The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  “Sammy the Arab!” Hammer had come across this nickname when he was first probing the holdup of the buxom Italian film star. And this Sammy, whoever he might be, was Hammer’s prime suspect, and now also a target of his colleagues. For the past fifteen months, Hammer had been combing all the corners of the city and the Bureau’s database for that obscure man only known as Sammy the Arab. More deflating, the FBI’s prized informants, who could usually link a criminal’s street handle to a full name, hadn’t been helpful either. And just as Hammer, from sheer frustration, was ready to bury the actress’s file among the cold cases, a theory lighted in his mind; the phantom Sammy, whom the informant believed him to be a Turk, might’ve been the choreographer of the Loren ambush and the Pierre stunt as well. “He had to be,” Hammer garbled unconsciously. “It could’ve only been him.”

  Sammy the Arab, less a surname or a date of birth, wasn’t sufficient data to search FBI records for his true identity. And a grimmer fact: had the authorities recovered fingerprints, such a finding wouldn’t have been inconsequential; Sammy had never been arrested or processed for mug shots and fingerprinting. No police archive photos, no prints, and no prior record. Where would Agent Hammer begin his hunt for Sammy the Arab?

  CHAPTER 44

  The FBI and the NYPD, for logistical reasons, had been coupled for the Pierre investigation, the kind of case law enforcement officials longed to be at the center of, though both agencies despised collaborating with one another. The bickering never ended. But Hammer stayed on track and checked in with the agents in charge of the Pierre for fact-sharing and gathering intelligence.

  “I should be involved in this case. I can be of help, and I believe I’m halfway to pinpointing one of the perps, who will, I’m hoping, lead us to the others,” Agent Hammer said with poise.

  “By all means, Ed. Sounds like you’ve laid down the ground work on the Loren robbery. And who knows, your case and ours may have common perps,” Agent John Masters said, who at times partnered with Hammer on various investigations.

  Hammer briefed Masters on the information he had harvested about Sammy the Arab, and Masters passed it on to Lieutenant O’Neil, who voiced a grievance, protesting the FBI’s meddling in the Pierre. Since the beginning of time, the FBI used any means not to pool resources with the NYPD, which in the early seventies was awash in scandals and rampant corruption. The Federal Bureau of Investigation, a clergy of purists who are labeled as “untouchables,” at that time deemed it degrading and were indignant to work side by side with the prideless, unscrupulous New York City police force, whose taint of dishonesty was breeding within all ranks of the department. The briberies festered at the bottom, beginning with the low-grade patrolmen and trickling up to the top, including the precinct captains. And this wasn’t just a runaway rumor. The NYPD was under fire from the Knapp Commission, a committee appointed to conduct an inquisition into condemning allegations of widespread corruption.

  In 1972, the Knapp Commission was still ongoing, and the FBI loathed appearing on television news programs and newspaper front pages alongside the incorrigible, publicity-mongering NYPD officials. Nonetheless, Agents Hammer and Masters maintained their course, keeping an open mind that, perhaps, Lieutenant O’Neil and his underlings hadn’t been contaminated by the decaying of integrity. Overly preoccupied by his appearances on the Knapp Commission hearings, O’Neil delegated two subordinates, George Bermudez and Edward Fitzgibbons, as assistants to the FBI. Hence, the four-man posse of Agents Matt Hammer and John Masters and Detectives Bermudez and Fitzgibbons was thrown together to flush out Sammy the Arab and whoever else had performed in the Pierre thriller.

  Hammer, a lawman whose morals and scruples were as limpid as crystal, construed the fast-talking, know-it-all Detective George Bermudez as a hot-winded charlatan, traits that were obnoxious but harmless. He was stout, and had dusky skin and frizzy hair that was beginning to gray, and spoke in the universally recognizable New York twang. But that was not what had been bothering Hammer. He couldn’t quite read Bermudez; was he honest or did he lean on the side of fraud and dishonesty? “John, I hope we didn’t get paired off with a couple of bad apples.”

  “I don’t know, Ed. I’d rather reserve judgment. In light of this ongoing Knapp Commission turmoil, the last thing we want to do is start a war between us and a whole bunch of these wild New York City cops.” John Masters was a gentlemanly chap, who whenever in doubt gave precedence to diplomacy over premature assumptions.

  “You’re right,” Hammer said. “Meantime, let’s get Bermudez and Fitzgibbons here now—the sooner the better—so we can lay out a map and start looking for our friend Sammy before he blows town—if he hasn’t already done so.”

  That afternoon, Bermudez and Fitzgibbons, in a conference room at the Manhattan FBI office, were facing Hammer and Masters across a lofty, fifteen-foot cherry wood table. In a corner of the twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot room was an American flag atop which an elaborately sculpted, gold-leafed eagle held its perch. Beside it stood a cabinet/refrigerator and a brewing pot, a whiff of stale coffee stemming from it. On a wall hung a black-and-white portrait photo of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, whose eyes seemed as though he were presiding at this conference. Following the perfunctory introductions and handshakes, Hammer didn’t hesitate to set forth his conditions and said to the two detectives, “For the record, I want to be clear how this operation will be conducted.” He paused and looked at Bermudez and Fitzgibbons in a way to underline the meaning of his instructions. “First and foremost, this is the FBI’s investigation, and you two are not to make a move without first checking with Agent Masters and I.” He glanced at Masters and reverted back to the detectives. “Is that clear, Detective Bermudez and Detective Fitzgibbons?”

  “Call me Fitz,” said Fitzgibbons.

  “Yeah, you can call me George,” Bermudez harmonized, a snide smirk budding on his large mouth.

  “OKAAAY, Fitz and George,” Hammer said condescendingly.

  Bermudez was slouched in his chair, an arm dangling on the backrest, his salt-and-pepper hair teased into an Afro. “Do you guys have a plan?”

  Masters sorted through a file. “A confidential informant . . .”

  Without asking permission, Bermudez took the liberty to reach in his pocket for a cigarette and a plastic lighter. Masters looked as if he’d been violated and swayed his forefinger like a wiper blade. “No, no, no, George. We don’t allow smoking in here.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think you’d mind,” Bermudez said.

  Wrinkling his forehead, Hammer cut in tersely, “When you’re on a detail with the FBI, do not assume anything, and don’t take anything for granted. Are we clear on that?”

  Bermudez and Fitz nodded passively as if they’d been scolded by the third grade teacher.

  Masters moved on and said, “We believe that Sammy the Arab has a domicile, probably a roacher, on 45th Street in Hell’s Kitchen. And that’s where we should begin our footwork.”

  “What’s a domicile?” Bermudez asked in utter bafflement.

  Hammer remarked sardonically, “What did they teach you at the police academy, how to extort and take bribes?”

  Masters gave Bermudez a look of annoyance. “A domicile is a personal residence, an apartment. And as I said, that’s where we should start snooping.”

  “Oh!” Bermudez said. “For a minute I thought a domicile was a killer maniac.”

  Fitzgibbons, more reticent and less of a talker than Bermudez, opened his notepad, jotted a meaningless line of notes, and plowed on, “I think you’re right. That should be our first stop. Do you have the building number?”

  “Yes, we know precisely where the apartment building is.” In the FBI modus operandi, Masters did not mention the complete address purposely to limit the disclosure of the relevant facts.

  The agents, Masters driving, were rolling through the Broadway district, advancing westbound on 45th Street, the two detectives a few car lengths behind in an unmarked black Ford LTD. The
y were weaving to overtake slower traffic and the train of limousines parked in front of the theatres. As the two-car caravan neared Nalo’s Hell’s Kitchen pad, Hammer spotted someone walking briskly on the south side of the street who resembled Sammy, as he’d been described by the informant. The subject seemed to be wearing a poor-quality wig that could’ve been a swatch of a black rug. He was short, and strutted unevenly, and had swarthy, Arabic characteristics.

  “That’s definitely Sammy the Arab, all right!” Matt Hammer said animatedly. “What do you think, John?”

  “Where? Who?”

  Hammer pointed excitedly to the right side of the street. “That man over there. See him? Pull up to him and stop.”

  CHAPTER 45

  In haste, Masters steered close to the sidewalk, one wheel practically on it. He braked hard, and the car screeched to a tire-squealing halt ten feet from where Sammy was walking, the smell of burned rubber and blue smoke rising from under the car. In the trailing automobile, Bermudez and Fitzgibbons had watched Master’s haphazard maneuver, and Bermudez, who was driving, almost rear-ended the agents’ Ford LTD. He was momentarily stumped, but his swift reflexes managed to stop less than a yard before crashing into the FBI vehicle. Hammer and Masters were first to spring open the doors and rush out toward Sammy. The two detectives quickly understood why Masters and Hammer had made this unscheduled stop, and they too joined the charge for their presumed quarry.

  All four, Smith & Wesson snub-nose revolvers out in the open, darted toward Sammy. “Get your hands up,” yelled Hammer as people scampered so as not to be in the way. The erratic driving and the tire-squealing halt got the attention of the pedestrians who were clumping on the northern sidewalk of 45th Street.

  The perp shot his arms in the air. “What’s going on? Jesus, what did I do?!”

  Bermudez and Fitzgibbons gripped Sammy’s wrists, constrained, and handcuffed him. The clusters of onlookers were swelling, enjoying this show, which was unfolding on the busy intersection of 45th Street and Eighth Avenue where the original musical Grease was previewing at the Martin Beck Theatre.

  “What’s your name?” Hammer asked the bewildered man, whose eyes had locked into a stunned stare.

  “Tony . . . Tony Giamanco.”

  “What’s that, one of your aliases, Sammy? You look Middle Eastern. Are you Turkish?”

  “Hell no. I’m Sicilian. Hey what is this? What did I do?”

  “We’ll ask the questions,” Masters said in his FBI mode. “Where you live?”

  “Astoria, Queens. Hey, who are you guys?” Giamanco asked.

  “We’re FBI,” Hammer answered, indicating Masters and himself without introducing the NYPD detectives, as if they were merely lowly trainees. “Got any ID?”

  “Yeah, in my left back pocket. I wanna know what this bullshit is about? I want a lawyer.”

  Everyone ignored Giamanco’s cries, and Hammer told Fitzgibbons to go for his wallet. Fitz did and handed it to the FBI agent. Rifling through it, he found a driver’s license issued to an Anthony J. Giamanco. And the DMV photo was clearly that of this poor bastard whom they’d just handcuffed in public view. Bermudez felt Giamanco’s wig and tugged at it. But it wasn’t a toupee; he happened to be blessed with dense, bushy hair.

  “Shit!” Hammer and Masters realized they had mistaken Giamanco for Sammy the Arab. “Cut him loose,” Masters said to Fitzgibbons.

  They walked back to the unmarked cars, and the throng of people began thinning out, looking dissatisfied as if they had watched a suspenseful show, and the ending was anticlimactic.

  “Gonna call my lawyer as soon as I get home,” Mr. Giamanco shouted. “I’m . . . I’m gonna sue the city and all of you. Somebody’s gonna pay me for whatchu done.”

  As Hammer was bending his tall frame to stoop into the automobile, he yelled back to Giamanco, “Tell your attorney the arresting officer was Detective George Bermudez from the midtown 19th Precinct.” And he winked, a sneer on his lips.

  Not amused, inside the Ford LTD Bermudez muttered, “Son of a bitch, Hammer. You lousy mick.”

  In the passenger’s seat, Fitz put on an expression that said, You didn’t really say that, did you? After two or three seconds, he reproved, “Watch it. I’m Irish, too, remember, you dumbass.”

  The two unmarked cars resumed the trip to 295 West 45th Street, Sammy the Arab’s hideout. Masters and Bermudez remained at the wheel of their respective autos, and Hammer and Fitzgibbons walked inside the narrow, darkish hallway, an acrid odor of cooking onions in the air. They pinpointed the superintendent’s apartment and rang the bell. A dwarf-like, hunchbacked man in his seventies opened the doors to see a pair of badges at face level. The super’s brow protruded as though it was an awning over his eyes, and he blinked nervously as he spoke. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m FBI Agent Hammer, and we’re trying to find a Turkish individual whose first name is Sammy.”

  The super seemed relieved that these two black suits were not interested in him. “Oh yeah, that’s Sammy Johnson up in 3B.”

  Johnson must’ve been one of Sammy’s aliases, Hammer assumed as the deformed superintendent said, “The elevator is all the way down the hall on your right.”

  The ride in the small, rickety elevator was bumpy and squeaky, and Hammer was glad to step off it on the third floor. He knocked on apartment 3B, and the voice of a young woman in a Spanish accent said, “Who there?”

  “FBI. We want to speak with the man who lives here,” Hammer said.

  “He no here.”

  “Please open the door. We have to ask you a few questions.”

  The door opened slightly, and she peeked her face out. “What you want?”

  Fitzgibbons showed her his gold badge. “May we come in?”

  She opened the door wider and waved in the two gents. She was thin and had long dark hair. Hammer asked her, “What’s your name?” He saw her lips beginning to quiver. “Don’t be frightened. It’s not you we’re looking for. So tell us your name.”

  “Ana Maria Lourdes Ortega.”

  That name sounds like that of a partnership. “When do you expect the man who rents this place? And what’s his last name?”

  She shook her head. “I no have his last name. He my girlfriend boyfriend. He say I can stay here when he no here.”

  “Who’s your girlfriend?”

  “Felicia Blanca. She Colombiana like me.” Ana Maria Lourdes Ortega said, She Colombiana like me with great pride as though as a Colombian she couldn’t be more privileged.

  “You have a green card?” asked Fitzgibbons.

  She looked down and covered her mouth, sobbing and shoulders shuddering. Hammer clenched his teeth and bore into Fitz. “Why did you ask her that? It’s none of our business whether she’s legal or not. We’re not INS officials.” He then said to the flustered girl, “Don’t worry, we’re not here to make trouble for you. Where does your girlfriend live?”

  She wiped her eyes and glanced thankfully at Hammer. “Thank you. Uh, my girlfriend live a four blocks away.” She uttered her friend’s address, and Fitz wrote it into his notepad.

  Felicia Blanca lived on 48th Street and Tenth Avenue. Hammer and Masters figured it’d be wise to take along the Spanish-speaking Bermudez, thinking he might be of comfort to Felicia. But the agents’ concern was that the newspapers’ evening editions had trumpeted Bobby Comfort’s arrest in the headlines, and surely Sammy the Arab must’ve read about it. And why would he linger on in New York City, or for that matter the country? Hammer and Masters did not think he’d lounge in a topless bar waiting for the authorities to throw the net over him. Time was of the essence in tracking down Sammy.

  The building where Felicia Blanca resided had no elevator, and Hammer and Bermudez climbed four flights to the fourth floor. A Colombian woman in her twenties made-up crustily, her thighs fleshy, unbridled breasts sloshing à la Colombiana, opened the apartment door. She had on the same skimpy short-shorts and brief tank top she had performed in
as a pole dancer. Her mouth instantly grew into a solicitous smile as if Hammer and Bermudez might be potential clients. She twirled the ends of her tinted shoulder-length hair, and in an overly friendly manner asked, “Who are you?” She had a thick Spanish accent and a thin vocabulary, a brown beauty mark on the right side of her neck.

  A whiff of burning incense drifted from the studio apartment, and an array of ceramic statues of Catholic saints, portraits of Jesus, and lighted candles were everywhere. Bermudez, bedazzled by the tantalizing pole dancer, said in Spanish, “Are you Felicia Blanca?”

  “No. Felicia’s my roommate, and she working tonight.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Lulu Munoz.”

  “Do you know a Sammy? He’s Turkish,” Bermudez asked, Hammer standing behind him.

  “He’s Felicia’s amor.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  Lulu drew a blank gape. “I don’t know.”

  “We need to talk with Felicia right away. Can you call her?”

  “She no can talk on telephone when she work.”

  Bermudez translated for Hammer, who said, “Find out where Felicia is working.”

  This evening, Felicia Blanca was pole-dancing at the Circus Club, a “striptease joint” on Sunrise Highway in Valley Stream, Long Island. Braving the snarling eastbound traffic on the Long Island Expressway, the two pairs of investigators drove there in their automobiles. On entering the Circus Club, a boisterous, smoky “tittie joint,” two black supersized bouncers stood vigil near the doorway, and to the FBI agents’ flabbergast the male employees who handled the door fees and tended bar were Middle Eastern nationals. This was encouraging to Masters and Hammer. Perhaps Sammy the Arab might’ve been here, roosting in this hotbed of Arabs. Then again, presuming that Sammy hadn’t read the morning newspapers’ headlines about Bobby Comfort’s arrest, the evening television news programs were now airing it; and if by chance Sammy had seen any of them, he had surely fled.