The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  Comfort, unshaven, his hair oily, glanced at Nalo, who didn’t have to worry about oily hair. “Tell me about it.”

  “In light of what happened in that bullshit lineup, what’s next, Leon?” Nalo asked, eyes wandering about the room as if he were scanning it for signs of eavesdropping, an inborn paranoia of his.

  “Well, the Motion to Dismiss is out the window.” Greenspan, palms facing up, veered down his lips, and shrugged. “I’ll just have to wash away those two witnesses on cross-examination.” Greenspan said it so casually as if discrediting someone on the stand was as easy as cracking an egg.

  “Whatever you’re gonna do, do it fast. Locked up in this place you might as well be in a grave,” Comfort said, discouragement in his mood. “Leon, you know how bad the conditions are in this joint. I mean, even in here—and this is supposed to be the attorneys’ conference room—it’s cold as a bastard, and it smells like a bunch of skunks are under the table.”

  “What are you really saying, Bobby?” Greenspan asked, cocking his head and arching an eyebrow.

  “What I’m saying is, if you can work out some kind of a plea. We just wanna get the hell out of this hellhole.”

  The lawyer closed his eyes and nodded negatively. “That won’t happen.” He swilled his coffee, and to warm his hands cradled the cup. “Unless you’re willing to give up the stolen goods.”

  “Fuck no,” Nalo said.

  “I don’t wanna give up anything,” Comfort concurred, waving around him. “Just that this place is like no other jail I’ve ever been in.”

  “You’ll both have to weather it,” Greenspan said as though he were talking about a minor inconvenience.

  “Easy for you to say. Tonight, you’re going home to a nice warm house, a nice meal, a soft bed. And tomorrow morning you’ll stay under a nice hot shower for as long as you want, and you’ll have a nice breakfast,” Comfort said. He flicked his finger from Nalo to himself. “When Sammy and I leave this so-called conference room, this . . . this shit hole, we’ll be going to the chow hall to eat some shit they call food. After that, we’ll be locked into our freezing cells that we each share with a sick criminal—which means we always gotta sleep with an eye open—and we’ll lay on a bunk as hard as a slab of stone. In the morning, if our bunkies haven’t slit our throats in the middle of the night, we have to piss and shit in front of somebody else, and when we go into the cold showers, we gotta hope that some big-dicked nigger doesn’t stick it up our asses.”

  “You made your point, Bobby,” Greenspan said, gathering the paperwork before him and placing it in his leather briefcase. “I’ll file a motion for a bail reduction hearing. I’ll also open the lines of communication with ADA Pope and see if he’s disposed to talk about a plea bargain.” He turned his palms up and ventured, “He may or may not.”

  Among the items O’Neil and FBI Agent Hammer had collected at Nalo’s Bronx apartment were three keys, but not ordinary ones. They were flat and longish, and each was stamped with a three-digit number. O’Neil guessed these were safe deposit box keys. He drove to one of the branches of the Manufacturers Hanover Trust bank on the corner of 56th Street and Third Avenue in Manhattan. He knew the manager, Mr. Wells, a diminutive man with neatly parted black hair and a disproportionally small head. Mr. Wells was suited in a navy blue jacket complemented by a yellow bow tie. He spoke in an artificial British accent that gave him connotations of eminence and an unspoken membership in an academic fraternity.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Wells,” O’Neil said in his cop-like demeanor.

  Mr. Wells’s desk, though displaying a gallery of framed photos of his blonde, Waspy wife and four blond children, a handsome gold-plated pen set in the center of it, and stacks of papers everywhere, every object was in perfect order. He stood as if he were a soldier saluting a higher-ranking officer, and thrust forward his hand. “How are you, Lieutenant?” Mr. Wells’s nature was invariably cheery, and his smile seemed to be a permanent fixture. “How can I help you?”

  O’Neil opened his fist and dumped the three odd keys onto Mr. Wells’ glass desktop. The banker seemed puzzled, and the lieutenant asked, “Would you say these keys are to safe deposit boxes?”

  Mr. Wells looked at one of the keys. “Yes, they are. But they’re not to our deposit boxes.” Then he looked at a second key. “They’re not all identical. There’s a wide variant of these types of keys. See, every bank uses an alternate variation, and these three belong to three different banks.”

  A variant . . . an alternate! O’Neil didn’t have a clue what Mr. Wells was saying. The banker saw that he had thrown the lieutenant off kilter. “In other words, Mr. O’Neil, all three of these are safe deposit keys, but they’re slightly different because not all banks use the same exact ones.”

  “Can you tell me what banks they’re for?”

  Still inspecting the keys, Mr. Wells answered, “I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. There are fifty to seventy banks in the New York metropolitan area, plus thirty to forty thrift associations, and these keys could belong to any one of those financial institutions.” He adjusted his bow tie. “Sorry, I wish I could be of more help.”

  O’Neil, working under the theory that the safe deposit boxes matching those keys were chock full of jewels and cash from the Pierre, telephoned Pope, who seconded that presumption. The conundrum was how to locate the banks where Nalo’s safe deposit boxes were. The assistant district attorney, ingenious and ambitious, thought of an approach to this puzzle. “Lieutenant,” Pope said, “I’d say Comfort and Nalo aren’t havin’ a good time down in the Tombs.”

  “That’s an understatement,” O’Neil said, chuckling vindictively.

  Pope leered at the lieutenant, an impish grin that said, I have the solution. “I’m gonna call Leon Greenspan and offer him a proposition that I’d bet he won’t reject.”

  CHAPTER 56

  Leon, Assistant DA Pope is on the phone for you,” announced Greenspan’s secretary as she peered in through the partly open door to his office.

  “Thanks, Roseanne.” The counselor then said into the phone receiver, “Hello, Mr. Pope.”

  “Please call me Doug. The purpose of my call is this: I have a proposal for your clients.”

  “A lawyer who doesn’t listen to offers is a deaf lawyer.”

  They laughed in good humor, and Pope said, “In Nalo’s residence, we had found three keys to bank safe deposit boxes. But we don’t know the banks they’re in. So here’s the deal: If your clients tell me where those deposit boxes are, I’ll consent to a reasonable bail. The Tombs is not exactly a five-star hotel, and I would think Comfort and Nalo may want to check out of there. I’m sure they can use a seven-course meal at the Rainbow Room and a good night’s sleep.”

  “Interesting. I’ll confer with Mr. Nalo and Mr. Comfort and call you in a few days or sooner.” Indeed, Greenspan’s clients couldn’t wait to check out of the Tombs Hotel & Resort Casino. In a minute wasn’t too soon.

  Comfort and Nalo accepted, in principle, Pope’s offer. Two days later, the assistant DA had the sheriffs deliver the defendants to his office. Greenspan also was there. “Let’s all have a seat and relax,” the assistant DA said, pointing at a few scattered chairs. His three guests each placed one nearer to Pope’s wooden desk, and they all sat, four sheriffs in Gestapo-like uniforms standing by in the cramped office.

  The talks began, and the first question Pope posed to Comfort and Nalo was, “What’s in the boxes?”

  Greenspan gestured to his clients not to answer. Instead, he said, “Doug, they will not divulge the content of the safe deposit boxes.”

  “When was the last time they visited those boxes?” Pope asked.

  Again, Greenspan interceded. “I will not allow my clients to answer that question either.” Greenspan removed his glasses and regarded Pope. “Doug, I was led to believe all you require of my clients,” he nodded with his chin at the two inmates in jumpsuits, “is the whereabouts of the boxes. They will not make any more represent
ations on this matter.”

  Greenspan, Comfort, and Nalo were seated in a half-horseshoe formation, Pope in his tattered swivel chair across the desk. He described the amount of bail and related conditions, and a list of stipulations that had to be discussed. Several hours into talks that escalated frequently to disputes, all parties compromised and forged an agreement. One proviso was that the defendants would not be released until O’Neil would find and impound the safe deposit boxes. Of course, Comfort and Nalo had to accede to surrendering any and all materials in the boxes. And they did. But why their sudden change of course? The inhospitable, dire-straits environment in the Tombs was the catalyst that would bring prisoners, however tough, to their knees, and relent to the system. Sacrificing illegally acquired assets and pleading guilty so to be sent to a state prison, which comparatively was a heaven, would be an inmate’s desperate, and at times, sole option.

  Bail would be set at $90,000, pending the approval of Judge Andrew Tyler, the other black component of this case. Mulling it over for three days, and not totally in accord, His Honor sanctioned the terms of the bail: the disclosure of the location of the safe deposit boxes, and the forfeiture of the content, in return for the $90,000 cash bail.

  O’Neil and Pope were thrilled, rubbing palms in joy at the prospect of opening deposit boxes overflowing with jewels and cash. Comfort and Nalo, too, were uplifted, though a risky trial still hung on their necks. If only Elijah Weathersby and Louis Rabon would disappear.

  Assistant DA Pope, chirpier than usual, flounced about his office, a bounce in his step; it was time to rejoice. Comfort and Nalo had coughed up the names and locations of the banks where the safe deposit boxes were. “Those boxes will be the proof to win a conviction, or most likely, clip those two thieves’ smugness, and maybe they’ll gladly take a plea bargain,” Pope ruminated to himself. “They’ll be too happy to plead guilty. And maybe, facing a twenty-year sentence, they’ll give up their cronies in exchange for mercy.” This was the break he’d been hankering for since his first day as a prosecutor. Oh, he could just see the headlines:

  MANHATTAN DA ANNOUNCES GUILTY PLEAS

  FROM THE PIERRE BANDITS

  Indeed, he could taste success, and without further ado, he cleared O’Neil to round up those indispensable boxes. “Because of their value, I want you to take along two detectives and one of your sergeants.”

  “Oh, I plan to. I want plenty of people around when I open the boxes,” O’Neil said, nodding in a manner that meant, You can’t find a more capable person to handle this.

  The first stop for the lieutenant and his entourage of minions was the Franklin National Bank on Canal Street near the Williamsburg Bridge. They emptied the black, unmarked Plymouth, the unloading of the hefty four plainclothesmen decompressing the car’s springs, and it rose six inches. They marched into the bank, displaying badges as if this were a raid by the Federal Reserve Board. An unfazed but sprightly secretary took O’Neil’s business card and said, “I’ll let the vice president know you’re here.” She waved at a carpeted seating area. “Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

  O’Neil and his boys in polyester suits and garish ties, sitting on the edges of the bank’s plush, leather chairs, looked as edgy as a drove of orangutans at a wine tasting event. They waited and glanced impatiently at one another as if the vice president of this branch had nothing else to do but to cater to Lieutenant O’Neil and his underlings.

  The protocol and paperwork for the impounding of the boxes was handled in the assistant manager’s office. The banker led the foursome to a lower level, where the safe deposit vault was nestled. He told the guard there to open the locked steel-barred gate. The security officer, a white-haired retired policeman, his pink scalp glowing, quickly warmed to his comrades. He arced his arm in a grand sweep as though he were inviting the four cops into a palace. “Come right in. Come right in. You know, I was on the job. Retired now. How long you guys been on?”

  No one replied, intimating this was not a social call, the guard seeming resentful. Trailing the vice president, the detectives entered, unsure what to make of this windowless, subterranean setting, rows of ceiling-to-floor safe deposit boxes on every wall.

  The banker upheld his decorum and limited the conversation to official business minus idle talk. He instructed the custodian of the vault, “Assist these police officers to access box 331, to which they have a key.”

  O’Neil handed the key to the guard, who squinted to read number 331 stamped on it. “This one is in the last row over there. I’ll show you.”

  To unlock the boxes’ small flap doors, two keys were needed, the bank’s master and the one in possession of the box holders. On pinpointing box 331, the guard used the two keys, and unlocked the encased brass flap door. He pulled out the box, which was eight inches wide by twenty inches long, gave it to O’Neil, and nodded at three privacy booths across the floor. “Go in one of those cubicles to do what you gotta do.”

  O’Neil said to his cronies, “Let’s all squeeze in the middle one.”

  “Are we gonna fit in that little closet?” asked Detective Fitzgibbons.

  “We’ll have to.”

  The four policemen took off their coats so to be less bulky and huddled inside the brightly lighted booth. Inside there, O’Neil laid the safe deposit box on a built-in wall desktop and winked at the others, who were all toe to toe. This was the big moment, the defining point of the case against Bobby Comfort and Sammy Nalo. The heartbeats of the burly detectives were accelerating; what they were about to uncover had the earmarks of a milestone in their careers. And who knew? Promotions might’ve been a definite possibility. “Man, this box is pretty heavy,” Lieutenant O’Neil said. “That’s a good sign.” He opened the lid, and everyone’s eyes widened in stupefaction. “Son of a bitch!” two of the cops exclaimed almost in a chorus.

  “Fuck!” O’Neil blurted.

  CHAPTER 57

  Lieutenant O’Neil was bewildered. “This box is full of pennies!”

  “I can’t believe this,” said Fitzgibbons, staring at the hundreds of pennies. “They must’ve stuffed the jewels and cash in the other two boxes.”

  “Those boxes are supposed to be at the National Westminster Bank on 57th Street and Third Avenue. Let’s go there. No sense in wasting any more time here.”

  O’Neil repeated the same protocol of obtaining clearance from the National Westminster branch manager to open the safe deposit boxes. But to O’Neil’s dismay, in those, too, were nothing but pennies. Not a jewel, not a dollar . . . absolutely nothing. The lieutenant was breathless.

  Pennies!

  O’Neil placed a hand on the nape of his neck and lay still seething, gnashing his teeth, the jaw bones tightening beneath the skin, “Those varmints fucked us royally. ROYALLY!”

  On hearing he’d been blindsided by Comfort and Nalo, Assistant DA Doug Pope was fit to be tied. “Those two con artists swindled me, and I didn’t see it coming,” Pope mumbled to himself over and over. If in those boxes had been even one piece of the Pierre jewels, this legal action would’ve been clinched. But now all he had were his two star witnesses, Weathersby and Rabon—and bright stars they weren’t. And Pope damn well knew that on cross-examination, the defense lawyers could chop them to pieces faster than a blender minces vegetables.

  But not all was lost. He’d been pondering another strategy. He’d subpoena Louis Peppo, the Detroit man who had alerted the FBI about Nalo’s necklace. Serving and enforcing a subpoena in a different state is a complex and lengthy route. But through legal arm-twisting, Pope thought, Peppo might cave in and testify against his thieving pal. Meanwhile, District Attorney Frank Hogan was trying to persuade, or rather pester, the FBI to avail at the trial the informant who had pretended to be Harry Towson—the liaison to the mysterious Roland. But despite Pope and Hogan’s efforts, they were shut down on all fronts. Peppo flatly refused to testify, and undercover Agent Jack Goodwin objected to the district attorney’s request to produce his informant.
“The FBI doesn’t ever reveal the anonymity of our paid informants, mainly for their safety. For that reason, I won’t permit him to testify. And that’s that,” Goodwin said heatedly to Hogan.

  At this stage, Pope and Hogan’s prosecution of the Pierre bandoleros was more anemic than an anorexic. And how was this for an anomaly: Pope devised every legal trick to postpone the trial, feebly hoping new witnesses or evidence might come to light. Normally, the defense is the procrastinator, wishing for circumstances to change in its favor.

  Three days after the safe deposit box fiasco, Sammy Nalo’s mother posted bail, and the Tombs became a bad memory. At last, he was breathing untainted air. To him, this liberty was as though he’d been released from a lion’s den. It had been Nalo’s first stint in a jail, and the first time is always a sobering experience. And when you add to it the Tombs factor, well, it was indescribable. Comfort decided not to post bail at this point; it would’ve surely prompted the authorities to probe who had supplied the cash. He was relying on an expeditious preliminary hearing that would eventuate to the dismissal of the charges. But desperate to build stronger evidence, should the defense neutralize Weathersby and Rabon, Pope did everything in his power to delay the proceedings. Fortunately, Comfort stayed clear of the perils and was managing in the Tombs. He befriended the convicts who “ran the cell block,” and bought them off with the customary prison commodities, stamps and cigarettes.

  But what about his wife Millie in Rochester? How was she surviving? Comfort was having a nostalgic seizure, though comforted by the financial cushion he’d provided her, a hundred thousand dollars. At least she needed not fret how to keep a warm roof over her and Nicole. But Millie missed Bobby dearly, and her face and that of his lovable child rolled across his mind as if it were a self-rewinding slide projector.