The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  Near the entrance, a hostess of Egyptian origin—the length of her black hair brushing the hips—was outfitted in a sparkly, red ankle-length gown. She led Sacco and Visconti to a table that had a square view of the stage. A three-piece band of musicians playing Turkish G clarinets was strumming what sounded to Sacco as repetitive twangs of Middle Eastern music. The main attraction, though, was a belly dancer in a purple and yellow glittery bra, her hips and legs veiled in a violet sheer, who barefoot and like a nymph in heat jutted her hips to the rhythm of the lulling melody. Fluidly flapping her sleekly outstretched arms, she flexed her belly, an inviting midsection that looked as supple as velvet. The curvy performer’s makeup sparkled under the spotlights as if gleaming stars dappled her face. The dancer’s wrists were adorned with jingling bracelets, her perspiring skin glistening as though it were wrapped in a film of cellophane.

  Sacco and Visconti, watching the tireless performer—who was casting flirting glances at the gawkers closer to the stage—sat and adjusted themselves in the black velour club chairs. The Cat, still chafing from Nalo’s rude order, said in a sulking mood, “You know, Al, I only know this fuckin’ Sammy a week, and already can’t stomach him. He thinks who the fuck he is, and if he keeps it up, I’ll show him who I am.”

  “Yeah, I kinda got the same feelin’,” Visconti answered, though distracted, his attention wholeheartedly on the steamy dancer.

  “He must’ve been conceived by anal sex, ’cause he’s a real asshole.” Sacco gazed at Visconti for his reaction, and they erupted into a hearty laugh.

  A waitress appeared from the dimness of the dining salon. She, in a blue dress, baring rounded shoulders and part of her gelatin-like mammary glands, asked, “Will you be dining, or are you just having drinks?” She flaunted a wide smile, her aquiline nose longish and thin.

  “Just drinks,” Sacco said. “I’ll have bourbon on the rocks.”

  The waitress bent over to place napkins on the table, breasts dangling dangerously. And Visconti gaped unconsciously at the intoxicating sight, sweet perfume wafting from her deep cleavage. Pretending to rearrange the candle holder on the tabletop, she let him enjoy her luscious pom-poms for a few seconds. Then she asked sweetly, “And what will it be for you?”

  That stirred Visconti. “Uh . . . same as my friend here.”

  On the stage, the tempo of the music sped as the hands of the percussionist, in blurring movements, frantically slapped a pair of bongos. The dancer’s steps seemingly floated and raced nimbly in sync with the tune. She twirled gracefully, bending at the waist forward and backward, arms high above the head, the customary cymbals clacking in her hands.

  The following evening, Comfort and Nalo navigated the Pierre Brigade through the minutest details, reviewing for the final time every action and movement they’d carry out in the spawning morning hours of January 2, 1972.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE PREDAWN HOURS OF JANUARY 2, 1972

  Nalo’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen was on the third floor of a graffiti-defaced, ramshackle building, one that even rats had vacated. The rusting wrought iron fire escapes hung precariously, and many of the windows were cracked or covered with brown paper. On entering the ground level hallway, the wooden door squeaking and caked with coats and coats of sloppily applied paint, a stench of overcooked cabbage gassed Sacco’s nostrils. Nalo’s apartment, Middle Eastern music droning on, was musty from years of sealed windows, and tonight had taken on the male scent of the occupants who were there in preparation for the imminent heist. Months of accumulated dust had lightened the maroon Persian rug that lay in the center of the room to a dull gray. The eight-man troop was ready to dress and put on disguises for the Pierre adventure. Fake mustaches, beards, eyelashes, plastic noses, hats, and sunglasses. They’d be in black tuxedos–after all it was a Big Apple soiree. Comfort, one who did not overlook the smallest detail, looked over his Argonauts. He studied Al Green, the designated chauffeur. “Man, you couldn’t find a better hat?”

  Green, lanky with a mild afro and a razor-short mustache, was an African American who worked for a numbers bookmaker from Harlem. His daily wardrobe seemed as though it was inspired by the 1970s character Super Fly. Green turned the hat this way and that way and asked, “What’s wrong with it, Bobby? I mean, y’all wearin’ real crazy shit, and you’re comin’ down oun me!”

  “What’s wrong with it?! It looks like a Halloween prop.” He snatched it from Green’s hand and waved it for all to see. “Look at this. Does it look like a real chauffeur’s hat? Remember, Al, you’re supposed to be a chauffeur waiting outside in the limo. Which means that if anybody walks past you, it can’t look like you’re on a trick or treat.”

  “I think I got somethin’ better,” Nalo said. He rummaged through an old steamer trunk and groped at an actual chauffeur’s cap.

  “Good,” Comfort said. He looked Nalo up and down and shook his head. “And you, why don’t you put on a shorter wig that doesn’t make you look like a circus clown?”

  Everyone laughed, and Comfort drew on his cigarette. “Look at yourselves in the mirror, and if you still look ugly it means you’re recognizable.”

  Nick Sacco tried on a black fedora, sunglasses, a plastic nose, and a pencil-thin mustache. He was a towering, imposing personality and had the build of a cruiserweight. A defined, square jaw and a thin but slight Roman beak lessened his Mafioso inclinations. “What’re you think of this, Bobby?”

  Comfort and Nalo nodded in approval, and Bobby Germaine said, “Nick, I say you should have some kind of a wig under your hat.”

  Everybody was busy attaching the final touches to his masquerade, and the moment for the drill that would redirect the course of these eight, bold adventurers had rung. One by one, they stepped through the door of Nalo’s hideout, stenches of urine in the common hallway, climbed down the narrow stairway, and walked out onto the sidewalk. Men in tuxedos and patent leather shoes grouped in front of a dilapidated tenement, overfilled garbage bins hindering the entryway, was the picture of an odd scene.

  They moseyed nonchalantly two blocks east, where the getaway vehicles were parked. A 1970 black Cadillac limousine, a green Ford Torino, and a black Chevy Impala. At 3:45 A.M. Sacco, Comfort, and Nalo piled into the limo, Al Green at the wheel. Furnari’s car rustlers had stolen the limo and the two swing cars. Ali-Ben and Germaine as the driver boarded the Impala. And Frankos and Al Visconti were in the Torino. The three-car motorcade, the limousine leading, was off to the Pierre.

  Cleverly, Comfort had set on this night to storm in because banks had been closed since Friday afternoon, the day of New Year’s Eve, through 9:00 A.M. on the following Monday. Hence, throughout the holiday weekend the Pierre guests had no choice but to secure all valuables in the hotel deposit boxes.

  The sky was starless, the temperature extremely frigid, breath vaporizing from the mouths of the limo’s passengers. They were traveling north on Park Avenue, and Nalo asked, “You guys got your guns loaded?”

  Comfort said, “We’re not shooting anybody, Sammy. The weapons are just for show.” He lowered his window three or four inches and flung his cigarette butt into the darkness, red sparks flickering on the asphalt.

  The hour for the sortie was fast approaching, unspoken misgivings taming the brigands into sullenness. The Impala and the Torino turned westward onto 60th Street, and both cars parked on the corner of Madison Avenue, the limo staying on the northbound course on Park Avenue to 61st Street. Germaine, Frankos, Ali-Ben, and Visconti walked west for one block to Fifth Avenue and swung right. Hands in the pockets of the tuxedos, arms snugly at the sides to retain body heat, the subfreezing air made the chilling wind feel as if it were slashing at their faces. The walk was challenging, and at this ungodly hour the Big Apple was not dazzling and unanimated.

  “We should’ve been wearing overcoats. This is too cold for me,” whined Ali-Ben.

  “This is the way Bobby and Sammy wanted it. I guess they figured the coats would’ve been another thing to
stash once we got up to the Pierre,” said Germaine.

  They were four hundred feet from 61st Street and Fifth Avenue; a police cruiser was idling, white exhaust pouring from its tailpipe. “Shit!” Visconti cried out.

  “Just stay cool and keep strolling,” Germaine said. “We’re carrying heat and sure don’t wanna get a pat down.”

  “Yeah, we’ll get locked up before we even do the job,” Frankos said. “We look kind of odd walkin’ around at four in the mornin’ in twenty-degree weather without any coats.”

  The two police officers in the cruiser saw the four men in tuxedos and strained to make out the moving silhouettes on the unlighted sidewalk. “This is strange. What are these guys doin’ walking around in this cold without overcoats?”

  CHAPTER 12

  3:53 A.M.

  A hundred yards east of Fifth Avenue, Al Green steered the limo close to the curb fifty feet from the 61st Street entrance of the Pierre Hotel. “Germaine and the others should be gettin’ here any minute,” Green said, peering out the windshield, his jaws flexing as he chewed gum.

  Around the corner on Fifth Avenue, the doors of the police cruiser sprang open, and the two officers came out.

  Inside the limousine, a minute had passed; Comfort, Nalo, and Sacco wondered why the rest of the gunmen weren’t here yet. “It’s only a three or four minute trot from where they parked the Impala and the Torino. And until they cut left on 60th Street, they were right behind us.”

  Not too distantly, trouble was looming. Walking cautiously toward the four coatless chaps, one of the cops hollered in a baritone voice, “Everything okay with you fellas?”

  The foursome didn’t slow their stride, and Germaine said, “Uh . . . yeah. No problem.”

  “Kind of cold to be out with no coats on,” the officer said cynically.

  Ali-Ben explained in his Turkish accent, “Eh, we was in one of the Aitalian restaurants on 56th Street. They havin’ a New Year’s party, and we just gettin’ some fresh air.” In the seventies and early eighties, 56th Street was a venue of Northern Italian restaurants, so Ali-Ben’s story was plausible.

  And before the officers might question the obviously phony whiskers and wigs, Germaine, quick thinking, touched his chin. “That’s why we got on these stupid beards and mustaches.”

  At that very moment, grave concerns were festering in the limo. “What the fuck happened to those guys?” Nalo asked no one in particular. He leaned forward and looked out far ahead of the limo’s hood. “Maybe we should drive around the block and see where they are.”

  “If we do that and then come back again, it’s gonna look suspicious to the guard manning the side entrance here. He already saw us from behind the glass door.” Comfort said. “We’ll give them another minute.”

  “Somethin’ is wrong,” Sacco muttered. “Somethin’ ain’t right.”

  Indeed, the pair of policemen glanced at one another, and the one with the low voice asked, “What are your names?”

  “Joe King,” Germaine answered.

  “Don Sullivan,” Visconti said.

  The cops nodded at Ali-Ben. “And you, what’s your name?”

  “Khaled Mustafa.”

  Frankos didn’t wait for the cops to ask him and said jokingly, “I’m Burt Reynolds.” The Greek did have a remote resemblance to that famous actor. “I’m only kiddin’. My name is Mike Hunt.”

  Again, the patrolmen gazed at one another, mulling whether these crazy, inappropriately dressed pedestrians were up to foul play. They stared suspiciously at the four for fifteen to twenty seconds, Germaine and Ali-Ben shivering. The second policemen said, “I guess there’s no harm done. But you guys better get back inside somewhere before you catch pneumonia.”

  Anxieties stirring inside the limo, Nalo banged irately on the back of Green’s headrest. “Al, drive around the block, and let’s see where the fuck they are.”

  Green put the limousine into drive, switched on the headlights, and suddenly four shadowy men came into view, trotting side-by-side toward the limo. “There they are.”

  “All right, we’re back on track,” Comfort said, running a hand across his brow.

  Sacco, Nalo, and Comfort bailed out and hid on the sides of the Pierre’s entryway. Comfort, donning a longish wig and hat, the lapels of his black wool coat buttoned up to the neck, partially masking his face walked to the door, and pressed the bell button. If one were to look out from inside the doorway, his accomplices could not be seen.

  CHAPTER 13

  4:03 A.M.

  In the hours between 1:00 and 6:00 in the morning, the Pierre is closed to outsiders, and the only access into the building is from the secondary 61st Street entrance, where a security officer admits only guests and people who have room reservations. He sees Comfort and asks through the intercom, “How can I help you?”

  Comfort answers, “I’m Dr. Forster. I have a reservation.”

  From behind the glass door, the guard mouths the words, “I have to call the front desk for verification, Dr. Forster.” The security officer picks up his telephone handset and punches in the extension to the front desk. “This is Jules. I need confirmation for a Dr. Forster.” He winks at Comfort as if to say, I’m sure everything is okay.

  Out on the sidewalk, all eyes are on Comfort, and he glances subtly at his mercenaries, who remain unseen on the sides of the doorway under the light-brown awning advertising The Pierre.

  “He’s checking my reservation,” Comfort says in a hush, shifting from one foot to the other, rubbing his gloved hands together.

  They nod, cold breath spewing from their mouths, feet stomping to circulate blood, anxiousness stamped on everyone’s faces. Peering through the glass door, Comfort has a full vision of the lobby, the décor exuding opulence.

  In less than twenty seconds, which seemed an eternity, Jules dips his head up and down, verifying the reservation. He unlocks the door, the latch clanking, and waves in Comfort. “You’re all set, Doctor.”

  “I sure am.” Bobby Comfort charges the unsuspecting Jules and shoves a gun in the poor man’s chest, pressing him face-first against a wall. “Don’t make a sound, and nothing will happen,” Comfort hisses.

  “I won’t . . . I won’t,” utters Jules, hysterically rocking his head.

  “What’s the number to this extension phone here?” Comfort asks him.

  “Uh . . . 113,” Jules gasps, terror pumping through him.

  With precision-like dexterity, Comfort handcuffs and gags the guard. He then pushes him into a broom closet so no one in the lobby will see what has just occurred. Nalo and four of his cohorts walk casually eighty feet into the lobby and across the reception area, handguns concealed, a ploy not to scare the clerk behind the desk into activating the distress signal. Frankos is monitoring the 61st Street door on the lookout for possible incoming residents of the hotel. Al Green is on standby out by the curb in the limo. Germaine is standing unobtrusively, not far from the vault room. And Visconti bolts down the wide marbled stairway to the lower level and turns left into the Security Office, a tobacco-smoke scented space. A guard in a black suit, no tie, is at a desk, coffee cups, newspapers, and hand-held two-way radios strewn on it. He’s attempting a crossword puzzle. A second one is lounging on a black leather couch, riveted into a raunchy magazine, Hustler. The sudden appearance of the gun-toting Visconti stiffens the security officers into a frozen gape, and they stare at him in a baffled look. The armed intruder, his fake beard, and bushy eyebrows are signs of trouble. His revolver pointed at the one on the couch, Visconti says, “Get up. Don’t do anything stupid, and you won’t get hurt.” The guards’ hands fly up in the air, surrendering unconditionally. “What’re you gonna do to us?” asks the shorter guard, blinking fitfully and cowering in fear.

  “Like I said, my man, no need to worry. Right now, we’re gonna stay put down here.” Visconti nods at the stairway. “We’re stayin’ here until my friends upstairs give me the green light to take you two up there.”

 
On the ground floor, Ali-Ben is walking offhandedly in the corridor that leads to the Pierre’s main entrance on Fifth Avenue. He absorbs the elaborateness of the tray ceiling and the brass, pyramid shaped chandeliers that bear understated lavishness.

  Sacco, the fedora low over his forehead, strides fifty paces into the same hallway and stops near the elevators. The black operator, rotund and chubby, is slumbered on a bench. He hears Sacco’s steps, and as if he’s an ever-ready sentinel, ups to his feet. “Goin’ up, sir?”

  “No, not yet,” Sacco answers, averting eye contact. At this stage, except for the one security officer, Jules, no one in the lobby is conscious of the impending invasion. To the casual observer, all is normal, and the ambushers’ priority is to restrain the reception clerk, preventing him from setting off the emergency warnings. It’s 4:10 A.M., and the atmosphere in the Pierre’s expansive, extravagant vestibule is one of complacence. The calm before the storm. But in a split second, Nalo fast-steps to the front desk, and with the snap of a lisping snake leaps over the counter, simultaneously drawing a Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband, and tackling the receptionist, restraining him so he can’t press the alarm button under the desktop.

  “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll . . . I’ll do whatever you want. Please!” pleads the attendant. On the night shift, only one person covers the front desk, and Nalo is now straddling him. Within seconds, the agile mugger overpowers the wheat-blond-haired clerk, moistness in his eyes. Swiftly, Nalo handcuffs Blondie, whose face has whitened, and tapes his mouth.

  “THIS IS A ROBBERY. EVERYBODY DON’T MOVE. Do as we say and nobody will get hurt,” Nalo announces loudly, but as pleasantly as his gruff voice allows him to.

  EVERYBODY DON’T MOVE is the cue, and in concert the buccaneers draw guns and spring into action, each deploying his rehearsed tasks.