opened his palms, a display of sincerity. “We’ll do an even split among all of us.”

  Sacco looked to Furnari. “What about Christie? What does he get?”

  Comfort cleared his throat as if he were afraid his answer might be rejected. “Uh . . . twenty percent.”

  Sacco and Furnari glanced at one another and chuckled. The consigliere said, “Thanks but no thanks.”

  “Well, I mean . . . eh that’s negotiable,” Comfort stammered, and Frankos fidgeted clumsily, Nalo still picking at his cuticles.

  Furnari slurped his espresso and gazed slyly at Comfort over the rim of his cup. “You have
n’t yet said what you want from me.”

  “Christie, we need things like a late model limo, two untraceable trail cars, weapons, and other odds and ends. And should something go wrong, we need your political contacts.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Furnari folded his arms across the chest, leaned back in the chair, and allowed his thoughts to linger. Everyone else stopped breathing. “For me to consider all this, I gotta get thirty-five percent of the take.” This resounded as if it were a bolt of thunder.

  “That’s what he usually gets,” Frankos stressed to Comfort and Nalo, who were not accustomed to partnering with a high-ranking Mafia associate the likes of Furnari.

  Sacco nodded. “That’s what it is.”

  Comfort and Nalo didn’t reply, and Furnari said, “I learned in life not to ask for anything that’s unreasonable. So what’s it gonna be, boys?” He called them boys to make Comfort and Nalo ill at ease. He waved at a waiter and asked for more coffee. “By the way, does anybody want anything to eat? Now’s the time to order.” But anxieties to reconcile this meeting with Furnari on board had stifled the appetites.

  All eyes were on Comfort and Nalo, who were musing in silence, considering Furnari’s most invaluable contributions—his connections to the judges, high level law enforcement agents, and key politicians. And putting matters into perspective, should they get collared or fall under suspicion, armed robbery is a Class A violent felony, packing a mandatory twenty-year sentence. And Furnari’s coveted acquaintances could quash such a dire prospect. Comfort gave Nalo a final glance and said to Furnari, “Okay, Christie, thirty-five percent will be your end.”

  “I don’t know why it took so long for you to come to your senses,” Furnari said.