The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  Paolino, his nose squashed as though at some point in time he might’ve fractured it, saw Comfort walking through the door, and raised an arm. “Bobby, over here.”

  They embraced, Comfort stomping his feet to revive blood circulation. Paolino looked out a floor-to-ceiling window, through which he could see the tarmac, patches of ice splotching the asphalt. He nodded at the outdoors. “We picked a hell of a day to fly, eh?”

  Comfort chuckled, a nervous laugh. “That’s just what Millie said.” He stared at the window and reflected on Nicole’s look of distress over her mommy crying. “Hope we don’t go down in this blizzard.”

  “They might cancel the flight.” Paolino sucked on his tongue, snowflakes hitting the glass. “Whatever will be will be.”

  The flight was not canceled. Instead, they were herded for a hundred yards to a mobile access stairway and into a DC-3. Because of the aircraft’s tail-wheel landing gear configuration, it sat in a squatting position. In the cabin were two rows of seats for twelve passengers plus a crew of three. The one stewardess on board fought to shut and latch the heavy door, and soon the two engines ignited to a roar, a burst of black smoke blasting from the exhaust manifolds. The flight attendant, well-rounded, ear-length blonde hair, was demure in a blue blouse and skirt ensemble, and a white, sheer scarf. Balancing herself precariously on high heels, and speaking above the rumbling noise of the eighteen-cylinder radial engines, she said in a trained voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to taxi onto the runway. Please fasten your seatbelts.” She had on a dutiful smile as though the passengers couldn’t have chosen a better day to fly.

  The DC-3 started bumping along until it reached the apron of the runway. The cockpit had no door, and Comfort and Paolino, who were in the seats side by side in the two rows, watched the pilot shove the throttle levers to full acceleration, and the plane’s engines revved deafeningly, transferring jaw-jarring vibrations throughout the fuselage and into the cabin. Comfort was sitting on the starboard side, and peering out the porthole window he saw something that made his pulse race. The wing’s top surface had accumulated a sheathing of ice, and what suddenly came to mind was a recent plane crash in the news that had been caused by icing on the wings. He felt a knot the size of a fig in his throat as he recollected reading that ice buildup reshapes the airfoil, the wing, compromising its airlifting effect. This was troubling, and he found himself murmuring prayers.

  Fifteen seconds into the takeoff roll, and the aircraft was bouncing and yawing as though it were in danger of veering off the runway, the pilot fighting the yoke to keep the DC-3 on track. (The yoke is an aeronautical term for steering wheel.) Comfort, his heart in his mouth, was wondering if the wings were about to start flapping. White-knuckled, everyone on board was squeezing the armrests, the endearing stewardess still smiling. The aircraft’s speed was increasing moderately, as were the vibrations. An inch of snow had accrued on the runway, but Comfort couldn’t see past forty to fifty feet. Barreling down at nearly one hundred miles per hour, does the pilot know where the plane is headed? It would’ve been surprising if this small, vintage aircraft was equipped with state-of-the-art avionics (electronic navigational gear). Thirty-five seconds had passed from the moment the DC-3 began rolling, and the tail wheel lifted off the ground, yielding to more fishtailing. As the airplane advanced three-quarters down the runway, it seemed as though the front landing gear was glued to the asphalt. Comfort looked out his porthole window, and through the near whiteout of snow could faintly make out the line of pine trees not far ahead. Eyes on the fast-growing forest, without turning to Paolino, Comfort tapped his arm. “Dom, holy shit! We’re running out of runway. Hope this flying can gets off the ground, like now.”

  The DC-3 was laboring to overcome the strong head winds, the stewardess’s smile withering.

  At last, Comfort and Paolino felt the front wheels airborne, but the rickety aircraft’s rate of ascent seemed perilously slow, the ominous pines mounting by the second in the short distance ahead.

  CHAPTER 34

  Comfort and Paolino’s coloring had ashened, as did the faces of the other passengers. The floundering plane dipped, sucking the breath of all souls on board, and two or three female commuters yelped out a burst of screams. In the next three seconds, the nose tipped upward, and Comfort heard the swishing of the treetops scraping the underbelly of the fuselage, the left wingtip lowering and still grazing the foliage below, pine needles scattering in the air. The DC-3 banked to the right and, miraculously, maintained a minimal but steadier climb. At last, it penetrated the gray clouds, breathing resuming inside the cabin.

  At home in Rochester, Millie was pacing room to room, wringing her hands, worrying about the increasingly inclement weather or some other destined doom. She couldn’t guess what it might’ve been, but a gloomy premonition would not disperse in her head. Was Bobby’s flight doomed, and he’d be killed? Or was he about to be arrested in New York? Millie had been disquieted since her husband had mentioned he’d be flying to Manhattan. And her distraught state was infecting Nicole, a love-smothered, sensitive child who was as fragile as an eggshell.

  Somehow, the unsteady DC-3 touched down safely at LaGuardia Airport, where the weather, though in the low thirties, was a great improvement over the Rochester whiteout. “That was some flight,” Paolino said to Comfort.

  “Never again, man. Never! Next time, I drive. I feel like kissing the ground.”

  They waited for the carousel to spit out their luggage, and Comfort seemed jumpy. He looked at his watch. “As soon as we get our bags, let’s find a pay phone. I gotta call Millie. I know she’s going nuts.”

  In the terminal, they found a bank of telephone booths, every one of which was occupied except one. Comfort ran to it before someone else might beat him to it. He fed several quarters into the coin slot and dialed. “Millie, it’s me. We just got here at LaGuardia.”

  “Oh, thank God. Thank God, Bobby. You don’t know, I was getting sick.”

  He could hear his wife’s stressed gulps of air. “I know what you must’ve gone through the whole morning, baby. The flight was a little rough, but everything’s okay. Anyhow, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You promise?”

  “Sure, I promise. But please don’t forget to kiss my little princess for me.”

  “You know I will. But Bobby?”

  “Yeah? What is it, honey?”

  “Please be careful. And . . . don’t get too confident.”

  Millie couldn’t shake the ill omen lurking inside her, a feeling that had also begun affecting Comfort’s subconscious.

  CHAPTER 35

  Nalo had driven to LaGuardia to meet Comfort and Paolino and take them to the Royal Manhattan Hotel on 45th Street and 8th Avenue. They loaded the baggage in the trunk of Nalo’s white Volvo 144S, and proceeded south on the Grand Central Parkway. Paolino and Comfort lit cigarettes, creating clouds of smoke and peeving Nalo. “So what’s going on, Sammy,” Comfort asked, flicking his Pall Mall in the ashtray on the dashboard.

  Nalo didn’t turn to look at his passenger, eyes on the road. He sighed with heaviness and said, “Ah, this Joe Longone, the bookie. You know him.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s pressing me. I . . . I owe the bastard about two hundred and twenty grand.”

  “Two hundred and twenty grand!” said Paolino, whistling in astonishment in the rear seat.

  Comfort shook his head. “Sammy, this is insane, man. You gotta curb your gambling.”

  Rocking his head slightly in understanding of Comfort’s advice, Nalo said, “You’re right, Bobby. But what can I do? I mean, everybody’s got a vice. And . . .”

  Paolino cut in, “That’s a hell of a vice. Besides the money you’re throwin’ away, one day someone’s gonna do you in.”

  “Thanks, Dom. I didn’t need that,” Nalo said sullenly.

  “Dom’s right, Sammy,” Comfort said. “You’re risking your life making your money, and you’re risking your
life in the way you’re spending it. More like pissing it away.”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it right now. This is not why I asked you to come down,” Nalo shot back.

  Comfort raised his palms in surrender. “Fine with me. Anything you say, Sammy. But I wish you’d stop calling me every time you get yourself in a pickle.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Nalo guaranteed.

  They were now in the westbound lanes of the Long Island Expressway. Paolino didn’t join the conversation, and stared out the window, in awe at the Big Apple skyline cropping four or five miles ahead, the East River glistening in the foreground of that unrivaled panorama.

  In a downcast tone, Nalo said, “All I wanna do is fence about forty to fifty of my stones, and that’ll pull me through and get rid of that fuckin’ Longone. Those guinea bookmakers are all the same. Pressure, pressure, pressure! Violence, violence, violence!”

  Nalo paid the twenty-five-cent toll and aimed the Volvo into the white-tiled tube of the Midtown Tunnel, a one-and-a-half-mile underwater tract trafficked by seventy-seven thousand vehicles per day. On exiting it, he turned north on 3rd Avenue to 45th Street, and left onto 8th Avenue. He parked temporarily in front of the Royal Manhattan Hotel and said to Comfort and Paolino, “You guys check in, and I’ll find a parking space.”

  In the rented suite, which Comfort had already smoke-polluted, they sat in the living room on a pale-yellow linen sofa. Facing it were four mint-green lounge chairs arranged in a semicircle. Inside of ten minutes, Nalo knocked and Paolino opened the door for him. Nalo fell back into one of the chairs and rolled up his shirt sleeves, arms as hairy as a bear. He said to Comfort, “This jeweler we did business with a year ago, Bert Stern, he’s got a booth in the Diamond District.”

  “I remember Stern. We sold him a lot of odds and ends,” Comfort recalled, relaxing in his cushiony chair.

  “Anyway, Nalo continued, “Stern works with a diamond cutter that knows a banker who dabbles with gold, silver, and gems. The cutter’s name . . . I think is Harry Towson.”

  “You think!” Comfort said as he threw his head back. “You better be sure. And did you check him out?”

  “I myself didn’t check him out, but Stern vouches for this guy.”

  “Hope you’re right,” Paolino said scathingly.

  “We’re gonna have lunch this afternoon with Stern and the cutter, Towson,” Nalo said, looking at his watch. “Matter of fact, we gotta meet them at the Cattleman in about an hour.”

  “I’ve heard of that joint up in Rochester. Supposed to be a damn good steakhouse. Where is that place?” Paolino asked.

  “Seventh Avenue and 51st Street,” Comfort said. “Well then, we better get going.”

  “I’ll go get the car and meet you in front of the hotel,” Nalo said, restlessness in his movements.

  They rose, donned their coats, went down to the lobby, and stepped through the revolving doors.

  The midday traffic was typically in high volume bogged down with automobiles, trucks, and flocks of yellow Checker cabs that through the early eighties weaved from lane to lane, harrowingly dodging other vehicles and miraculously avoiding pedestrians. At the Cattleman, a maître d’ welcomed Comfort and company, taking the three to a booth where Bert Stern and Harry Towson were already seated. Stern was in an eye-catching pink jacket over a plum shirt, colors brighter than the feathers of a parrot. An aroma of seared beef was the predominant smell inside the restaurant, a mouthwatering whiff for meat lovers.

  Stern and Towson stood, arms ready for handshakes. Nalo recited the introductions, and everyone settled on all sides of the rectangular table, which was full of sparkling glasses and a complement of porcelain dishes bearing the restaurant’s logo etched in gold leaf at the center.

  “Good to see you, Bobby,” Stern said in a strong baritone voice that was incongruent with his short, tubby body. He was bald and made a futile attempt at covering his glossy scalp. He combed the few remaining strands of hair above his left ear over the right side of the head, appearing as though he had drawn those sparse filaments with a black marker. Stern, who chortled at the end of every sentence, patted Towson’s sleeve. “Harry here is not only a great stone cutter; he also has a few valuable contacts.” Stern winked and smiled. “I’m talkin’ about certain parties who are in the market for your merchandise.” By “certain parties,” he meant fences.

  Towson, soft spoken, his salt-and-pepper hair razor cut, closed in to the table. “I represent a banker. This banker is buying a lot of stones and money doesn’t seem to be an issue. He’s not a hondler either.” He looked at Stern. “Unlike our friend Bert.” Everyone laughed, Stern tolerating the joke in kind. “Anyhow,” Towson said, “I can set up a meeting with the banker.”

  “What’s the banker’s name?” asked Nalo.

  Towson hesitated before he said, “Ronald.”

  “Ronald what?”

  “Uh, I don’t know his last name,” Towson answered ineptly.

  Comfort said in a surprised in voice, “You don’t know his last name? How can you be so sure that this Ronald isn’t an undercover cop?”

  “Simple,” Towson replied casually. “First of all, I cut a lot of diamonds for Ronald, and he always pays in cash. Secondly, I know two jewelers who sold him a slew of legit gold and silver.” He paused a few seconds. “If he’s an undercover cop, why would he be buying jewelry that’s not swag? Look, Ronald believes a wild economic inflation isn’t too far ahead, and he’s converting his cash into gold and gems.” Towson pecked his temple. “Actually, that’s pretty smart of him.”

  “But it never occurred to you to find out Ronald’s last name?” Comfort belabored.

  “Yeah, didn’t you wanna know who you’re dealin’ with?” Nalo added.

  “Like I said, he’s been buying legitimate items, not just hot material, and he pays in cash. Maybe he doesn’t want the whole world to know he’s got undeclared money. What’s so unusual about that?” Towson reasoned.

  Stern interrupted this volleying and said, “Hey, why don’t we get some food before we starve to death?” He raised his arm and signaled to a waiter. Everyone ordered the same choice, aged Porterhouse steaks, the specialty of the house. Comfort asked the waiter for a bottle of burgundy, a California brand. Nalo didn’t care for wines; he had a penchant for the Greek beverage, ouzo, and Stern might’ve chosen Manischewitz. But the Cattleman was an American chop house and didn’t cater to ethnic palates.

  They all ate hardy, the Porterhouse steaks were as tender and soft as a stick of butter, and now it was time to revert to the issue at hand, Harry Towson’s shadowy buyer.

  Nalo dropped the utensils in his plate, a disruptive loud clanking that turned many heads. He burped and thumped his chest with a fist as he burped. “So Harry, you’re okay with this contact of yours. I do agree with you on the fact that this . . . eh, what did you say this banker’s name is?”

  “Ronald,” answered Towson.

  “Yeah, Ronald. What you said makes sense. If he’s a cop or FBI, why would he buy legitimate jewelry?”

  Comfort and Paolino weren’t too convinced. Across the table, Stern understood their trepidation. “Bobby, what Harry said is perfectly logical. Besides, you or Sammy aren’t going to meet with this Ronald. Dom will.” Stern nodded at Paolino. “Dom doesn’t have a reputation as a jewel thief in New York. And let’s say this so-called banker turns out to be undercover, the police won’t have nothin’ on Dom. After all, Dom will have in his possession only a handful of stones that could’ve came from anywhere, and don’t necessarily have to be hot. Right?”

  No matter what anybody said, though, Comfort couldn’t rid of the intuition that had rooted itself in his gut. He and Nalo were still on the FBI’s priority for the Loren job. And even more demoralizing, on the third page of today’s New York Post was an article pertaining to the Pierre.

  PIERRE ELEVATOR OPERATOR WILL WORK

  WITH POLICE SKETCH ARTIST

  And Millie’s words
resonated incessantly in Comfort’s ears: “Please don’t go back to New York. Something is gonna go wrong. I feel it in my bones.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The following morning, the steaks not yet fully digested, Comfort, Nalo, and Paolino showered and shaved in the suite at the Royal Manhattan and set out to go see Bert Stern, Harry Towson, and Roland with no last name. The location for this tryst was the Market Diner on 43rd Street and 11th Avenue. Stern had chosen a partitioned corner table and had already been there with Towson and Roland. Comfort, Nalo, and Paolino walked in and joined the others. The diner was noisy and the food greasy. A tent of smoke hovered overhead, and the smell of recycled frying oil seemed to be a permanent odor.

  Stern said, “You guys have a restful night?”

  The new arrivals nodded mutely, and Stern pointed to his right at Roland the banker. “Bobby, Sammy, Dom, this is Roland. Harry you already met last night.” Stern then said to the guest star, “Roland, this is Bobby Comfort, Sammy Nalo, and Dom Paolino.”

  They shook hands coldly and sat. A minute or two of idle talk made everybody feel at ease and less nervous. Roland, tall and slim, wore thick prescription glasses mounted on black frames. Looking proper in a dull black suit, he was all business—a stony face and blondish slicked-back hair—and said little, if anything at all. Up to this point, Towson did all the talking.

  Nalo said to the banker, “I want to unload about $250,000 worth of diamonds. Four to eight carats each with mixed shapes. They’re all high clarity grades. Can you handle two hundred and fifty grand?”