The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  “Sir, I know it’s beyond bizarre, but I don’t have an answer.” The captain’s collar was suddenly too tight, and he loosened his black tie. “Eh, one of my lieutenants will soon be briefing me on the details.”

  “I want you to update me the minute you have additional information. I’m getting political pressure from the mayor’s office, and I must have answers.”

  “Yes sir. You’ll hear from me within the next few hours.”

  But the victims couldn’t wait to rise above the mire of this horrific experience; and in fear of reprisals from those charming thugs, the hotel night staff opted not to be heroes, the tight lips frustrating the authorities. Moreover, five or six employees of the Pierre, the cleaning staff, were illegal immigrants, and this was a period in which the US government strictly enforced immigration laws, deporting illegal aliens. Thus those who didn’t have a green card, afraid of severe repercussions, were equivocal and nebulous in describing the robbers.

  Another issue was tormenting the hotel guests who had incurred huge losses: the dreadful day of reckoning whereupon they might’ve had to tangle with the IRS and explain how they’d obtained hundreds of thousands of dollars in jewelry and cash. For this reason, the majority of the victims chose to understate their losses, and some even denied they were victimized. Hence, they skirted the investigators’ chafing questions, stalling the investigation.

  Meanwhile, the media wanted answers, and Lieutenant O’Neil was not about to be subjected to a second humiliating press conference. He said to his captain, “Hell, those pricking reporters have no mercy. And I’m ducking all journalists until I have something concrete to say.” A sound decision.

  But the lack of progress in solving this high-profile crime upset the captain; after all, he had to appease the commissioner, who was pressed to placate the politicians at the mayor’s office. This chain of relays, though, had broken links, and all because the victims, motivated by different concerns, were uncooperative. What was O’Neil to do? He sure as hell couldn’t torture anyone into assisting his investigators. Or could he?

  CHAPTER 31

  Bobby Comfort and Sammy Nalo, coupled as jewel thieves for several years, were an effective team. On a personal note, their friendship had survived many bumps and scrapes. On this early morning, though, in the wake of the Pierre escapade, rather than rejoicing and celebrating his largest heist ever, Comfort was disturbed by the nagging suspicion that his pal Sammy might’ve defrauded him. But he wasn’t sure; he thought he’d had a glimpse of Nalo shoving a diamond necklace into his pocket, then again maybe he hadn’t. Feeling grimy and exhausted, Comfort lit a cigarette. “Sammy, you and I have been through hell and back. And you know that no matter what you can trust me. But I need to know something, and I want you to be straight with me.”

  Nalo blinked nervously. “Sure, Bobby. I’m always straight with you.” An outright lie.

  Comfort disregarded that falsity and spoke in a tone that implied he knew the truth: “Back there at the Pierre, did you swipe any of the jewelry for yourself?” Nalo didn’t answer promptly, and Comfort, head cocked, raised his hands, palms outward. “Think it out, Sammy, ’cause I don’t want you to lie to me.”

  “Bobby, are you sayin’ I’d steal from you? That’s ridiculous, man,” Nalo said indignantly. “I can’t believe you’d even think that.”

  Comfort expelled a cloud of smoke. “If you didn’t, you didn’t. I’ll accept that.” He pointed at Nalo. “But if I ever find out otherwise, you and I are gonna have it out. Understand?”

  How could he ever find out? Nalo thought. He looped his arm around his friend’s shoulders and laughed. “Bobby, you’re a real gas. Like you just said, you and me have been through thick and thin. I’d never cross you.”

  Comfort thrust his arm for a handshake. “All right, I’ll take your word, and this whole thing is forgotten.”

  They shook hands and parted company. But did Bobby Comfort in fact bury the hatchet? A trace of suspicion skulked in his mind, and he was determined to find out if Nalo, who was always under threats because of his gambling debts, had snuck a handful of diamonds for himself. For the moment, though, that would have to wait.

  Customarily, after a job they assumed a low profile; no shopping sprees, no extravagant purchases, and no partying. Comfort drove home to Rochester, New York, where his faithful wife and daughter, a family whom he adored, awaited him. Sammy Nalo lay low his apartment in the Bronx, a disheveled one-bedroom flat where he cavorted with a variety of transients, topless dancers, shameless cocktail waitresses, and aspiring actresses who double-dutied as prostitutes. At the same time, he was married to a semiretired hooker, for whom he rented a house on the south shore of Long Island.

  Bobby Comfort’s westbound drive on Route 90 to Rochester was a monotonous six-and-a-half-hour journey. During the trip, his chain-smoking burned almost two packs of cigarettes, engulfing the interior of his metallic blue 1969 Plymouth GTX with air-choking smoke. But it soothed his nerves, and the New York City–Rochester run allowed him to think without distractions. The circumstances on this particular drive, though were precarious, and he, wound with tension, was keenly mindful of maintaining his speed below the limit. If a highway trooper were to stop his high-powered automobile, well, Comfort had much to worry about; behind the door panels of the Plymouth GTX he had tucked ten satchels of gems, a varied assortment of extraordinary stones. He tuned the radio to an FM station that played rock songs from the sixties.

  Riders on the storm

  Riders on the storm

  Into this house we’re born

  Into this world we’re thrown

  The 1971 melodious Doors hit calmed Comfort. He glanced at the speedometer and the needle was at the 65-miles-per-hour mark, the speed limit on Route 90. The Plymouth was purring along, the gas-guzzling 426 cubic-inch hemi V8 hardly laboring.

  At this segment of the trip, Comfort’s mind went to what he had stored in the trunk of the car—toys for his little girl, Nicole, gifts for his nieces, and a special present for his wife, Millie. He had purchased at wholesale a gold bracelet with rubies totaling fourteen carats. Comfort gifted Millie with jewelry he purchased, which he could prove with a paid receipt. Astutely, he never gave her anything he had stolen. If the police ever searched his home, no incriminating gems would ever be in the house. And now he was floating in a daydream, imagining his daughter, brown pigtails and all, hugging the three-foot teddy bear he’d surprise her with, a cuddly stuffed animal she had longed to have. And Millie, too, was sure to marvel at the beauty of the ruby bracelet, a gleaming trinket she’d wear proudly when she and Bobby would socialize and dine at restaurants. He had been away from home for six weeks and was pining to be with his cherished wife and daughter.

  On the highway, the green overhead sign read: ROCHESTER 12 MILES EXIT 45. In twenty minutes, the Plymouth GTX pulled into Comfort’s driveway. He opened the trunk and took out the teddy bear. After settling in, he’d unload his clothes and drive the car into the garage; there the GTX and the millions of dollars in jewels hidden in it would be safe. In the late sixties and early seventies, hemi-powered Plymouths were a top preference of car thieves. His garage, though, was secure and equipped with a state of the art alarm system. And Comfort thought of leaving the satchels of gems in the GTX overnight. In the morning, he’d go to his bank where he rented three safe deposit boxes.

  The teddy bear behind his back, he unlocked the front door of his home and pushed it open. “Millie, Nicole. Daddy’s home. Hello everyone, where are you?”

  The little girl emerged running in the hallway. Comfort smiled lovingly and crouched down to her height. She dove into his arms, and he embraced her with the teddy bear. “Mommy, mommy, look what daddy got me!”

  Millie walked in short, quick steps toward Bobby, and on seeing him spread her arms. “Oh, you’ve been gone so long.” She kissed him passionately on his mouth, forehead, and neck, Nicole’s arms wrapped around her daddy’s legs.

  All thr
ee were clumped together, and Comfort caressed Nicole’s cheek. “Well, I’m back, and this time for good.”

  Millie loosened her grip on Bobby and regarded him, her hazel eyes moistening. “Is that a promise? Do you really mean it?”

  “Of course I mean it.” He lit a cigarette, and Nicole towed the teddy bear to her room.

  “I’m so afraid when you’re away on these jobs,” Millie said, a lonely tear rolling down her rosy cheek. She gazed into her husband’s eyes, nodding in the direction of Nicole’s nursery, and said through sobs, “That child needs you, and God forbid something goes wrong. What would I do without you?”

  Bobby tugged her into him. “Here’s the good news I’ve been dying to tell you.” He cupped her chin in his hands. “This last job was a big one. A real big one. And I’m not doing any more. How about that? Does that make you happy?”

  Millie stepped back, pushed her black bobbed hair behind the ears, and gave him a snarling look. “I hope you’re serious about this, Mr. Comfort.”

  He sprang into a generous smile and winked at her. “Hey, hey, hey! I got something for you. Close your eyes.” He pulled a small, blue box from his pocket and opened the lid. “Okay, you can look.”

  “Oh, wow! Bobby, it’s beautiful. I can’t believe it. It’s . . . it’s so different.” And she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him over and over. She clasped the ruby bracelet on her right wrist and admired it, her countenance bright and happy. “Are you sure it’s all right for me to have this?”

  “Sure, it’s legit. I bought it at a jewelry store in the Diamond District.”

  That night, after tucking Nicole into bed, Bobby and Millie noshed on tidbits, and skipped a full meal. In these reuniting hours, Millie and Bobby’s appetite was only for one another. They scurried to the master bedroom like squirrels chasing one another and rolled into passionate lovemaking.

  In the late dawn, the gray, wintry daylight was dispersing the darkness, and the phone rang, startling the couple. “Who the hell is calling this early?” Bobby pressed the phone receiver to his ear, overnight mucus clogging his throat. He coughed and said in a raspy voice, “Hello, who’s this?”

  “Bobby, it’s Sammy. I hate to bother you so soon. But I got a big problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?” The instant Comfort said it, he realized these sorts of conversations were off limits by phone. “Never mind.”

  “All I can tell you is that you gotta get down here as soon as possible.” Nalo paused as if he was undecided whether to say more. “This problem I’m talkin’ about has to get straightened out within the next two days.” His speech accelerated, and he was breathing heavily. “Otherwise, I don’t even want to think about what’s gonna happen. Please Bobby, come down as soon as you can. I’ll tell you what it is when you call me back from a pay phone. Call me at ten o’clock at the usual phone booth on the West Side. You know which one I mean.”

  Comfort sighed, Millie listening with a look that opposed her husband returning to Manhattan. Comfort turned to see if his wife had wakened, and whispered into the mouthpiece, “I know which phone booth you’re talking about, Sammy. I’ll call you later at ten.” What kind of hassle did Sammy get himself into this time?

  CHAPTER 32

  Bobby Comfort and a Rochester Mafia made man, James “Rene the Painter” Piccarreto, had set an appointment at La Volpe, a southern Italian bistro on the east end of Rochester. This restaurant was controlled by Piccarreto, a mobster with a hair-trigger temper. He was at a table in the private catering room of the eatery, holding delicately a porcelain cup half filled with espresso coffee, his pinkie finger extended rigidly. He slurped on the rim of the cup and laid it down. Ever so slowly, Piccarreto raised his eyes at Comfort. “Have a seat, kid.”

  Loud rock music from the sixties was blaring from a Wurlitzer jukebox.

  Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?

  Goin’ down to shoot my ol’ lady

  She’d been messin’ with another man

  Comfort thrust forward the right arm for a handshake, and the Rochester gangster shook his hand limply as though he had no use for pleasantries. Comfort said, “How’re you doing, Rene?”

  Piccarreto, short, neck-less, and barrel-shaped, his bloated face pockmarked, looked at Comfort’s briefcase. “What’re you got in there for me?”

  “I have some high-end things I want to consign to you,” Comfort answered as he sat opposite from Piccarreto, placing the briefcase on the chair next to his.

  The kitchen help was preparing for the anticipated lunch crowd, aromas of fried calamari and hot red sauce infusing Comfort’s sense of smell. He scanned around him, and satisfied that no unknown persons were in proximity he rested the attaché on the table, and opened it. He untied a brown velvet satchel, and spilled samples of the high-luster stones onto the white tablecloth.

  “What I’ve got in my briefcase are all of the same quality as these, and retail for about six and a half million.”

  $6,500,000?! How was this possible? At Nalo’s safe house, hadn’t he and Comfort said the Pierre loot was in the range of $2,000,000? Was that a misunderstanding or perhaps an honest mistake? Or did they dupe their partners in crime? Indeed, they did. But this indiscretion would never surface. Or would it? Time might tell.

  Piccarreto, his eyes beady and steely, swilled his espresso. “And what’re you wanna get for all of this?”

  Comfort was not happy showing his wares in this busy restaurant, his head darting side to side. He gathered the samples off the table and closed the briefcase. “Rene, a good part of these stones are four carats and up. Many are Marquise and Asscher cuts. All top notch VVS2 clarity grades. The best.” Comfort put his thumb and index finger together and kissed them, underlining the superiority of the gems.

  “Bobby, get to the point. What’s your bottom line?”

  Comfort inhaled on his cigarette. “I want two and a half million.”

  “That don’t leave much room for me.”

  Comfort was amazed at the volume of lunch customers packing the main dining room, the commotion growing louder. He gave Piccarreto a friendly grin. “Look Rene, if you can’t move all this so you and I can be satisfied . . . no sweat!” Comfort sliced the air with his palms facing upward. “I’ll take everything back, and we’ll still be friends.”

  Comfort slid out a cigarette and gestured at Piccarreto with the pack. “Want one?”

  “No, I just quit smoking. As far as this swag, Bobby, leave it with me, and I’ll be in touch in a couple o’ days.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Comfort slipped a sheet of paper in his pocket on which he had itemized the content of the briefcase. He closed the attaché, and pushed it closer to the Mafia made man. They shook hands and Comfort said, “See you in two to three days, Rene.”

  If he hadn’t come to terms with Piccarreto, Comfort’s Plan B was to dump the satchels in his bank’s safe deposit boxes, and dispose of the jewels elsewhere.

  The other pressing chore was for him to reserve two seats on a flight to LaGuardia Airport in New York City, one two-way ticket for him, and one for his trusted friend, Dom Paolino, a stocky, dusky-complexioned Rochester resident who often represented Comfort in dealing with fences. Earlier that morning, from a public telephone Comfort had called Nalo at a phone booth in Manhattan, and they openly talked about the problem at hand. Nalo’s bookmaker, to whom he was once again delinquent in payments, gave him seventy-two hours to settle his gambling debts, or else. This meant that Nalo had to liquidate a portion of his loose stones. Hence, Comfort recruited Paolino as the liaison to a prospective buyer, whom a contact in the Diamond District would introduce him to.

  “Millie, listen,” Comfort began softly, “I gotta go back to New York.”

  “Whaaaat???!!! You can’t go back there so soon! What if they’re looking for you? You could get picked up.” Angst shaded Millie’s eyes as she buried her face in her palms.

  Hearing mommy cry, littl
e Nicole came running into the den, tears dampening her cheeks.

  Comfort looked at his daughter and saw a distraught child. He said to Millie, “Honey, stop making yourself crazy. It’s upsetting Nicole. Everything will be all right. Believe me.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I gotta straighten out whatever problem Sammy has. If something happens to him, it could boomerang to me, and the cops might start looking into some of the past jobs we did. Don’t you see?”

  Millie lowered her head and couldn’t be placated. She kept silent and then said, “I sense something is wrong. I feel it in my bones.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Comfort set out to join Dom Paolino at the Rochester Airport. Millie drove him there, and blizzard conditions were blowing, snow blurring visibility. “You had to pick this terrible morning to fly?” she said, glumness in her voice.

  Millie’s misgivings were warranted; the commuter aircraft of that period were twin-engine prop-driven planes not much more substantial than a tin can with wings. Thirty-eight mile-per-hour winds were already spooling, the temperature plunging below seventeen degrees Fahrenheit. Comfort hugged his wife. “C’mon, get rid of the sad eyes. You’re all wound up over nothing.” And he kissed her. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

  She pushed herself away from him. “You better, or I’ll never forgive you.” She waggled a finger at him and said in a looming tone, “And so will Nicole.”

  As Millie said that, images of the child came to Comfort’s mind, melancholy thoughts churning pangs in his innards. He upped out, and slid his luggage from the rear seat. “Bye sweetie. When you get home, give my little honey a kiss for me.” He enfolded the lapels of his olive-green overcoat around the neck, freezing winds whizzing past his cold, purple ears, and jogged to the airline passenger terminal. To call it a terminal was an overstatement. In practical terms, the interior of this ghostly sheet metal structure was not larger or grander than a railroad station with two ticket booths, a stench of kerosene fumes from a portable heater fouling the air. Six or seven people were milling about, all seemingly uneasy over the deteriorating weather, awaiting announcements about possible changes of the departing flights.