Comfort, ever the actor, said, “Easy for you to say. Anything goes wrong, and it’s my ass on the line.” He pretended to reread the fine print, and the boys in blue, New York’s finest, were growing restless. One of the three cops, his tour of duty about to end, was anxious to clock out and go on to his second job. Not uncommon for NYPD police officers to moonlight off the books.
“C’mon, sign the damn papers. We ain’t got the whole night,” grumbled the officer who had been doing most of the talking.
At last, Comfort, sneeringly, scribbled a signature on the report forms. The same cop took the paperwork, and motioned his two coworkers to head for the exit. The police departed, and Comfort called Nalo on the phone extension inside the vault. “Sammy, the coast is clear. The fuzz left.”
Nalo and his companions began breathing easier. “Whew! It worked,” Germaine said, passing a hand over his hair.
“Thank God,” Visconti said, making the sign of the cross.
Ali-Ben chimed in, “My faith is always in the Almighty Allah.”
They sprung open the vault’s door, and shuffled the lamenting hostages back to the alcove, complaints about the heat and stuffiness inside the safe room filling the captors’ ears. The black elevator operator seemed genuinely concerned about Mr. Graff. “How that man be doin’?”
Visconti said, “He’s in good hands. He’ll be fine.”
The black man looked up at the ceiling, and praised, “Oh, bless your soul. You done the right thin’ by callin’ the powleece. Bless your soul.”
And Nalo and Germaine restarted tearing out the safe deposit boxes.
CHAPTER 22
Nick Sacco had been in Mrs. Randall’s suite and hadn’t reported to Comfort for fifteen minutes. Worried that something might’ve gone wrong, Comfort called him at her room. “Mrs. Randall, this is the front desk. I’d like to speak with the person who delivered your moisturizer, please.”
She handed the phone to Sacco. “Hello.”
“What the fuck are you doing up there?”
Sacco, in coded terms said, “She won’t let me go.” The champagne had made her giddy. She was behaving as foolishly as a sweet sixteen on her prom night.
Comfort said, “The Graff problem is over, and the heat is off. Get down here, I may need you.”
Sacco stepped away from Mrs. Randall and said in a hush, “I’m tellin’ you, this crazy old broad won’t let me go. It’s her birthday, and she wants me to have breakfast with her.”
“Have breakfast with you?!” At a loss, Comfort said, “Hell, take her down to the alcove—at gunpoint, if necessary.”
“All right.” It was time for Sacco to jar Mrs. Randall out of her fantasy. “Look, ma’am, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m really a burglar. See, there’s a robbery goin’ on in here.”
She placed a hand on her chest and gave him an appalled look. “Oh my! You’re not a hotel employee? You said you’re in the middle of a robbery here in the Pierre Hotel?” Mrs. Randall’s neck was wrapped in a ten-karat emerald necklace, her wrists bejeweled in a gold diamond bracelet, and platinum diamond earrings were stuck in the earlobes, tempting Sacco to strip the old sex monger of her status symbols. She shimmered brighter than a constellation, and he knew the worth of those pricey ornaments bordered on the one million dollar range. But he reminded himself that was not the purpose of this mission. Stripping Mrs. Randall of her personal property would be a first-degree assault, and this did not coincide with his modus operandi. Not to mention that he would not want to treat her any differently than if she were his own grandmother.
“Now that I told you the truth, I’m gonna have to take you to where the other hostages are.”
Sacco, the suave boy-toy she’d been longing for, was abducting her. “Oh no, no. You will do no such thing. Do you know who I am?” Her gray, murky eyes widened, and she made haste for the phone. In three long steps, the long-legged Cat had his arms around Mrs. Randall’s waist, and contained the kicking grandma. “Stop, stop, you brute! How can you do this to me? I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”
Oh, so now you’re old enough to be my grandmother. And just a minute ago you were ready to take my clothes off. Handling Mrs. Randall gently, he had to carry her because she wouldn’t go on her own, legs thrashing wildly, her slippers hitting the hallway walls. Her designer glasses fell to the floor, and he accidentally stepped on the spectacles. There went $1,500. Sacco covered her mouth with his free hand, and she tried to scream, though only muffled sounds stemmed from her nose.
Exiting the elevator, Mrs. Randall’s blue chiffon skirt was rumpled high on her thighs, a pair of dairy-white legs with scrolls of purple veins. Sacco, still carrying the rich widow, lost his grip, and she slipped away but didn’t get far. Ali-Ben had been watching, and he scrambled to recapture Mrs. Randall. He and Sacco jostled her into the alcove, where she was scandalized when she saw eighteen to twenty people, most of whom were hand-bound, silvery duct tape over their mouths.
Visconti was surprised at the addition of another victim so late into the robbery. “Who’s she?”
Sacco said, “This is Mrs. Randall, everyone. She’s upset, but I’m sure you’ll make her feel at home.” The Cat then indicated Visconti and assured his elderly admirer, “He’ll look after you. If you need anything, he’ll take care of you.”
Mrs. Randall’s new company assessed her gold and diamonds and platinum and emeralds, and saw she dripped of wealth and snobbishness. But in this den of captives, the brilliance of her accessories incited envy and wistfulness. Mr. de Montejo’s bride, Lilliana, was resentful that her groom hadn’t lavished her with more extravagant jewelry as a wedding gift, but the sure-to-follow divorce would be lucrative for her, and she’d buy herself any size diamond she wanted. Maybe a ten-carat pear-shaped one.
De Montejo’s girlfriend Joanne Rinaldi, too, longed to be pampered, and perhaps, she figured, if he did divorce his twenty-four-hour wife, he’d make her his queen. And the philandering Diego de Montejo, known for his generosity when wooing women, might very well do that. At least until he tired of the luscious Joanne.
On the other hand, the working class people in the alcove, the black elevator operator, the kitchen workers, the maids, the bellhop, the clerks, and the four security officers—whose monthly salaries couldn’t even buy a half carat of the fifty or so Mrs. Randall was flaunting—had no conception of her wares’ worth, and couldn’t visualize that if an individual possessed just the jewels she was wearing, that person would be rich.
On another front, Frankos sprinted alarmingly through the lobby and told Comfort that a young man delivering the morning papers was at the 61st Street door asking to come in. He was twenty-two years old and had a black goatee and a pageboy ear-length hair cut. He was skin and bones, and his head and face bore the outline of a flesh-less skull. Comfort motioned for the Greek to allow in the malnourished newspaper boy before he panicked and drew the attention of passersby. The Greek scampered back and unlocked the door. The intruder, shivering from the cold, stepped into the entryway, newspapers in a canvas bag strapped over his shoulder. He said distrustfully, “Hey, man, where’s the dude who usually guards this entrance?” The razor-sharp winds had whipped his cheeks into a purplish red, his lips colorless and dry.
Frankos produced his handgun, and pushed him toward the lobby. Wild-eyed and writhing to slip away, the paper boy, agile and dicey, whizzed in the direction of the door, shouting, “What the fuck is this?”
Frankos dove at the runaway, and after a minor joust tied him into a full nelson hold. “If you try that again, I’ll blast a slug in your ugly head.” Frankos was breathing hard from the skirmish, and turned him over to Ali-Ben, who had come just in time. Ali-Ben took the newest prisoner by the wrists, and he yelled, “Lemme go, you scuzzy Arab. Lemme go. What’re you think you’re doin’?”
As Ali-Ben was handcuffing the bristly man, he saw a revolting disfigurement on his face. The paper boy had a severe harelip that suggested a
sinister personality. Ali-Ben paid no attention to the unsightly scar and hauled him into the alcove. And the detained group expanded to twenty-four.
One of the hostages, Ms. Amanda Jefferson, an aspiring black model, signaled to Al Visconti, who had been subtly eyeing her. He gladly walked to where she was sitting, crouched in front of her, and loosened the duct tape on her mouth. “What’s the matter, are the cuffs too tight?” His voice was whispery, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear his comfy conversation with the ebony beauty from the South.
Ms. Jefferson gestured for Visconti to lean closer, and ashamed, she despaired that her menstrual cycle had begun. “I need to go to mah room and take care o’ this.”
He nodded caringly. “Lemme see what I can do.”
“But I woun one o’ the girls to go with me,” she said, her long, thick eyelashes fanning at Visconti.
“All right, all right. I’ll be right back.” Visconti stepped out into the lobby and knocked on a wall for Comfort to see him.
Comfort asked, “What’s wrong?”
“One of the women has to go to her room.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know . . . eh, she has to plug her dam. Know what I mean?” Visconti said. “But she won’t let any of us take her there unless another lady goes with her.”
Comfort was at his wit’s end over these incidentals; nonetheless, he told Sacco to handle it. Ms. Jefferson had chosen Joanne Rinaldi to go with her, and Sacco unfettered the two ladies. Joanne wanted to know, “Where are we going?”
Woman-to-woman, Ms. Jefferson confided to Joanne it was that time of month, and needed to go to her suite, and as Visconti had said, “she had to plug her dam.” But she didn’t want to be in her room alone with one of the gunmen. Joanne, glad to get away from the de Montejo vixens, understood. “Sure, I’ll be there in case one of these jocks gets the idea to dip his tool into that hot volcano of yours.”
Sacco, his pistol pointed at the floor, walked into the lobby with the two hotter than hot mamas. But Ms. Jefferson, feeling an oncoming accident, darted for the elevator, which by now Sacco was skilled at handling. The lift jettisoned them to the floor of the leaky model’s suite. Ms. Jefferson, her panties feeling warm and soupy, hastily unlocked the door and scuttled to the bathroom, where she dawdled for what seemed an eternity. Sacco was edgy, as time was running short. Three clumsy minutes passed, and Joanne and Sacco, alone by themselves, opened a dialogue. “Is this what you do for a living?” she chanced in an expression of fascination.
“Yeah, and it’s a pretty good way to make a buck,” Sacco answered casually. “Plus, I can make my own hours, and work whenever I want to.”
“So is this all you do. You don’t have a regular job or anything?” Intrigue in her tone.
“I don’t need to do nothin’ else,” he touted as if he couldn’t think of a better occupation. He nodded with his chin at Joanne. “Hey, lemme ask you somethin’. What’re you doin’ with that Brazilian playboy? Sounds to me like he’s playin’ you. Stringin’ you along.”
She tilted her head, slowly swiped her tongue over the lips, and said in a sassy voice, “Why, you offering something better?”
“Maybe.”
Joanne was on the king-size bed, her elbow propped on the pillow. She slid to one side and reached for the pen and notepad lying on the nightstand. Not wanting Ms. Jefferson to see her doing this, she scribbled furiously, tore the sheet off the pad, and folded it. She slipped the note between two fingers, winked, smiled solicitously, and gave it to Sacco. She had written her name and phone number on it.
No sooner he had shoved the paper into his pocket, Ms. Jefferson emerged from the bathroom refreshed, her lipstick and eye makeup renewed. “Ready to go.”
“I gotta cuff you both before we leave here. Sorry,” Sacco said, timidly.
“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Joanne said mockingly, looking at her pink-lacquered nails and joining her wrists for him to cuff. Was she letting out the hook and bait to have him arrested?
NICK SACCO
I really liked this girl, Joanne. She had a certain look; everybody has a preference when it comes to physical attraction. Know what I mean? But I said to myself: one minute she happens to be this rich and good-looking Brazilian’s commara, and the next minute she’s making a play for me. Could it be she was attracted to me, or maybe my being a jewel thief turned her on? Or did she have other plans that could’ve gotten me in hot water? Nonetheless, I still wanted to get to know her. Throughout my life, I had two addictions: gambling and women. And an addiction to women can be as bad as any other vice. A subconscious fear was rippling in my gut that maybe I should forget about this Joanne.
CHAPTER 23
6:18 A.M.
The seven o’clock shift was fast approaching, and Sammy Nalo, determined to rip open every deposit box, doggedly disregarded how late it was. Through gritted teeth Comfort yelled, “Sammy, that’s enough. We gotta get out of here.” But Nalo was unstoppable. “Goddamn it, Sammy, stop and let’s get ready to go. NOW!”
Under a spell of greed, Nalo was orgasmic, and Comfort said to Germaine, “C’mon, help me yank him out of here.”
And Germaine told Nalo, “Sammy, for Christ sake we gotta go.”
Comfort signaled Germaine, and together they grabbed Nalo by the arms and manhandled him away from the boxes and into the lobby. “Wait! Wait! One more box. One more box,” Nalo pressed as though he were in a state of incoherence.
“No way,” Comfort said. “You damn well know we can’t waste another minute.”
Nalo did rise above his stupor, and he and Germaine zipped shut the four brown-patterned Louis Vuittons chock full of jewels, bearer bonds, and cash. They gathered the burglary tools and white gloves and did one final check to ensure they had collected every piece of their equipment. “I think we got a sizable haul, Sammy,” Germaine said gleefully, affectionately patting one of the signature bags.
“Yeah, we sure did,” Nalo remarked coldly. He walked in a jog to the front desk area and said to Comfort, “We cleaned out the safe room. You can bring everybody back in there.”
According to the perpetrators’ strategy, before evacuating the Pierre the hostages had to be, once again, moved to the vault room, and Comfort knew this would upset and cause the captives anxiety. He said to Ali-Ben and Sacco, “We gotta get everybody into the safe room. Let’s do it now.”
Sacco and Visconti peeled off everyone’s duct tape, and Ali-Ben instructed the prisoners to stand and file through the alcove archway.
Of course they protested. “Where are we going?”
“Yeah, where the hell are you taking us this time?”
“I’m not leaving here.”
The head security officer stood as if he were about to charge Visconti. “What kind of games are you playing with us?”
“We’re not playin’ any games with you people,” Sacco said. He calmly looked at his audience. “We wanna go as soon as possible so we can leave you alone and in peace. But for now, please do as we say and nothin’s gonna happen to you. Trust me, okay?”
Joanne, winking at Sacco, knew no harm to her or anyone else was in the cards. The others weren’t too persuaded. But minus any choices, with trepidation they complied and peacefully walked to the vault room. As they resettled in there, Comfort, still donning the concierge’s burgundy jacket, came in. He had scripted a short farewell speech and pumped his palms in the air to douse the chatter. “Ladies and gentlemen,” his recitation began, “I thank you for your cooperation, and we hope we haven’t caused you too much of an inconvenience. If anyone here has a deposit box we broke into, we will mail back to the hotel anything that belongs to you.” Comfort had a pencil and a small black notepad in hand. “Please give me your box number.” He looked at the sullen faces before him and saw heads shaking. “I guess none of you has a deposit box in here. Well, good!”
The hostages didn’t know if this spiel was genuine or hinted of sarcasm, their looks nonplussed, eyes
squinting, lips twisting. But as solemn as a monk, Comfort preached on, “We ask of you to tell the police that you hardly remember anything and would not know what we look like; you were simply too scared and nervous. There’s no law that says you have to be a witness, and I feel I can trust you to do the right thing. And as a token of gratitude, we’re giving you each twenty dollars as a gift.”
Comfort’s act of good will was an astounding absurdity; this had to be some kind of a joke. “Are you jivin’, mah man?” the elevator operator asked. “’Cause if you’re for real, the Lord goin’ guide y’all to health and prosperity. And He goin’ reserve a place for you in Heaven. Oh yes indeed, The Lord goin’ be with you.”
And no, Comfort was not fooling, and followed through with his gesture of good will. Except the four security guards, he slipped a crisp twenty-dollar bill in the pockets of those who were handcuffed. “You security boys, who look like undertakers in those cheap black suits, are not getting any gifts because you all got cop mentalities.”
Understandably, the black man’s appreciation for the twenty-dollar gratuity was immense, considering that in 1972 a laborer without any skills earned approximately thirty-five dollars per day. Likewise, the three chambermaids, who tonight were part of this improvised societal blend, grossed twenty-two dollars per day, and the kitchen helper’s wages amounted to twenty-six dollars for a nine-hour shift. But this assemblage in the alcove was an unnatural and infrequent happenstance. For two and a half hours, destiny had thrown together elements from different ranks and brands of society in an enclosed space not larger than twenty feet by fifteen feet. And under such wicked conditions, those two and a half hours must’ve seemed longer than two and a half years. Moreover, in gross disproportion to the income of the Pierre menial workers, Joanne Rinaldi, a kept woman, spent hundreds of dollars on exotic skin lotions. Mrs. de Montejo wasted more money on worthless mud facials than the chambermaids’ salaries; and the debonair Diego de Montejo spent just as much for shoe shines. Not to mention the extravagant Madame Randall, the heiress to a fortune. On Tuesdays and Fridays she purchased wine and champagne at a cost of two hundred dollars.
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