The Pierre personnel and the guests who are scattered here and there freeze on the spot. At first, some don’t register that command, but the vigorous commotion of the bounding gunmen lights the reality of this eddying maelstrom.
“Oh, my God! It’s a holdup!” a redhead says in a scream. She’s in her early thirties, eyes wide in angst, hands sandwiching her cheeks from sheer fear. “Somebody call the . . . Oh!” She sees Germaine lunging in her direction, wielding a silver pistol.
She raises her hands, and Germaine winds his arm around the woman’s waist. “Stay put, girl. I’m not gonna hurt you. Please lemme cuff your wrists.” And she does, his Old Spice cologne suffusing her nostrils.
Ali-Ben, too, has a customer. He spotted a bellhop lugging a brass-framed luggage cart. He rams his pistol into the baggage handler’s spine, and turns him over to Visconti. Ali-Ben then dashes to the foyer of the side entrance; there Comfort pulls Jules out of the closet and relegates him to his reliever. “You got him?” he asks Ali-Ben.
“Yeah, I got him.” And Ali-Ben takes the guard by the bicep.
Comfort calls out to Frankos, careful not to use his name for the hostages to hear. “Everything okay?”
“It’s all cool. It’s all cool.” Frankos said. He had taken Jules’s gray uniform sweater, and the Greek was now wearing it. The pullover had a full-length zipper and a gold and black patch bearing the inscription, SECURITY OFFICER, lending the Greek the appearance of authority.
By the elevators, Sacco aims his gun at the African American operator, who gasps and drops to his knees, hands stiffly stretched out in the air, his egg-size eyeballs popping out. “Mah man, don’t shoot me. Oh Lord, please don’t shoot me. Look here, I won’ say nuttin’ to nobody. No sir.”
“On your feet, pop. We’re gonna take a short walk. Just for exercise. Looks like you don’t get enough.”
“Where yoh takin’ me, mah man? I never done nobody no wrong. I got lil’ gran’kids to look after,” the black man babbles on.
Sacco marches him to a semi-secluded alcove snuggled to the right of the vault behind the front desk. Ali-Ben is already there with the handcuffed Jules, and so is Nalo who’s prodding Blondie into the alcove. “All right, everyone get inside and sit on the floor facing the walls,” Nalo barks.
The pandemonium is rising.
Not far from the entrance of the now closed Café Pierre, Comfort spots a male in his forties in an ill-fitting black suit, and assumes him to be a security officer. In a quick but composed walk so not to tip off the presumed guard, Comfort, gun behind his back, nears him and presents the weapon he had kept concealed. “Sir, put your hands up. Are you one of the security people?”
“Hey, what the hell is this,” says the guard, eyebrows arched on his forehead. “What is this, a holdup?”
“You guessed it, sir,” Comfort answers kindly, his pistol in the man’s flabby belly. “Now please, won’t you open your jacket? I want to see if you’re armed.”
The security officer unbuttons his jacket and flaps it open. No weapons. “Good, good,” Comfort says. “Sir, if you will, let’s walk into the alcove.” And this accounts for the four-man night security force. The first was Jules; Visconti had surprised the pair down in the security office; and now Comfort apprehended the fourth one.
The stickup men move on to corral a few stunned guests, who at this wee hour of the night, for one reason or the other, happen to be milling about on the ground level—six in all. Also among the unfortunate are eleven Pierre employees, the night skeleton crew. Sacco and Ali-Ben herd the detainees into the alcove, and one by one Germaine and Nalo fetter everyone’s wrists. Ali-Ben seals the captives’ mouths; tough Comfort insists on exercising kindness and good manners. And the holdup men do not handcuff or gag the frail and the elders.
The alcove is now secured, and Comfort goes down to the subterranean floor, where Visconti has been holding the two security officers. “Okay, you can bring these guys up to the alcove.”
Visconti nods at Comfort, and revolver in hand marshals his prey one flight up and into the makeshift holding pen.
The invaders confined the hostages inside the niche, a space now reminiscent of a POW paddock. The raiders have cleared the entire lobby and foyer zones, and Sacco and Ali-Ben spread out into the labyrinth of hallways, supply storerooms, utility closets, and employees’ lunchroom in search of anyone still at large. Bobby Comfort puts on the concierge’s dark red jacket and takes charge of the phones. The white telephones are reproduction classics from the 1920s art deco era outfitted with brass hardware.
Nalo and Germaine return to the side entrance and the latter says to Frankos, “Open the door. We gotta get the tool boxes and the valises out of the limo.”
Frankos browses outdoors through the glass and spies for any pedestrians. “It looks clear.” He unlocks the door, and Nalo and Germaine rush out, a mass of cold air stinging their faces. In the limousine, Al Green notices his partners exiting the Pierre and pops open the trunk. “Everythin’ awl right in there?”
“Yeah, it’s goin’ good. So far.”
Green helps move the tool box and the Louis Vuitton luggage to the hotel door and runs into the warm car. Why the exorbitantly expensive Louis Vuitton pieces? Who might think of burglars transporting stolen jewels in such suitcases of status?
Nalo and Germaine hustle back into the building, hurrying across the lobby, readying to rip open the safe deposit boxes in the vault. As Comfort had observed in the course of his reconnaissance, due to the constant traffic in the vault room, the management seldom shut its cast iron door. And tonight is no different.
Comfort is at the front desk, overseeing his team at work; Sacco and Ali-Ben, toting revolvers, are roving throughout the premises, patrolling for anyone and anything amiss. Visconti is in the alcove guarding the hostages, and Frankos the Greek is at his post at the 61st Street entrance. The stickup men are all in place, and Comfort nods at Nalo and Germaine, a signal to begin ransacking the safe deposit boxes. Nalo is lugging the heavy tool box, and Germaine lugs the valises into the safe room. Inside there, Germaine says to Nalo, “We gotta keep the door closed, otherwise the hammering and prying is gonna wake up the whole joint.” Twenty minutes into this process, a logistical problem arises; in the vault are hundreds of deposit boxes, and the majority of these containers is empty or have odds and ends of no value. The marauders must abscond before the 7:00 A.M. morning shift, and haven’t time to rummage through every one of the boxes. An unanticipated glitch.
CHAPTER 14
Though it was strictly business on his part, and not a love affair, Comfort’s extramarital folly with the Pierre’s assistant bookkeeper, the loose brunette Mrs. Glenda Atkins, was about to pay off. In part, in his daily surveying of the hotel he romanced Glenda, who soon warmed to Bobby Comfort but knew him as Professor T. Phillip Pickens. And the cozy chitchats in bed produced invaluable information. She unwittingly told him specifics of the day-to-day management of the hotel. For example, the records and entries of items the guests keep in the deposit boxes were recorded on index cards filed in a metal receptacle. Recalling this, a thought occurred to Comfort. He asked Sacco to have Nalo come to the front desk.
Nalo craned his neck around the vault door. “What is it?”
“Stop banging in there for a minute and come here,” Comfort said.
“Hold up,” Nalo hollered to Germaine and jogged to the front desk. “Somethin’ wrong?”
Comfort said, “There’s no point in going through every damn box. Remember I told you that the hotel auditor keeps track of every single thing the guests put in the safe deposit boxes?”
Nalo nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Comfort touched his temple, eyebrows doing a devilish dance in wonderment. “We’ll make the concierge give us the index cards, and you’ll only open the boxes that are worthwhile.”
Nalo rocked his head, but his brooding trait did not brighten. “That’ll
make it a lot easier.” He raced to the alcove and said to Visconti, “Bring the concierge out here.”
The concierge, a short, freckled man with a boyish face and carrot-red hair, was shaking from head to toe, believing he was in the final minutes of his life. Perspiration was bubbling on his brow, his hair sticking to it. “Please don’t harm me. I got a wife and three kids.”
“We’re not here to hurt you,” Comfort said. “What’s your name?”
“Uh. . . Rusty.”
“Rusty! That’s a nice name,” Comfort said as if he truly liked it.
Nalo didn’t find any humor, and his severe expression never wavered.
Comfort felt Rusty’s manacled wrists and to mollify him asked, “Are the cuffs too tight?”
The concierge’s breathing calmed a bit, and he shook his head. “No.”
“Good. Here’s what we want you to do, Rusty. We need the metal case with the index cards that list the things inside the safe deposit boxes. We want you to give us those cards.”
Rusty stammered uncontrollably and said, “I . . . I don’t know where the auditor keeps them. I’m . . . I’m not lying.”
Comfort cocked his head and smiled. “Now, now, Rusty. I’m a nice guy and wouldn’t think of hurting anybody.” He thumbed at Nalo. “But my friend here isn’t so nice.”
Rusty’s face was drenched in sweat, and Comfort saw his knees vibrating. The concierge side-glanced Nalo, who stood in a stance as though he were about to pummel him. Time was passing rapidly and this bantering could not continue. Comfort peeked at his watch and rested his hand on the petrified concierge’s shoulder. “Look, Rusty, as long as you’re dealing with me nobody will hurt you.” He pointed at Nalo. “But my pal doesn’t care who lives or dies here tonight. See, he’s a Muslim, and if he kills you, he thinks he’s doing you a favor because he believes he’d be sending you to a better place.” Comfort paused. “Besides, there’ll be no skin off your back. These people we’re robbing got more money than they can count, and whatever we’re taking they won’t miss.”
Rusty’s glances pranced from Comfort to Nalo. “I . . . I think the auditor keeps the index cards in one of his drawers. But I’m not sure.”
“Well, let’s go have a look,” Comfort said.
Rusty led his captors to where the metal container was kept. Nalo opened it and scanned the cards. Eureka! The data in each card included the safe deposit box number, the name of the current holder, the date it was last accessed, and a description of the stored valuables. Comfort walked Rusty to the alcove, and some were moaning and sniffling inside there. Nalo hastened into the vault and said to Germaine, “We got what we needed. Take a look at this.” A scarce smile sprouted on his lips. “Box number 233 is loaded with jewelry.” And he and Germaine pinpointed that box and pried it open.
In possession of the inventory cards, the production of emptying the high-value boxes was now as easy as picking apples, and Nalo and Germaine were feverishly pillaging the safe room, stuffing one of the four Louis Vuittons with millions in diamonds and cash.
CHAPTER 15
The burglary had been progressing, and progressing it was. The hostages, a mix of aristocracy, middle-class workers, and lowly laborers, were now less ruffled and somewhat resigned. Understandably, two or three of the women were sniveling, though Comfort and his brigade were bending over backward to be polite, treating the imprisoned considerately. The phone rang at the front desk, and Comfort lifted the receiver. “Hello, how may I help you?”
An irate voice belonging to a South American male complained, “This is Meester de Montejo. I ring for elevator ten meenutes ago, and it no come.”
Comfort contrived an excuse and explained in his polished enunciation, “Sorry sir. We only have one elevator operator at night, and he’s . . . well he’s indisposed in the lavatory. But I’ll send someone else. He’ll be there in a minute. What floor are you on, sir?”
“Twenty-four,” answered Señor de Montejo.
Comfort moved the receiver away from his ear and stared at it. Twenty-four! “Mr. de Montejo, did you mean you’re on the twenty-fourth floor?”
“Yes, yes, that’s what I said. Hurry up.”
Comfort waved at Ali-Ben and Nick Sacco. “Come here you guys,” he said. “Listen, take one of the elevators to the twenty-fourth floor. A Mr. de Montejo has been waiting there.”
Ali-Ben, his Turkish accent thick and unintelligible, reminded Comfort, “That’s Nick’s specialty.” A guest calling for an elevator at 4:00 A.M. seemed unlikely; nevertheless, Nick Sacco had trained for this improbability. The Cat had asked a friend, an apartment building superintendent, to teach him how to work a manned elevator. Indeed, this company of jewel thieves had devised the means to overcome any crisis. Hopefully.
Sacco gave Comfort a reassuring look and pulled Ali-Ben by the arm. “No problem. C’mon.”
Comfort urged, “This guy up there is getting impatient. Hurry. I don’t want him calling someone on the outside. If he’s got anybody else in his suite, bring them all down here.”
Ali-Ben and Sacco sprinted into the nearest elevator. Sacco pressed a black pushbutton. Bingo! The elevator and shaft doors rolled shut. Beside that black button was a brass throttle lever that stemmed from the floor to a height of thirty-six inches. This was the rheostat that controlled the movement and speed of the elevator. Sacco tilted it to the right, and in a jerky jolt the elevator jettisoned upward at an ear-popping speed. “And away we go.”
Ali-Ben felt queasy. Did Sacco really know how to run this thing? It was accelerating at the velocity of a rocket, and Ali-Ben feared that for sure this wood and brass contraption was going to blast through the roof. Sacco was watching an electronic panel of illuminated numbers, each corresponding to the approaching floor, and lighting in succession as the elevator ascended. In forty seconds, the twentieth number blinked, a warning to slow the lift for the twenty-fourth floor landing. “Slow it down, man. Slow it down!” Ali-Ben said, panicking.
“Relax,” Sacco replied in a cool whisper. He eased the throttle back to the left, and the elevator slowed. In five to six seconds it would come to a full stop on the twenty-fourth floor.
But the phone rang again at the front desk. “Hello, how may I help you?” Comfort asked.
“Thees is Meester de Montejo. What ees takeen so long for elevatore to come?”
Comfort put on a smile to sound collected and agreeable. “Oh, sorry, sir. It should be arriving any moment.”
“I donn know. Sometheen is feeshy. Sometheen is feeshy here.”
CHAPTER 16
The elevator door opened, and the two burly men in tuxedos emerged, guns in hand.
“What took you so goddamn long?” Señor de Montejo demanded, belligerence in his voice. But as he saw the cannon-like revolvers, his hostility tempered. “What . . . what’s goeen on?”
“We apologize for your inconvenience,” Sacco said in his husky voice. “But there’s more inconvenience to come.” He gently backed Señor de Montejo into the hallway wall.
This was a total surprise to de Montejo; here he was on his honeymoon at the most famed and exclusive hotel in the world, less than twenty hours after his wedding ceremony, and two armed hooligans were holding him at gunpoint. It must be a dream.
“Who else is here with you?” Ali-Ben asked.
“Eh . . . my wife and . . . mother-in-law,” de Montejo answered, indicating the direction of his suite.
“Let’s go get them,” Sacco said.
“What do you want with my wife and mother-in-law?” asked the Brazilian, who, not believing that a couple of loco Americanos could order him into submission, seemed more frazzled than scared.
“We have a black tie party going on downstairs, and you’re all invited,” Sacco said.
“Thees is a joke. Please go away.” De Montejo, tall and slender, his black hair combed back a` la Julio Iglesias, was startled beyond words, and turned to walk down the hall to his suite as though he were free to do as he plea
sed.
“Sir, this is no joke. Stop and do as we say,” Sacco warned, severity in his voice, advancing to tackle de Montejo if necessary.
Ali-Ben took hold of the man’s arm, and they escorted him to his room. On entering, Señor de Montejo, a well-to-do rancher, led the two gunmen to the bedroom where his bride was sleeping. Sacco motioned to wake her. The Brazilian tiptoed to the side of the bed, shook his wife, and uttered in Portuguese, “Lilliana, Svegli . . . svegliano.” Wake up, wake up.
“Uh, non ora Diego,” she said. Uh, not now, Diego.
“Lilliana, sveglia, por favor.” Lilliana, wake up, please.
“In esso vive, Diego. Lo abbiamo fatto soltanto molti teamses poiché siamo andato voi base.” No more, Diego. We did it so many times since we went to bed.
“Lilliana, non è quello. Là ara due banditi qui con le pistole. Gli facciamo andare abajo con loro.” Lilliana, that’s not it. There are two bandits here with guns. They want us to go downstairs with them.
Lilliana, still sore from the rupturing of her hymen, her virginity, and the excessive workout her vagina had endured over the past several hours, was faintly awake in the darkish bedroom. “Diego, go to sleep,” she mumbled in Portuguese, her voice gravelly.
Sacco groped for the light switch on the wall. Seeing her groom in a suit, not a hair misplaced, and a scent of fresh cologne, she widened her drowsy eyes. She said, “Diego, why are you dressed at four o’clock in the morning?” A moment later, she saw Sacco and Ali-Ben, her jaw dropping. “Who are these men? And why are they in our bedroom?”
De Montejo crouched near the edge of the bed and also spoke in Portuguese. “I’m trying to tell you they’re forcing us to go . . .” He pointed at Sacco and Ali-Ben as if they were aliens. “. . . These bandits are taking us to the lobby.” He helped her off the bed and pulled her pink nightgown down to her ankles. “Put on something and go wake up your mother.” Lilliana stumbled past Sacco and Ali-Ben. She went to the second bedroom where her mother, Señora de Lago, a petite lady weighing less than one hundred pounds, was already awake and standing in her doorway.
The Pierre Hotel Affair Page 6
