Poker-faced, his eyes magnified through the glasses, Roland answered curtly, “Uh, uh.” He rocked his head almost in slow motion as if to underscore his reply. “As long as an appraisal from a reputable appraiser meets my expectations, we’ll have a deal.”
“Where do you wanna do this?” Comfort asked, hostility in his tone.
Towson chugged a glass of lemon water, and speaking to the whole table said, “The exchange can take place tomorrow at eleven o’clock at the Summit Hotel on 51st and Lexington. Come to the lounge. That’s where Roland and I will be. Roland will have a room at the Summit, and we’ll go from there.”
“So there are no misunderstandings, Sammy, the retail appraisal of your diamonds has to come in at least at $500,000. Or else we won’t have a deal,” Roland stated arrogantly.
“That’s fine with me. I know what I got, and I know what it’s worth,” Nalo said.
Comfort asked Roland, “You mind telling us your last name?”
“Yes, I do mind.” Roland rapped his chest with a hand as though he were a person of substance. “I’ll just say this; I’m a high ranking executive at a financial institution and don’t want my side business to be a conflict of interest.”
Roland’s anecdote didn’t satisfy Comfort. Nalo, on the other hand, desperate to liquidate his stones so to be rid of the dog with bared fangs, saw nothing amiss or fraudulent about Roland. Was the urgency of Nalo’s problem clouding his thinking? Or was Comfort too skeptical, or too careful, or too paranoid? After all, professionals who are in capacities of prestige, and at the same time delve into an illicit business, tend to be prudent, and even enigmatic.
“If we’re set, then we’re done here, and we’ll adjourn ‘til tomorrow at the Summit Hotel,” Towson said, searching everyone’s reaction for doubts or second thoughts.
Nalo rapped the tabletop in confirmation of the appointment. He looked at Comfort and Paolino. “Are you guys okay with this?”
Comfort lowered his eyes and said in a hush, “Guess so, Sammy. It’s your ball game.”
Paolino drank water and didn’t answer.
“We’ll see you tomorrow at eleven,” Nalo said to Towson and Roland.
No one else commented, and Roland upped off his chair. “All right. See you all in the morning.”
When the banker stood, Comfort, Nalo, and Paolino saw for the first time how tall he was. “Big dude,” Nalo said, watching Roland walk away.
“Anything else that we have to talk about?” Comfort asked Towson.
“I don’t think so.” Then Towson asked Stern, “What’re you think about all this?”
“To me, it sounds cut and dry, fellas.”
Comfort, Nalo, and Paolino flagged down a cab and returned to the Royal Manhattan. As they settled in the suite, the two Rochester men opened the minibar and had a drink. Comfort dumped ice cubes in his whiskey, and stirred it by shaking the glass. And now was the appropriate time for him and Nalo to hash out where to safely warehouse the bulk of the gems from the Pierre.
Comfort downed the whiskey and said, “We gotta get rid of the rest of the stones.”
“You have any ideas, Bobby?” Nalo asked.
“I was thinking of leaving the whole satchel with Al Green.”
Green, who in the hours after the robbery had survived the car rollover accident on the Belt Parkway, and the clash with the pit bull, resurfaced, and Comfort and Nalo squared him away in respect to his due share of the heist. Green had proved to be trustworthy, and they decided to trust him with the satchel, a large quantity of high-grade gems stowed in a black double-lined cloth sack. The bag was hidden in Nalo’s apartment in the Bronx, but should the Roland rendezvous go awry, Comfort and Nalo were taking steps not to lose it to the authorities. “I’ll go talk to Al Green later,” Nalo said.
“Why don’t you go right now?” Comfort suggested as he poured another three-ounce bottle of Jack Daniel’s into his glass.
“Bobby’s right,” Paolino said, who was on the couch reading, rather viewing, an issue of Playboy magazine, a bottle of Miller in his hand. “The sooner you get rid of that stuff, the better it is for all of us.”
“What time is it?” Nalo looked at the wristwatch. “It’s a bit too early. Al is probably still runnin’ numbers.”
“By the time you drive all the way up to Harlem, traffic and all, he’ll be done with his numbers run, and you’ll find him at his bar,” Comfort said.
“What’s the name of his bar again?”
“Eh . . . what the hell was it? Oh, yeah, the Black Pussycat.” Comfort thought for a moment. “It’s one block east of where the old Cotton Club used to be on 142nd and Lenox.”
“That’s it,” Nalo recalled.
“Well, then, get going. I’m counting the seconds to get done with this and say goodbye to New York City.” Comfort squished his cigarette butt in an ashtray, swigged the rest of the whiskey, and not to break the chain, lighted a new Pall Mall. “I still don’t like this whole thing, Sammy.” He shook his head persistently. ”I just don’t like it, man.”
CHAPTER 37
Sammy, I don’t wanna hold on to your shit,” Al Green said. “Uh, uh, man. Damn, if I get busted for any bullshit, and the powleece find all that swag in my crib . . . shit, they be lockin’ my black ass up, and I’ll never again see the light o’ day.”
Nalo and Green were at the mahogany bar in Green’s darkish Black Pussycat, a reek of liquor vapors throughout the gin mill. A black waitress trending a white-dyed afro and white, thigh-high boots brushed up to Nalo and rested her chin on his shoulder. “Can I git you somethin’, Booboo?”
Nalo shook his head no.
“She’s a fine sistah, Sammy. Ain’t she?” Green said.
She kissed Nalo’s neck. “You looh like youh down in the dumps. Some pink pussy might make you feel better, Booboo. Uh, uh.”
Nalo wasn’t in the mood for sweet whisperings, though had his quandary not been weighing on him, he sure would’ve loved a romp with the “fine sistah.” He said to Green, “Can we go somewhere and talk, just you and me?”
Green nodded at a door next to a glitzy jukebox. “Let’s go in there.” He shooed away the hooker, and she sauntered to the other end of the bar in a dancing step, the jukebox playing a sixties song by the Four Tops.
Reach out for me, I’ll be there.
The Black Pussycat was drafty, the wind howling through the poorly insulated side door, and Nalo, lightly dressed, was forcing himself not to shiver. “Look, Al, I just want you to hold on to my goods for a couple of days. That’s all.”
Green leaned his shoulder into the wall and looked at the floor, a worn-blackened wooden parquet from the late 1800s. “I don’t know, Sammy. I mean, if somethin’ goes wrong I don’t wanna be blamed.”
Nalo pinched Green’s cheek to soften him. “Nothin’ is gonna go wrong. C’mon, do it for me, Al.”
That evening, Comfort and Nalo delivered the satchel to Green’s apartment on 110th Street in Harlem. “It’s all in here, Al,” Nalo said. “When this is all over, we’re gonna give you, as you blacks say, a little piece o’ change.” And he handed him the black satchel.
Green took it and laughed. “You white dudes are funny. You’re damn right I goin’ want a little piece o’ change.”
Comfort and Nalo drove southbound on Riverside Drive back to the Royal Manhattan, and all through the ride neither one spoke.
Dom Paolino was chomping on a hamburger in the hotel’s lounge and washing it down with a frosty beer. He saw Comfort and Nalo walk in, and they joined him for a dinner of bar food. Comfort ate a Caesar salad, and Nalo ordered buffalo wings marinated in a southern concoction of barbecue sauce.
“How did it go with Al Green?” Paolino asked.
Comfort pointed at Nalo. “Sammy here talked Al into taking our stock for a couple of days.”
“That’s great,” Paolino said, his mouth stuffed and biting into the hamburger.
Behind the dining area of the lounge, on a dance
floor were a dozen or so tightly squeezed revelers, arms and legs floundering in convulsive twirls and twists, a strobe light freezing the dancers’ movements. The capturing effect of the strobe light made the action seem as if it were a jerky, black-and-white silent film from the early 1900s.
Comfort scratched the tip of his nose. “Yeah, well. Green looked scared, and I hope he’s got the common sense not to do anything stupid and get pinched. One thing can lead to another. You know how it goes.”
“Tell me about it,” Paolino said, emptying his golden Miller.
On finishing the abbreviated dinner and a few anesthetizing cocktails, they went to Comfort’s suite. Nalo had been carrying a brown toiletry tote containing a half-million dollars in diamonds. He placed it on the coffee table in the main room. “In there is almost half a mil. That ought to do it for Roland.”
“I hope so,” Comfort answered dolefully.
Nalo asked Paolino, “What time are you meeting Stern and the others tomorrow morning?”
“At eleven.”
Nalo sighed. “All right. I’m goin’. Keep me in the loop. If I don’t hear from either one of you, I’ll know it went bad.”
“Let’s pray to God it all ends well. And take it easy, Sammy,” Comfort said.
“I don’t know what God can do,” Nalo answered. “I suggest you guys rely on yourselves and watch your asses. And forget about God.”
“All right, Sammy, everybody looks at life differently. You have to learn to respect others’ opinions. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Nalo stepped through the revolving doors, and stood on the sidewalk beneath the twenty-five-foot awning advertising The Royal Manhattan, surprised by the onset of a snowstorm, white flakes dusting the pavement. The elevator shoes unsteadying his ankles, he started plodding eastward to where he had parked the Volvo. A few seconds into his walk, and he could hear the nerve-racking closing-in of footsteps. Nalo’s heartbeat began thumping. He glanced behind him and managed a momentary peep of two fast-stepping, squatty figures in dark coats, the brim of the stalkers’ black hats low over their brows.
CHAPTER 38
The two obscured goons sidled alongside Nalo and clutched his arms. “How yah doin’, Sammy?” said the one on Nalo’s right, his voice raspy and high-pitched. “Just keep walkin.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Nalo demanded, wriggling to free his arms.
“Take it easy, Sammy. Stay still. You can’t run too far.”
“What’re you want from me?”
“Your pal, Joe Longone, hopes you’re gonna make the deadline. Know what I mean, Sammy? ’Cause if you’re not . . . well, he feels it’s only right for him to order a nice flower wreath for your funeral. But he wants to know what your favorite flowers are.”
“I’ll make the deadline. I always do. And tell him he don’t need to worry about flowers for me. If anything, he should send flowers to his wife, and maybe she’ll stop fuckin’ his driver.”
“Always a wiseass, Sammy. Ain’t yah?”
Nalo tugged his arms from the hoodlums’ grips and brushed his sleeves. “Just tell Longone to keep cool for now. Meantime, stay the fuck away from me.” Again Nalo was under the gun, and unless he liquidated a portion of his jewels and reconciled matters with Longone, all his problems could be over.
The next morning at the Royal Manhattan, Comfort said to Paolino, “You should leave now and head to the Summit. It’s better to get there before everybody else. You know, scope out the place and get a feel of things.”
“Yeah, I’m all set to go.” Paolino visited the bathroom, brushed his thick, nappy hair and splashed a few drops of cologne on the cheeks. He went to the foyer closet for his tan raincoat and draped it over the shoulders.
Comfort gave him the briefcase with Nalo’s stones. “Dom, be careful and always watch your ass.”
“No problem. I’ve done this before. You should know that.” And Paolino was en route to the Summit Hotel to dispose of swag gems for cash.
As he shut the door behind him, Comfort slumped onto the couch, lit a cigarette, and fell into somberness. Why did he chance flying back to New York in the immediate aftermath of the Pierre job, overseeing a fencing deal on behalf of Nalo, who was in another one of his pickles, and likely would be in one again? And if the shoe was on the other foot, would Nalo do the same for him? Probably not, Comfort knew.
As the elevator door opened on the lobby level, Paolino had a thought: pay the hotel bill now so that the minute he’d be done with Roland, he and Comfort would avoid delays leaving Manhattan. The sooner we get out of here, the better it is.
“Will that be all, Mr. Paolino?” asked a prim and proper clerk at the checkout desk, a glimmering limpidness in her green eyes.
Paolino, always on the prowl for “fresh meat,” winked flirtingly at the blonde girl, who blushed. “That’ll do it.” He glanced at the name tag on her lapel. “I see your name is Jill. Pretty name. I’ll see you again.” And as he walked away, he winked at her a second time.
Jill, competent in her work, called out to him, “Sir, your receipt.”
He backtracked, and in an exaggerated sweep of his hand took the receipt from her. “You’re not just gorgeous, but efficient as well.” And he blew Jill a kiss, a crooked smile on his lips. “You can bet I’ll see you soon.”
Jill’s efficiency, however, was precisely what Comfort could’ve done without.
CHAPTER 39
Paolino, enraptured by the prospect of dating Jill sometime in the near future, pranced happily, feeling as though he were floating on water. He signaled a cab and, traffic permitting, he should be at the Summit in fifteen minutes. Paolino strutted through the lobby and went to the lounge, a bar/restaurant that was sparse of customers. A lunch buffet spanned along one wall, scents of broiled seafood tingeing the sleepy dining room. Pretending to be peeking at the vast variety of food, Paolino scoped the surroundings for anybody who might’ve been spying on him. No suspects in sight, and all seemed normal—a few hotel patrons, bellhops, and two or three black-suited businessmen milling about, everyone minding his or her affairs.
Paolino sat on a bar stool and asked the bartender for a bottle of Perrier. As he sipped the signature water, in less than five to six minutes Bert Stern tapped him on his shoulder. “Hey Dom. How’s it goin’? Are we all here?”
Benjamin Fradkin, a gem appraiser at the Manhattan Diamond District, and Harry Towson, a fast-talking character who exuded undue confidence, had come with Stern, who greeted Paolino, “Good morning,” and gave him a hearty chuckle.
Fradkin was a short, cross-eyed senior in his mid sixties. Shy and timid, carrying a utility bag, he hardly whispered, “Hi.”
Stern nodded at Fradkin and said to Paolino, “Benjamin’s got a fair reputation in the Diamond District. He’ll do a good job appraising the stones, and the deal will be over before you know it.”
“Pleased to meet you, Benjamin,” Paolino said. He did an imaginary head count. “Where’s Roland?”
“Oh, he’s up in his room,” Towson replied matter-of-factly.
“Well, what’re we waitin’ for? Let’s go see him,” Paolino said.
“Roland doesn’t want anybody in the room but you and Benjamin. Understandably, he prefers for no one else to witness the purchase.” Towson paused and cocked his head. “And frankly, I don’t wanna be present either.”
Stern must’ve felt he had to justify Roland’s wishes and said, “Sure, I wouldn’t wanna have everybody and their horses to see the deal go down. As a banker, Roland is trained to be extra cautious.”
Towson took a piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it. “Dom, he’s in room 1032. He wants you and Benjamin to go up and knock on the door . . . and do what you gotta do. Bert and I, we’ll wait down here ’til you guys finish your business.”
Paolino glanced at Fradkin, whose nervousness would’ve been apparent even to a person in a coma. “If that’s the way it’s gotta be, let’s get it over with. We’ll meet you back here w
hen we’re done.”
“Sounds good,” Towson said. “I’m just going down the block to the newsstand to pick up the Post, but I’ll come right back here to wait for you.”
Back at the Royal Manhattan, Bobby Comfort’s stomach was in knots. Roland’s perfectly fitting explanations had sounded rehearsed. But from an objective perspective his clarifications were reasonable and certainly plausible. Despite this, no amount of reasoning could set aside an inexplicable sensation that nibbled at Comfort’s thoughts.
Fradkin and Paolino walked to one of the elevators and rode it to the tenth floor. They found Room 1032, and Paolino knocked on the door. A cheerful voice from inside the room said in a musical tone, “Just a minute, please.”
Fradkin’s partially bald head had a sheen of sweat, and at last he and Paolino heard footsteps. But when the door opened, a pink-faced, gray-haired man in a cheap brown suit waved them in. “Who are you?” asked Paolino, surprise arching his eyebrows.
The stranger answered, “C’mon in, c’mon in. Roland is in the bathroom. He’ll be right out.”
As Fradkin and Paolino entered the suite, the brown-suited person said invitingly, “Meantime, get yourselves set up there by the coffee table.”
Fradkin warily placed his bag on the table and unpacked his jeweler’s scale and a notepad. He also dug in his jacket pocket for the loupe. Paolino, just as guardedly, rested the briefcase beside Fradkin’s scale and opened it. He removed a neatly folded cotton handkerchief from one of the compartments and unfurled it, revealing a layer of diamonds. Paolino realized he and the elderly Fradkin were alone, wondering where the pink-skinned host had gone. And why was Roland in the bathroom for so long? Was he strapping on a concealed listening device?
CHAPTER 40
As they waited for Paolino and Fradkin to finish dealing with Roland, Towson and Stern were in the Summit’s lounge in idle talk. Elbows on the bar, Towson, looking sharp in a double-breasted, navy blue blazer, said, “Bert, mind taking a walk with me to the newsstand?”
The Pierre Hotel Affair Page 15