Sacco said, “Good, good!”
Furnari, icing his stone-faced stare, said to his off-balance audience, “I’ll sleep on it.”
Disappointed to end the luncheon inconclusively, the table disbanded and Sacco turned away from Furnari and winked at the others. “I’ll be in touch with you guys.”
CHAPTER 8
Two days had passed since the unproductive encounter at the 19th Hole. In the absence of a reply from Nick Sacco, Frankos, Comfort, and Nalo were growing discouraged, and contemplated soliciting the backing of a Colombo family made man, Vinnie Aloi. The drawback, though, was Aloi’s insatiable greed. And more disconcerting, Vinnie was brutally vicious. But who else could they go to? Comfort and Nalo’s stratagem to steal so large a prize was foolproof—at least on paper—and they were not about to scrap it. In so far as Aloi’s hair-trigger ruthlessness, well, they’d have to play fair and pray for smooth sailing.
In the past, Frankos had collected loansharked debts on behalf of Aloi, and Vinnie had praise for him. Comfort and Nalo had never met Aloi, and it fell on Frankos to open the lines of communication with the Colombo wiseguy. “Hello, Vinnie, it’s the Greek.”
“Hey, Greek. How’re you doin’?” asked the grossly overweight Aloi.
“Good, good, man. But listen, a couple of buddies of mine and me wanna hook up with you. Got somethin’ to talk to you about, Vinnie.”
“Sure, sure, Greek. Come down to my place. Say tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty.”
“We’ll be there, Vinnie.”
Entering Aloi’s basement makeshift office, a stench of cat urine overpowered the visitors’ nostrils. At the first impression of him, Comfort and Nalo were revolted, if not frightened by his grotesqueness, and became more unwilling to align themselves with him. Frankos handled the introductions, and less any pleasantries, Aloi asked what the purpose of this call was. Comfort openly steered him through the preliminaries. Aloi, seeing the huge possibilities of this mouthwatering, high-stakes score, hinted he was interested. At that moment his phone rang. Resembling the bouncing of an oversized beach ball, he hobbled to his desk, flab around his belly sloshing beneath the soiled polo shirt, and lifted the phone receiver, his hand bloated like rising dough. “Hello,” he said. His voice sounded as if he were gurgling. Moments later, he yelled into the phone, “What! I’ll be right there.” And Aloi flung the handset. In a fret, he said to his guests, “Somethin’s come up. I gotta go. Come back tomorrow at the same time, and we’ll wrap up this deal.”
Again disillusioned, Comfort, Nalo, and the Greek walked up Aloi’s basement steps, the wooden stairway creaking, and thought that, perhaps, this aborted meeting might’ve been an omen of sorts. Even so, they looked forward to returning tomorrow, hoping to finalize an understanding with Vinnie Aloi. But a concern was chewing on Frankos’s mind, one he hadn’t shared with his partners. Aloi only settled for a seventy-percent stake, a rather disproportionate cut. But what could you expect from a coldhearted loanshark? Certainly not fairness.
The next afternoon, just as the trio of super bandoleros were about to exit Nalo’s Manhattan safe house for the trip to Aloi’s office in Maspeth, Queens, the phone rang. Nalo answered it. “Hello.”
“Hello, it’s Nick Sacco. Is this Sammy?” He had recognized Nalo’s high-octave voice.
“Yeah, it’s Sammy. Got good news, Nick?” Nalo pointed at the receiver, and mouthed to Frankos and Comfort, “It’s Sacco.”
“That deal we talked about the other day; you-know-who says it’s a go,” Sacco was pleased to announce.
A smile came on Nalo’s thin lips. As Frankos and Comfort were looking on eagerly, Nalo made a ring by curling his thumb and forefinger, the international sign that means all is well. “All right! And are you in, Nick?”
“Sure, I’m in,” Sacco said.
Comfort was glad they didn’t have to deal with the gluttonous Aloi and called for a minor celebration, though he told Frankos to place a courtesy phone call to the Colombo mobster and cancel their appointment. But hesitance was on the Greek’s face, and Comfort asked, “What’s the matter?”
Frankos scratched his chin and glanced from Nalo to Comfort. Frankos was stalling, and Nalo asked, “Greek, what’s the problem? Any reason you don’t wanna phone Aloi?”
Frankos lit a cigarette, puffed on it, and let out a swirling loop of smoke. “See, I know this guy like a book. And he’s not gonna like us backin’ out. We already told him it’s gonna be a big, big score, and he’s probably hot for it. Now he’s gonna wanna know why we’re not taking him in on it. And he’ll be even more pissed when he finds out we’re going with Furnari.”
Comfort flopped onto a frayed velour couch. “So what if this fat fuck of a slob will be pissed. So what! We just got word that Furnari is behind us. And one of the reasons we went to Furnari in the first place is for protection; protection not only from the cops, but also from scumbags like Aloi. Right?”
“That’s right!” Nalo said. “Let’s go to the 19th Hole and see what Sacco says.”
They walked two blocks east in the Hell’s Kitchen district of New York City to where Frankos had parked his green Ford Thunderbird, and drove south to the 19th Hole.
Nick Sacco was in a large room furnished and dedicated to private affairs. He and Al Visconti were playing gin rummy. A waitress came in and informed the Cat that three individuals were at the bar asking for him. Sacco put his hand of cards down, and always on the alert, asked her, “Do they look like cops?”
“I doubt it. Their clothes are too tasteful and expensive.”
Sacco pushed himself away from the card table, upped and went into the bar area of the restaurant. On seeing Frankos and his new partners, he said, “Here I am. What’s up?”
Comfort asked, “Nick, can we talk somewhere more privately?”
“Sure.” Sacco led them to the private room and told the waitress to ask everyone what they wanted to drink. She did and walked back to the bar. The Cat asked, “What’s on your minds, guys?”
Quite candidly, Comfort told Sacco what had occurred in respect to Vinnie Aloi. And Frankos laid out the predicament at hand: the likelihood that Aloi would feel betrayed and threatened in some way.
Sacco listened and understood the pickle they had gotten themselves into. “But why didn’t you guys wait before you jumped the gun and went to that fat bastard?”
“That’s water under the bridge,” Nalo said, draining a snifter of scotch. “The question is, what do we do now?”
Sacco shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re gona have to talk to Christie Furnari, and see how he wants to handle Aloi.”
Vinnie Aloi eventually learned that Frankos, Comfort, and Nalo had canceled on him, and as anticipated this snubbing infuriated the Colombo captain. He was hell-bent on revenge.
CHAPTER 9
As delicately as he could, Sacco told Furnari about the Aloi flammable situation. The Lucchese consigliere’s reaction was a seething one. In an attempt to soothe him, Sacco said, “Christie, Comfort and Nalo hadn’t heard from us, and they figured you weren’t interested. That’s why they reached out to Aloi.” Sacco poured more coffee for Furnari. “Not that I’m defending these guys, but they’re pressed for time. They did say the job has to go down the day after the first of the year. I mean, we’re already into the middle of November, and they got a lot of things to put in place.”
Furnari tore open a bag of Sweet’N Low and dumped it in his espresso, stirring the muddy coffee. As an afterthought, he added a half ounce of Frangelico. “I don’t wanna lose this score to Aloi.” He took a swill of his espresso concoction and savored it, smacking his tongue. A few seconds passed, and Furnari aimed his spoon at Sacco. “I’m gonna call for a sit down with good ol’ Vinnie, and I’ll tune him up.”
At the sit down, in the cellar of Don Peppe, an Italian restaurant on Lefferts Boulevard in Ozone Park, Queens, Aloi ranted and raved, complaining he’d been strung along by “three two-bit burglars” who used him as a wedge against
the Lucchese family. And to add insult to injury, Aloi implied, Furnari was beating him out of a “big score just for spite.”
But Aloi’s grievances were unfounded; Comfort, and Nalo hadn’t meant to mislead him. Their first choice of backing was Furnari, and perhaps it might’ve been in poor judgment to have prematurely contacted Aloi. In truth, if they were to be blamed for anything, it should’ve been for their impulsiveness. Nevertheless, this pair of non–Mafia members was on the verge of inciting a deadly confrontation between two clashing underworld figures.
Lucchese consigliere Furnari wielded far more power and clout than Vincent Aloi, who as a made man was lesser in rank and status. Aloi had ended his denunciation, and it was Furnari’s turn to make his case. In his hardly audible voice, he began, “Does anybody here ever know me to go behind somebody’s back and take somethin’ that I wasn’t entitled to?” Furnari glanced about the room, searching everyone’s eyes, homing into Aloi’s. No one answered, but in support some gave a faint shaking of the head. Furnari was the type of leader whose unblinking look affirmed his intentions, and those who knew him understood this.
Seven people were there, and five had cigarettes dangling from their mouths, the air smoky and thick, and as stale as the awful odor of a dirty ashtray. More discomforting, this humid, darkish subterranean level was noisy from the energetic footsteps of the waiters and customers in the restaurant above. Furnari, addressing Aloi, said, “Vinnie, you’ve been reading the wrong bible. You just made a lot of accusations against me in front of these folks, whom I’d like to think respect me not for who I am but for what I do.” The consigliere swept his hand in an arc at the people seated. “I would never accuse you of anything unless I was a thousand percent sure. And yet, you made statements without first checking the facts.”
“Like what?” Aloi yelped arrogantly.
Furnari ingested a deep breath and nodded at Comfort and Nalo. “Like what? These boys came to me about a week ago. And, I must admit, it’s my fault that afterward they came to you. How is it my fault, you may ask? Here’s why: I shouldn’t have put off giving Mr. Comfort and Mr. Nalo my answer about what they had proposed to me. And not hearing from me after three days, they figured I wasn’t on board. Understan’, Vinnie?” Furnari paused and pointed at Comfort and Nalo. “Vinnie, these boys weren’t trying to jerk you around. And I wasn’t lookin’ to take the score away from you. See, it wasn’t yours in the first place.”
Furnari had everybody’s ears, and Aloi threw up his arms, interrupting with a provocative rudeness by challenging, “What’re you mean it wasn’t mine in the first place?”
The Lucchese consigliere, who never forfeited his dignity, didn’t allow Aloi’s contentious inciting to draw him into a heated argument. “Let me ask you this, Vinnie: when these guys came to you, did you give them an answer?”
“No, somethin’ came up, and I told them I wanted to see them the next day.”
Christie Furnari spread his palms at chest level. “Then you made the same mistake I made. I also had to take care of somethin’ that came up. That’s why I didn’t get back to Mr. Comfort and Mr. Nalo as fast as I would’ve liked to.”
A chorus of approvals rang out in the room. One of the listeners said, “That’s right.”
“Damn right,” concurred another.
“Right on, Christie.”
A Colombo family capo, Vic Orena was representing Aloi. Orena, short, his right eye lazy, had heard enough. “Christie, I’m with you on this.” He then said to Aloi. “As for you, Vinnie, like Christie said, next time get it straight before you start talkin’ out of your asshole.” And Orena was compelled to dismiss Aloi’s pretenses.
Everybody crowded the winner of the sit down, shaking hands and patting him on the back, and even kissing his cheeks. Frankos said to Comfort and Nalo, “See, Christie always comes through.”
Sacco stood and rested his hands on Comfort and Nalo’s shoulders. “That’s for sure. Christie ‘the Tick’ is someone you can count on.”
Nalo, his mistrusting tendency always switched on, asked Frankos to step away with him. When they were out of earshot, he whispered to the Greek, “How long have you known Furnari?”
“A few years. Why?” Frankos asked, curiosity in his coal-like eyes.
“I mean, can he be trusted?”
Frankos sighed and slung his head back. “Can Christie be trusted?! Lemme say this, Sammy, Christie Furnari is straighter than the pole your wife dances on. Does that make him straight enough?”
No one seemed to notice that Aloi had left, and on realizing this, Vic Orena nudged Furnari’s arm and remarked, “In my book, you’re all right. But that Vinnie is a sore loser. You gotta watch him. He’s as unpredictable as a cornered rat. Know what I’m talkin’ about, Christie?”
NICK SACCO
Everybody in our circles liked Christie Furnari because he was fair, evenhanded, and sensible. Most of all, he never took what didn’t belong to him. And he expected the same of those whom he dealt with; unlike Vinnie Aloi who was unreasonable, and he’d take your eyes out if he could. Furnari hadn’t had much schooling, but he’d hold his own in any situation.
CHAPTER 10
On 257 West 29th Street, Port Said (pronounced saheed), a Middle Eastern nightclub featuring belly dancers, catered to a blend of regulars, scaling from Arabic extract to liberal, middle class New Yorkers who hosted a fondness for Middle Easterners. The management advertised “Exotic Belly Dancers from Turkey and Iran.” The club was partly owned by Sammy Nalo. There, in his improvised office, he chartered “the robbery of the century” that the squadron of chosen gunmen would undertake. One of the robbers, Al Visconti, felt privileged to have been drafted into this elite squad. But at this moment, his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t wait to escape Nalo’s confining, incense-filled office and enjoy cocktails in the dimly-lit cabaret setting of the club, where on the dance floor the belly dancers’ bodies were sizzling, oozing shimmering droplets of perspiration. “Hey Sammy,” Visconti asked, “the sign outside says your girls are fresh from the Middle East. But do they still smell like the camels they slept with?”
“I don’t think that’s funny, Al. Why don’t you stop playin’ around and pay attention to what we’re talkin’ about here?”
“Yeah, this ain’t no time for jokes,” added Bobby Germaine, a veteran stickup man who’d also been selected for this highly classified assignment.
“He’s right, Al. You gotta take this serious, or else I’m out,” Sacco said, snuffing his cigarette in an ashtray. “One small mistake, and we can wind up in the can for thirty years. So either get with it or bail out now.” He glanced at the others for approval. “Right, guys?” Everyone nodded in agreement.
Comfort stood and yawned. “Excuse me,” he said covering his mouth. “I didn’t have much sleep last night. But you raised a good point, Nick. And I’ll say that all of us gotta be into this with body, mind, and soul.” He tapped Sacco’s shoulder. “Nick’s right. One small mistake, and we’re all up shit’s creek without a paddle.” He then turned to Visconti. “Look, there’ll be plenty of time for jokes.”
Nalo cut in, “Let’s break for tonight and meet here tomorrow at the same time.” He, too, yawned, but wasn’t as polite as Comfort, and didn’t cover his mouth. “I’m kind o’ tired myself.”
“Good idea, Sammy,” Frankos said, shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. “I gotta drive to Brooklyn and take care of some business tonight.” Everybody here could’ve guessed Frankos’s agenda this evening. Murder for hire. And most probably, at the behest of Anthony “Fat Tony” Salerno, a Genovese family titan. But any activities of violence had no business in the scheme of the planned robbery. And none of these bandits cared to know about Frankos’s affairs; they trusted that his own dealings would not affect or infect theirs.
Comfort ran a hand through his hair and said in agreement, “Yeah, let’s call it a night. Tomorrow, we’ll go over what we talked about tonight, and then I’ll walk you
all through the rest of the details.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta hook up with my contact at the Pierre. I’ll see you guys tomorrow evening. Take it easy.”
Before leaving, Comfort paused at the doorway, and glanced back at Ali-Ben and Al Green, the two last-minute recruits. “You two haven’t asked a question the whole night. Either you understood everything or weren’t paying attention. Which is it?”
Ali-Ben, an ill-tempered 190-pound Turk, who physically personified an Arab from the dunes of the desert, had no more regard for a human life than he did for that of a fly. He answered in an indistinguishable accent, “Nah, nah.” He flitted a finger from Al Green to himself. “Don’t worry, Bobby. Al and me got it straight.” He slapped Green on the back and chortled hoarsely. “Right, Al?”
“No doubt, man,” Green said. He was tall and slender, and had a tawny complexion, and a quashed nose that looked as though it was sprawled all over his cheeks. “If any questions come up, we’ll hash ’em out tomorrow.”
Nalo dawdled behind, and everybody, save for Sacco and Visconti, went out the building through the rear delivery door. Sacco said to Nalo, “I think you and Bobby put together a good plan. Congratulations.” The Cat paying a compliment was a rarity; he was a socially detached and secretive.
Nalo drew a swig from a pint bottle of ouzo and smacked his lips, relishing the bluish Greek beverage. “Thanks, and don’t be late tomorrow night. Okay?” Nalo said in his bossy manner, jabbing a hand at the air.
Sacco didn’t appreciate that order and walked out coldly, no goodbyes or cordialities. He and Visconti didn’t leave. Instead, they walked into Port Said’s lounge, mainly because Middle Eastern nightclubs were a novelty—at least on Sacco and Visconti. Neither one had been there before. But common knowledge had it that the club was not profitable, and the true purpose for Nalo to retain ownership of it was to attract and lure females into dating him.
The Pierre Hotel Affair Page 4