The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  Hammer looked inside the duffel bag and rocked his head to say, I found what I needed. “This is all we need to arrest this guy and find out who he really is. Let’s go.”

  Pistols in hand, they picked up their trot so to gain on Jameson, who heard the two pairs of running feet sloshing in the fresh snow. He glanced behind him and made a split-second eye contact with whom he instantly presumed to be his pursuers. Hammer, his right arm out stiffly, raised his revolver at him. “FBI. Sammy, stop and slowly take your hands out of your pockets.”

  Jameson turned to face the chasers and put up his arms. “My name is not Sammy. It’s Tony Lavella.”

  “That’s funny,” Bermudez said. “The super of your building told us your name is Lenny Jameson.”

  He held his gun at Jameson, or Lavella, or Sammy, as Hammer swiftly handcuffed and patted him down. “Or at least that’s what you told your super.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. My name is Tony Lavella, and I live in Manhattan. I came here to see a friend,” he said, the man’s composure even-tempered, without changes in his inhalations, eyes unblinking and gazing calmly. “Are you goin’ to arrest me? If so, you got a warrant?”

  “We don’t need a warrant to arrest you on a public street. But we know for sure your first name is Sammy, and they call you ‘Sammy the Arab.’ And we’re pretty sure you did the Pierre robbery,” Hammer chanced, watching for changes in the suspect’s self-control. None. “He’s unarmed,” he said to Bermudez.

  Tony Lavella preserved his coolness, a self-control that to Hammer seemed almost as if it were an inherent serenity. Bermudez said, “C’mon, Sammy, don’t play stupid games. We already got your pal Comfort, and he gave you up.”

  Lavella blinked for the first time, though he rationalized that, if Bobby Comfort had informed on him, which he didn’t believe he’d ever do, these cops would’ve known his full name rather than guessing who he really was. But they did know he was not Tony Lavella or Lenny Jameson. “I don’t know a Comfort.”

  One of the personal artifacts Hammer had found when he went through his pockets had been a wallet. In it was a Pennsylvania drivers’ license in the name of Leon Tate, whose descriptions were: Sex: Male; Height: 5' 4"; Eyes: Black. In addition, Lavella was wearing a black, curly wig, and lifts in his shoes because he seemed slightly taller than 5' 4".

  “And what do we have here,” Hammer said derisively. “Another alias, and this one is Leon Tate.” He gave the driver’s license to Bermudez for him to see.

  “Well, let’s see, you go by Lenny Jameson, Tony Lavella, Leon Tate, and Sammy the Arab. It looks like you change names more often than you change underwear,” Bermudez taunted, looking over the license for clues that it might’ve been a forgery. “So which one are you?”

  “If this guy, Comfort, or whoever he is, ratted me out, then you should know who I am. Right?” Lavella said.

  This was a solid jab, and Hammer and Bermudez were beginning to realize that this individual, if he was Sammy the Arab, was a tough customer. “Sammy, it’s no use trying to hide the facts. As soon as we book and fingerprint you, we’ll know who you are, or who you’re not.”

  “I’ve never been arrested and booked in my life. So if you run my fingerprints, nothing will turn up,” Lavella said. He had scored another hard punch.

  Hammer and Bermudez were trading glances for a half minute, trying to think of what to do next. Hammer spoke first. “Regardless of who you are, we have probable cause to take you in.”

  “And what’s that?” the intelligent criminal asked.

  Bermudez opened the duffle bag and leered at Lavella. “Those are burglary tools in here.” He nodded toward the blue van. “We saw you ditch this under that panel truck over there.”

  “And that’s our probable cause,” Hammer summarized.

  Lavella sighed in acceptance. “Okay, okay, I’m Sammy, and I live here.”

  “Sammy what?” asked Hammer.

  “Sammy Nalo. Let’s go upstairs to my apartment and talk there.”

  Bermudez shackled Nalo’s wrists, and Hammer tramped across the street to apprise Masters of the arrest. He opened the door and leaned into the car. “John, we got him. His name is Sammy Nalo,” a sense of accomplishment in Hammer’s voice.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’re going up to his apartment, and . . . and let’s see what we find.”

  “Did he make any statements?”

  “Not yet. But he’s a cool cat, John. Once we take Mr. Nalo up to his place, we’ll start applying pressure. He’ll give in.” Hammer looked to the rear seat. “How are you ladies doing?”

  They didn’t answer. Lulu had her arm around Felicia’s shoulder, who was sniveling, her eyelids closed.

  “Take the girls back home. We don’t want our boy Sammy getting a glimpse of his informant,” Hammer said to Masters. “Bermudez and I will take Nalo to our office in Fitzgibbons’s car.”

  Hammer rapped the dashboard with his palm as a sign he was ready to do what he had said, and rejoined Bermudez and the handcuffed Nalo. They guided the crafty Turk by the arms, and hustled him inside the tenement. “All right, Sammy, this is the end of the road.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Sammy Nalo’s hideaway was unventilated and hot, the radiator pipes banging in a metallic clang. The windows were painted black, and the checkered ceramic tile floor from the turn of the century was speckled with chips and spiderweb cracks, more so in areas that foot traffic had worn. Bermudez handcuffed him to a water pipe that spanned across the room twenty inches below the ceiling, an uncomfortable stance for Nalo.

  Hammer pulled a heavy, antiquated suitcase from under a dusty sofa. This is where the Pierre jewels must be! “Well, let’s open it,” Bermudez said in a way that reminded Hammer of a child who couldn’t wait to unwrap a birthday gift.

  Seeing the NYPD detective drooling at the prospect of luggage loaded with gems and cash, Nalo scoffed and sucked on his teeth. Hammer pressed the latch releases on the corners of the suitcase and opened the brown, leather-bound lid. “Well, well, well!” In it were three one-inch rubber-banded stacks of cash, miscellaneous clothing accessories, five or six rubies, a stiletto knife, three bank safe deposit keys, and an American passport. He gauged the thickness of the one-hundred-dollar bills and predicted they totaled roughly $12,000. “Where did you get all this dough, Sammy?”

  “Last week, I sold my coffee shop I had on East Tremont Avenue here in the Bronx,” Nalo answered offhandedly, implying, See, there’s an explanation for everything.

  “Is that so?” Hammer scoffed. He scanned the first page of the passport, one issued by the U.S. Department of State. “Here it says your name is Sorecho Nalo, born in 1932 in Detroit, Michigan.”

  “Sorecho is my Turkish name.”

  “And what about these rubies?” Hammer asked, placing one of the gems under the lamp on the side stand of the couch.

  “I dabble in buyin’ and sellin’ diamonds and things like that.”

  “So you’re staking that you had nothing to do with the Pierre robbery.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “What about the Sophia Loren heist fourteen months ago?”

  Nalo was a veteran at deflecting this line of questioning. “I’m not sayin’ anything else. Either book me or cut me loose. Otherwise, I want a lawyer.”

  Hammer regretfully knew he hadn’t discovered anything to warrant specific charges, and he began to foresee this investigation digressing into a blind alley. At that bleak moment, Bermudez, who had been nosing around in the bedroom, resurfaced, and waving a pocket-size telephone book above his head, said with excitement, “Look at this . . . look at this.”

  In the phone book, among other names, was that of Bobby Comfort and his Rochester address. “So you do know Bobby Comfort, Sammy,” Hammer said.

  “I don’t know a Bobby Comfort per se. If his name is in my phone book that don’t mean he’s my buddy. He might be someone I did bus
iness with, and I just don’t remember him. That’s all. Don’t read too much into it.” A plausible scenario. “I’m gettin’ very uncomfortable handcuffed to this fuckin’ pipe. Either take me downtown and book me, or get the hell out of my apartment.”

  Hammer tapped Nalo’s phone book on the palm of his hand and paced in circles. “George.” He called Bermudez by his first name in the manner of a person who views someone else as inferior or inept. “Let’s take Nalo to your car. Fitz and I will bring him to the 19th Precinct. You’ll stay here and guard this place ’til the morning when O’Neil can get a judge to sign a search warrant.”

  “Why can’t we go through it now? Who’s gonna know if we got a warrant or not?”

  Hammer furrowed his brow. “I will know, and I follow procedures.” To underscore his seriousness on the matter, he said, “When you work with me, you go by the book. Got it?”

  “All right so it’s a minor technicality. No need to get uptight,” Bermudez said lightly as if searching a perp’s residence without a warrant was something he did every day.

  “You and all your NYPD jokers do things the way you see fit. But you won’t be doing it on my watch. Meantime, stay here and don’t let anybody in. And I mean anybody,” Hammer ordered.

  Nalo was amused by these two contrasting characters, and although he was an incurable outlaw, he had admiration for Hammer’s integrity and work ethic.

  Fitz, Hammer, and the manacled Nalo were traveling south on the Major Deegan on the way to the 19th Precinct in midtown Manhattan.

  It was 4:15 on Sunday morning. Lieutenant O’Neil had learned of the overnight developments and briefed ADA Pope of Nalo’s arrest. By the time Hammer delivered Nalo to the 19th Precinct, O’Neil and Pope were there, waiting to savor the catch of the day: Sorecho “Sammy the Arab” Nalo, whom they were confidently anticipating, “he’d spill his guts before the Sunday morning church sermons would be over.” Hammer, O’Neil, Fitzgibbons, and Bermudez had been toiling nonstop for the past twenty-two hours—not uncommon for detectives to work shift-to-shift marathons when they’re in hot pursuit.

  But Hammer was beginning to conclude that inculpating evidence to nail Nalo might be intangible. The FBI agent didn’t believe Sammy Nalo was so careless as to keep anything at his apartment that could land him into the flames, and a search would probably be unproductive. Moreover, he was an old hand at the interrogation game, and Hammer’s conclusions were that Nalo could not be tempted into a confession—or even answer basic questions. Exhausted and disillusioned, Hammer called it a day.

  In the Bronx, Detective Bermudez, finding himself alone in Nalo’s pad, couldn’t resist the urge to poke at will. In a drawer were a collection of newspaper clippings from the New York Daily News, the New York Times, and the New York Post about different armed robberies and burglaries that had occurred in Manhattan over the past three and a half years. These gotta be heists Nalo must’ve pulled off.

  As he rummaged through the apartment, he came across more newspaper and magazine articles about personages of high society, who, without exception, lived in New York City, many in upscale hotels. One of the stories in Life magazine featured Sophia Loren. Sophia Loren! Is this a coincidence, or what? Nalo must’ve been casing Loren’s hotel suite before he robbed her. And all these other famous people in these magazines. He must’ve robbed them, too.

  In the bedroom, the detective’s findings amounted to a couple of wigs—presumably Nalo’s variety of disguises—and toiletries and colognes in a medicine cabinet above the sink in the bathroom. Overall, Bermudez hadn’t uncovered anything of consequence. But was he really searching for evidence with which to convict Sammy Nalo? Or was the detective on an underhanded quest? While in the bathroom, he had an urge to urinate, and behind the toilet he spotted three oak floor planks that weren’t snugly fitted. He kicked those boards with the toe of his shoe, and they weren’t permanently nailed in place. Bermudez kneeled, raised the lose slats, and what he saw was unimaginable, his mouth agape, eyes bulging as if they were fixed on a UFO.

  CHAPTER 49

  Like I told Agent Hammer and that Puerto Rican detective, I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about these robberies,” Nalo said to Pope and O’Neil. He slurped coffee from a paper cup and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “You say I robbed Sophia Loren at gunpoint? That broad is so gorgeous, a creamy Italian. And those tits o’ hers can make any man drunk just by starin’ at them.” Another sip of coffee. “Shit, if I broke into her suite, she wouldn’t have just gotten jabbed with the barrel of my gun. I would’ve jabbed her with another barrel, too. Know what I mean?” And he laughed at his own joke.

  Pope and O’Neil left the interviewing pen. “This Nalo won’t be easy to crack,” the assistant DA said. “He’s not going to buckle. The only shot we have is to put him and Comfort in a lineup and hope that one or two of the victims will make a positive ID.” He sliced the air with his hands as if to say, You have any other ideas? “We don’t have anything else to go on.”

  O’Neil wasn’t resigned, and his expression suggested that ADA Pope should do a bit of magic. Pope shook his head and had on the face of a little boy whose favorite toy broke. “As I said, our only means is if the hostages can finger Nalo or Comfort and, pray they don’t falter under cross examination.”

  Bermudez, on the other hand, couldn’t care less whether the Pierre and the Sophia Loren daredevils could be prosecuted. Tonight, he had met his fortune, a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of incredible luck. I’m rich, I’m rich! Filthy rich!

  A week ago, Nalo had buried in his apartment a velour satchel that contained upward of $1,200,000 in jewels, gems he’d stolen over the past three years. And there, in the bathroom beneath the floor planks behind the toilet, against all odds Bermudez had found that stash. And he had no intention of reporting this blessed discovery. No one would ever know. Would they? And as for Nalo, what could he do, accuse him of stealing his property and file a police report? Of course not. If Nalo attempted such an idiotic move, he’d have to concoct a fairy tale how he came to be in possession of those stones. No, Nalo was not stupid; he wouldn’t be so foolish. He’d have to eat his losses and keep quiet about it. All in all, these circumstances were an extraordinary happenstance that couldn’t have worked out better had anybody tried to mastermind such a swindle. The stars had aligned for George Bermudez. God bless Agent Hammer for having assigned him to guard the apartment.

  Bermudez’s adrenaline was pumping through his body head to toe. For years, he had played the lottery without ever missing a week, and finally he hit the jackpot. The detective didn’t know the value of the jewels, but knew he had just become a rich man. At last! He had to be careful, though, and not deviate from his lifestyle or habits, at least for a year or so until the Pierre sensation faded away. He had to think about retiring, or remaining on the police force and pretending as if nothing had altered the course of his life. But right now, he had a chore to handle. It was 5:00 A.M.; Bermudez had to stuff the gems in every pocket of his garments. He didn’t take four or five stones that were lying inside a pouch in a night stand. Why be greedy? When O’Neil or Hammer found those rubies, Bermudez figured, it’d prove he had been honest for not having taken them.

  But at the moment, he had to return the empty satchel to the hole in the bathroom floor and refit the loose planks. He did so and then tore out a good length of toilet paper. He wiped his fingerprints off where he had touched anything in the bathroom. Bermudez couldn’t believe he’d just joined the ranks of the millionaires. What a feeling! He pressed his tongue inside his cheek and couldn’t stop sniggering. He envisioned the look on Nalo’s face when he’d find the empty satchel. Exhilarated, Bermudez sank into the couch and fell asleep in a snoring bliss.

  The sun rose; it was Sunday morning, the snow clouds had cleared, and the sky brightened to a blue canvas with glints of sunrays. At eight o’clock, Doug Pope phoned and awoke a judge, asking for a search warrant. “Come to my home in Scarsdale, you know where I live, Doug,
don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, Your Honor. I’ve been there before.”

  “Come here at 10:30, and bring the necessary details so I can prepare the warrant and sign it.”

  “I’ll be there. Thanks for the Sunday morning on-the-spot accommodation, Your Honor.”

  From the judge’s home, Pope phoned Lieutenant O’Neil and told him the warrant had been executed. O’Neil in turn contacted the FBI duo of Matt Hammer and John Masters, who dispatched two search-specialist agents to Nalo’s apartment, where Detective Bermudez was still protecting it.

  At the Tombs, Bobby Comfort was in the recreation room on one of the six park-bench-like seats, smoking and drinking hot tea. It was loud and unruly from two card games at the tables nearby. On the wall opposite the benches was a pay phone, and one of the prisoners, a tall, skinny African American teenager, a comb stuck in his Afro, was talking, or rather screaming, into it, arguing heatedly with his girlfriend: “Yoh listen to me, bitch nigger. If yoh don’t bring me mah you-know-what, when I git outta here I goin’ whip yoh black ass ’til it turn purple.”

  Heightening the chaos, the television was on high volume. More frustrating, the correction officer, who perused the daily newspapers to cut out articles that might’ve been about a newly processed inmate, hadn’t yet done so. That step was taken to afford privacy to those prisoners whose crimes appeared in the print media. And the circulation of today’s Sunday paper was delayed.

  Comfort, impatient to read or hear an update on the Pierre, would give his testicles to switch the NBC football commentary program that everyone was watching to the news. But he had to overcome a hurdle. The “numbskull sports fanatics,” the ones who couldn’t get enough of football, and to whom learning to read or write was as unnatural as staying clean is to a pig, couldn’t tear themselves from sports shows. But they’d tear anybody’s head off who dared to change the channel.