The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  In a white night robe, Señora de Lago’s bluish-white hair neatly coiffed as though it were permanently plastered, had on a menacing stare. In Brazil, it was a commonality, if not a tradition, for the mother of the bride to chaperone the newlyweds on their honeymoon. Señora de Lago, a spunky matron, who did not speak a word of English, wished for someone to explain this rowdy disturbance. And she, too, was questioning why her son-in-law, the dapper, permanently tanned Diego de Montejo, was decked out in his best suit in the middle of the night.

  The two ladies dressed, and Lilliana asked the stickup men if they’d permit her time to apply makeup and brush her long, black tresses. Sacco looked at Ali-Ben, and they assented. It was a mistake. To the ire of her captors, Mrs. de Montejo consumed fifteen minutes getting herself ready, her husband and mother’s nerves fraying by the minute.

  At last, Sacco and Ali-Ben were set to take the horrified Brazilians down to the lobby. Señora de Lago’s foggy eyes were misty, and she asked her son-in-law, “Where are we going?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just do as they say. These gringos mean business.”

  Lilliana was weeping, and shuffling along she clutched de Montejo’s arm, her head lying on his slumped shoulder. But why, at four o’clock in the morning, was he doused in cologne, and in his finest Italian-made suit, and silk yellow tie? This gnawed at her.

  In oblivion to what was happening, Señora de Lago was prattling loudly, protesting and damning the burglars, her voice echoing in the hall. Ali-Ben said to de Montejo, “Hey man, tell the old lady to quiet down. We don’t wanna wake up the whole floor.”

  Lilliana let go of de Montejo’s arm and moved to her mother’s side, winding an arm around the matriarch’s waist. “Don’t cry, mama. Everything will be okay. I don’t think these Americanos want to hurt us.”

  “Please get in the elevator,” Sacco said.

  The elevator, though one of the finest specimens built, wasn’t too spacious, and the five passengers had to stand awkwardly close to one another. The doors closed, and the lift plunged faster than a lead balloon, sucking the breath from Señora de Lago’s lungs. And not knowing her fate, the bespectacled septuagenarian yelped a shrill cry, her voice more piercing than that of a Chihuahua. Sacco cringed and spoke through his teeth, “We don’t want anybody hurt in any way, but you gotta keep your mother-in-law quiet.”

  Consolingly, Lilliana hugged her mother. At last, they were on the ground floor, and Sacco and Ali-Ben guided the de Montejos through the lobby and into the growingly crowded alcove. One of the victims in that den, the thirty-one-year-old redhead, as soon as she saw Mr. de Montejo, began writhing and screaming through the duct tape as if she wanted to castrate him.

  CHAPTER 17

  Hearing uproar inside the alcove, Comfort ran in there, and seeing the redhead in distress he removed the duct tape from her mouth. “What’s the matter?”

  Wrists trussed behind her back, she disregarded Comfort. Instead, she lunged at Mr. de Montejo, wrath in her eyes. “Who are these women you’re with, Diego?!”

  The new Señora Lilliana de Montejo was flabbergasted, as was her mother. Diego de Montejo had nothing to say and looked nervous, seeming guilty of some wily underhandedness. The redhead, Visconti holding her by the arms, was kicking him in the shins, intent on hurting Señor de Montejo, if only she could break free. Her face flushed to a candy-apple red, teeth in a canine snarl, her brown eyes as feral as a leopard’s. “Diego, you better tell me who these women are.”

  Lilliana, befuddlement imprinted on her face, glanced around the room, expecting someone to shed light on what on earth she was not privy to. Who’s this woman yelling at my husband, wanting to know our personal affairs?

  Diego de Montejo hung his head as Ali-Ben handcuffed him; Lilliana, the mother-in-law, and the redhead were staring at him, waiting for enlightenment. Adding to the madness, Lilliana was resisting Visconti cuffing her and spat in his face. She came face-to-face with de Montejo, noses two inches apart. “Diego, I’m only going to ask you once more.” Huffily, she gestured at the redhead and said in some form of English, “Who’s this Chiquita . . . this Americana who’s talking like she knows you? She . . . she looks like she lost her reputation when she was twelve.”

  The redhead expanded her chest, protruding the breasts, and sneered, “I may have lost my virginity, but I still have the box it came in. It looks to me like all you got left is a hole with a rat trap in it.”

  Señora de Lago, too, stepped in close to de Montejo and chimed in but in Portuguese, “My daughter has the right to know who this Americana is. And so do I. She looks and dresses like a puta. And in the morning I’m going to call the family lawyer. My daughter deserves better.”

  The redhead, in a skimpy, skin-hugging red dress that wasn’t much more than a hand towel, did not understand the Portuguese rat-ta-ta of the feisty mother-in-law, though she surmised the gist of her slur. “Who are you callin’ a prostitute, you old, shriveled-up spic?”

  The trading of insults went on and on, puzzling everyone in the holding pen, who were clueless to the issue at hand, and Comfort stepped in to end the bickering. But clarity soon prevailed; the redhead, Joanne Rinaldi, a stunning woman whose temper was as ignitable as gasoline vapors, was Señor de Montejo’s mistress. When Comfort & Company had invaded the hotel, she was the pretty young lady whom Germaine shackled and hustled into the alcove.

  Before her capture, Joanne had been waiting in the lobby for her boyfriend to sneak away and whisk her off to a second room he had rented on the seventeenth floor. Unbeknownst to his wife and mother in-law, Señor de Montejo was partaking in two honeymoons. But his dalliance was thwarted, and the catfighting between the de Montejo ladies and the sexy Joanne was raging on. “Ladies, please let’s be civil. I . . . I can explain . . .” Diego de Montejo said over and over, though no one was listening to him.

  His wife, fighting off Visconti, spat at Joanne, though the spittle fell short of the target. “You’re nothing but a puta.”

  Humiliated, Joanne’s jaw fell open, her delicious mouth gaping. “What did you call me?”

  “Yes, you’re a lowlife puta,” Mrs. de Montejo reaffirmed. The scorned bride was puffy-eyed from crying, the mascara damp and rolling down her cheeks, simulating the legs of a spider. The verbal brawling was beginning to entertain everyone, who had no idea if it had been purposely scripted or it was spontaneous.

  Diego de Montejo’s marriage, less than eighteen hours old, was on the rocks. His mother-in-law was instigating her daughter to file for divorce at daybreak, and the female hostages were rallying for her, caressing and consoling the former virgin. The speechless and besieged Mr. de Montejo, a multimillionaire, owned cattle ranches in Marianópolis do Tocantins in central Brazil, and a divorce settlement might yield his eighteen-hour bride approximately $1,800,000, an amount equating to $100,000 per hour. Not a bad day’s work for the brief Mrs. Lilliana de Montejo.

  Unmindful of the quarreling in the alcove, Sammy “the Arab” Nalo and Germaine were hammering nonstop at the safe deposit boxes, metal shrapnel flying in the air. They were using three-foot crowbars with curved and thin bifurcating ends and flat-top shafts. Each break-in necessitated six to eight dead blow hammerings before the crowbars could be wedged into the crevices of the cast iron frames that encased the boxes. Nalo and Germaine had been pummeling relentlessly, laboring into a dripping sweat. “Sammy,” Germaine said, “so far we filled two of the four suitcases.”

  Rapt in smashing a twelve-inch by twelve-inch box, Nalo ignored him but closely worked his crowbar as if he were a sculptor wielding a chisel. This box had been assigned to a socialite, Aleksandra Petranovic, a self-proclaimed princess from Yugoslavia, who was often the starry subject of the Page Six gossip column. The forty-four-year-old trendsetter, an impressive presence of voluptuousness, was a frequent guest at the Pierre. She was popular and esteemed among the prosperous, and when in the company of men, especially the older tycoons, she readily engaged the ancie
nt geezers. Million-dollar jewelry, conviviality, and wheat-blonde hair, were the attributes that shone the spotlight on Ms. Petranovic, and she was the sparking flame of the evening. In another life, in the period of her impoverished years as an immigrant, she was a prostitute. Years later, at a select gentlemen’s club the seductive temptress targeted with her amorous glances a brittle octogenarian mogul. Ms. Petranovic’s unnatural sensuality, and her endearing Slavic accent inebriated him. And thinking with the wrong head, as males often do, the old dog took the high-class hooker as his bride. As she had foreseen, he died shortly thereafter, and she fleeced his multimillion-dollar estate. Having succeeded in her fraudulent marriage, soon after the obligatory thirty-day mourning period Ms. Petranovic married a second octogenarian magnate. And then a third, hence her rise to respectability and prominence.

  As Nalo pried open Ms. Petranovic’s safe deposit box, his heartbeat raced. He couldn’t believe his luck. Inside a blue jewelry case was a sixty-to-seventy karat diamond necklace. This gotta be worth 750 grand! He glanced in Germaine’s direction, who was ripping out boxes on the opposite wall of the vault, unaware Nalo had been watching him. Glimpsing at him, Sammy Nalo took the necklace in his hands, and was about to sneak it into his inner jacket pocket. Just then, Comfort was by the vault’s door to warn Germaine and Nalo to cut down on the noise. But the moment froze in Comfort’s mind, and Nalo’s slyness unveiled itself in slow motion, though Comfort wasn’t sure what he had seen. Did that son of a bitch Sammy slip something into his damn pocket?

  Noticing Comfort, a curious look on his face, Nalo reacted with an involuntary shudder, gulping a sigh of surprise. But he wasn’t certain his partner had snagged him. Comfort’s eyes, though, stayed trained on Nalo’s as if to ask, Did you just shove something in your pocket? Unfazed, Nalo shunned Comfort’s stare, and restarted the hammering of the boxes, the banging rumbling through the lobby.

  Comfort, still standing by the vault’s door, was undecided whether to confront Nalo right here and now, or to have it out in private at another time. He thought for a while, and then said, “Hey, you guys are making a hell of a racket. Keep the goddamn noise down. We don’t wanna wake up the people on the second floor.”

  Pounding the hammers, Nalo answered sharply, “Yeah, no problem.” This abruptness heightened Comfort’s keenness that his partner was in business for himself. Sammy Nalo’s conscience was so tainted that not even bleach could’ve brightened it, and Comfort knew it too well.

  Germaine saw Comfort’s troubled look and laid his tools on the floor. “What’s the matter? Is there something wrong, Bobby?”

  Comfort didn’t answer for a few seconds, wondering if Germaine, too, was lining his own pockets. “Is there anything wrong? I don’t know yet. For now, just keep the noise down.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The phone was ringing at the front desk, and Comfort hurried back to it. He was perturbed over Nalo’s deviousness, but managed to put on a formal tone. He answered on the fourth ring. “Hello and welcome to the Pierre. May I help you?”

  A mousy woman’s voice said, “I want to make a reservation for tomorrow evening. I’d like a suite high up and facing Central Park.”

  “I’m sure we can accommodate you, Madame. But at this time of night, one reservation clerk is on staff, and if you give me a phone number where he can reach you I’ll have him call you in twenty minutes.” Comfort was on edge, and his eyes reverted to the vault room as if he could spy on Nalo from where he stood.

  Inside the alcove, aside from minor complaints and murmurs of discontent, thanks to the civility of their warden, Al Visconti, the captives were resigned that all would end well. The de Montejos and Joanne Rinaldi had suspended the bickering, and the rowdiness had quieted.

  Sacco and Ali-Ben were patrolling the first floor; so far, no sign of trouble, and they hoped things stayed that way. Nalo and Germaine were blissfully dismantling the safe deposit boxes, and the commotion was now less noisy. Frankos the Greek, who had been guarding the 61st Street entrance, hadn’t spotted anything abnormal outdoors, and because of this late hour, and the extreme subfreezing wave that had befallen the Big Apple, traffic was virtually nonexistent, and the whole block lay in tranquility. Complete stillness. All was quiet, and the seas were calm. But the minutes ticked away, and Comfort and his crew could not waste time; it was 4:45 A.M.; the brigands had to clear out before the seven o’clock morning crew mounted.

  Just as the inactiveness of his post was lulling him into boredom, out on the sidewalk Frankos saw a man of about sixty-five with longish hair whiter than snow. His appearance made the Greek think of the character Geppetto, Pinocchio’s father. Geppetto rang the intercom buzzer. “Who are you, sir?” Frankos asked, tightening his lips so not to laugh.

  On prior occasions, Geppetto never saw this guard. “I’m Jordan Graff, a resident of the hotel. Please let me in. It’s freezing as hell out here.”

  The Greek allowed him in and stuck a .38 Colt at Graff’s temple, terrorizing him into a state of incoherence. He then walked Mr. Graff to the lobby, at which point the horror-stricken chap began moaning and wailing, his legs buckling.

  “Who’s this?” Bobby Comfort asked. “He doesn’t look too good.”

  Frankos was propping up him so he could stand. “He’s a resident. His name’s Jordan Graff.”

  A surge of blood blushed Comfort’s face. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He was fine until I let him in and put my gun to his head,” Frankos said nonchalantly.

  Graff, his complexion now as white as his hair, was gasping for air and mumbled through his clenched lips that he might be suffering a heart attack. Comfort placed his palms on the sides of his head, but tried not to panic. “Stay with him, Greek.” Comfort ran into the alcove, and speedily cut the duct tape off the reception clerk’s mouth. “Blondie, you know if a doctor is in the house?”

  The clerk saw Graff and recognized him. “Uh . . . uh, that’s Mr. Graff. He . . . he has a heart condition. What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. That’s what I wanna ask you. Is there a doctor in the house that you know of?”

  “Oh, no! He . . . he looks like he needs one badly,” the clerk muttered and began panting.

  Comfort shook him by the shoulders. “Blondie, that’s not what I asked you. Is there a doctor here tonight?”

  The clerk, scared for Mr. Graff, answered, “I . . . I don’t know offhand. I have to check the registry.”

  “Let’s go look,” Comfort said, pulling Blondie by the arm.

  Frankos felt as though he jumped into a tub of scalding water. “Bobby, if this dude gets a heart attack and dies, we’ll have a murder rap on our hands. What’re we gonna do?”

  “Right now, I wanna see if we can get a doctor to check him out.”

  Although Frankos’s day job was killing for hire, and normally his complicity in a murder wouldn’t bother him, his morals forbade him to take part in a homicide unless he was compensated. And tonight, if this Geppetto look-alike died, and the Greek were to be held accountable, he couldn’t possibly justify the punishment.

  “You better do it fast,” Frankos said. “This guy’s lookin’ worse and worse by the second.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Hands fumbling, the reception clerk opened the registry, warily flipping page after page, Comfort hovering over him. Blondie, wheezing, scrolled down the last page that had been filled out and pecked it with a finger. “There. Dr. Joseph Thomas Houllahan is in suite 4122. He’s an Irishman visiting from Dublin.”

  Comfort, his pulse slower, said to Frankos, “Go back to the side entrance and keep watch. I’ll handle this.”

  Frankos returned to his post, and Comfort phoned Dr. Houllahan’s room. “Hello, who’s this?” the physician answered in an Irish brogue, his voice croaky.

  “This is the front desk calling. Sorry to bother you at this time, doctor, but we have a medical emergency.”

  “A what? I’m here on hol
iday. I’m not here to treat patients.” Dr. Houllahan sounded drunk, or maybe he slurred because was half asleep. Maybe.

  “Doctor, as I said we have an emergency down here in the lobby. I urge you to please throw some clothes on, and I’ll send someone to bring you down here.”

  Graff, his chest expanding and retracting at a rapid rate, had slumbered in a club chair not far from the front desk, and Blondie shouted to Comfort, “Hey, hey, I think he’s passing out. He’s passing out!”

  Comfort covered the mouthpiece. “Make sure he doesn’t fall off that chair.” He had a second thought and flailed his arm in a panic. “No, no. Better yet, lay him out on the floor.” In a swell of fear, he held a clump of his hair and spoke into the phone. “Doctor, we have someone with a heart ailment who needs medical attention.”

  A slight pause, and Dr. Houllahan garbled out, “Eh, why . . . why are you calling me? You, you should be calling the emergency medics.”

  Good point.

  Comfort hadn’t foreseen this and had to think on his toes. “At this time of night help won’t get here before a half hour. And as a physician, aren’t you under oath to be of assistance to anyone who’s in need of medical attention? I don’t know about your neck of the woods, but that’s how it is in America.”

  Dr. Houllahan coughed and hacked, phlegm swamping his throat. “Oh, awl right, awl right. I’ll get ready. I can’t even have a bit of rest on me bloody holiday.”

  Comfort was fairly sure that this doctor, wherever he came from, at very least had been nipping at the spirits, or he might be totally drunk. And would he be coherent to resuscitate the near-comatose Jordan Graff, whose skin was darkening to a purple? Comfort knew every passing second took away a fragment of hope for the patient’s survival. “Go to room 4122. A Dr. Houllahan is in there,” Comfort said to Nick Sacco and Ali-Ben. “Get this quack down here faster than fast.”