But breathing in that splendid panorama and basking in the posh suites of this famed hotel was not what the two Dutch whores had in mind.
In the USA, it was 11:30 A.M. in a downpour of rain, lightning fracturing the skies. In the Corn Hill section of downtown Rochester, the blue Lincoln exited I-90 and turned south on Eagle Street, where “Rene the Painter” Piccarreto lived, a third of a mile west of the Genesee River. This waterway, as does the Tiber River in Rome, carves Rochester in two. Piccarreto’s residence was a two-family home; he, his wife, and three children occupied the second floor apartment, and his mistress, conveniently, resided on the ground level.
Sacco parked the car across the street. He and the others walked over to the front door of the brick home, a smell of industrial pollution in the air. No one answered the bell until three or four minutes of ringing. As Furnari had figured, Piccarreto was still asleep, and woke to the persistence of the ringer. Bleary-eyed, he poked his full head of black hair through a window and hollered in a croaky voice, “Who the fuck is it so early in the . . .” On seeing Furnari, thoughts of why he and three hoods were at his doorstep quickened his pulse. “Oh, it’s you, Christie. What . . . eh, what do I owe this visit to?” Piccarreto’s delight to see the Lucchese consigliere didn’t sound too convincing.
“Let us in, Rene, before we break down the door,” Furnari said quite convincingly.
If it hadn’t dawned on the portly Rochester made man why Furnari had been on a 360-mile odyssey to see him, now he had a good hunch. It must’ve been something to do with the jewels he had swiped from Bobby Comfort, Piccarreto feared. “Give me a minute to put on clothes.” As he withdrew from the window, he banged his head on the frame of the glass.
“Come in, come in.” He led his guests to an overcrowded den of gaudy furniture that was covered with clear plastic, an Italian-American custom. “Sit, sit anywhere you like. Can I get you guys coffee?” Piccarreto’s wife had brewed a pot of Colombian coffee, and the aroma drifted throughout the apartment, a radio murmuring in another room.
“No,” Furnari answered. On cue from him, his entourage didn’t sit. “I’ll make it short and sweet, Rene. I want the swag you took from Bobby Comfort.” Furnari jabbed Piccarreto’s hairy chest, his three backups standing stoutly behind him. “Most of those jewels were supposed to have come to me and my friends here. Understand?”
“I don’t know none o’ this, Christie.”
“You didn’t!” Furnari said dryly. “You knew that Comfort’s score went down in my backyard, and you should’ve checked with me first. Keep this in mind, Rene; I don’t forgive disrespect.”
Piccarreto clasped the back of his trunk-like neck in thought. “I got a fence who wants the whole package.”
Sacco interjected, “Fences don’t pay much. We can do a lot better. I got jewelers in the Diamond District that I consign my swag to, and they give me seventy percent of retail. That’s a hell of a lot more than what any fence will ever pay.”
“Rene,” Furnari said, “where are the goods right now?”
Piccarreto hesitated a bit too long, and Furnari said forcefully, “Where are the goods, Rene?”
“Eh . . . in a bank safe deposit box.”
“Let’s go get them.”
“Well . . . I need to . . .”
“I said, let’s go get my property,” Furnari ordered through tightened teeth.
CHAPTER 67
A bellhop unloaded the luggage from the Fiat taxi and stacked it on a cart. Ali-Ben and Al Green paid the driver, and walking arm in arm with Katja and Georgina, ambled into the Grand Plaza Hotel, an edifice that has been a fixture on Via Del Corso for a century and a half. The frontage of this marvelous structure is of sculpted, rectangular stones that veneers the exterior walls of the first floor. A balcony protrudes above the entrance foyer, a portico consisting of three double doors recessed under multiple ribbed grand archways, and the center doorway opens into the lobby. The length of the building, up to the height of the first story, is accentuated with tall arched windows, which are the showcases of the hotel’s boutique shops. As a whole the architecture is reminiscent of the Renaissance period.
The lobby, grander than grand, rivals the Pierre’s in opulence, reminding Green and Ali-Ben of that audacious adventure of a few months past. The main staircase is a mass of white granite, and brass tie-rod retainers snuggle a red carpet into the lower corners of the risers. And most dramatic, a life-size white marble statue of a lurching lion straddles the forward end of the wrought iron railing.
The four tourists sidled up to the reception desk, and registering vamped into a comedy act. Communicating with the check-in clerk was soon reduced to sign language. The fewer than few Italians in Italy who do speak English aren’t easily understood. They speak English in a melodic cadence and enunciate it as if they are reading Italian verse. But thanks to Georgina, they managed to finalize the check-in and scuttled to their suites for a tumble in the sack.
The lovemaking was raw with indescribable fetishes. Green was through in eight minutes as he ejaculated, and Ali-Ben boiled over in even less time. They were a prostitute’s ideal Johns: one-two-three, and her job was finished. The boys, tired and satisfied, needed sleep, but the girls, full of energy, were wired to shop on Via Del Corso, a boulevard populated with upscale shops and boutiques.
In a Dutch accent, Katja said to Ali-Ben, “Baby, you rest because me and Georgina are going shopping.” She rubbed her man’s chest, kneaded his testicles, and said in a slow, enticing hush, “Are you going to give your girl spending money?”
He nodded at his pants crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed. “Hand me my trousers.” He peeled out a thousand dollars (ten thousand at present value), and she took the wad. “Bye, baby.” Happily, Katja danced away, waving with her fingers. “See you later.”
In the adjacent suite, Georgina succeeded in the same feat, sucking cash from a John. And the two girls were off to a wild spending spree, setting Via Del Corso on fire with their provocative clothes, or lack thereof.
In Rochester, Furnari & Company were in a bank, waiting for Piccarreto to emerge from the safe deposit vault, presumably with three or four million dollars in gems and gold. Fifteen minutes passed, and Furnari said to Sacco, “Nick, Rene has been in there too long. Go see what he’s doin’.”
As Sacco started walking to the vault room, Piccarreto came into sight, a metal lunch pail under his arm. He gave the container to Furnari. “It’s all in there, Christie.”
“All of it, Rene?” the consigliere asked diffidently.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s all there,” Piccarreto said gloomily as though he had lost his right arm.
“I hope so. I don’t wanna have to come back here again.”
On returning to New York City, Sacco sorted through the precious contents of the lunch pail. He calculated the gold and stones at $4,200,000. “Not a bad haul,” the Cat said laughingly.
Furnari’s instructions to him were to parse out those jewels in equal amounts to himself, Germaine, Visconti, and Sacco. “I’ll take care of it, Christie.” But the Cat gave a portion of his end to Frankos.
Comfort was unaware Furnari had recovered his goods from Piccarreto, but that was neither here nor there. More pressing issues were plaguing him. A plea deal was still not consummated, and he phoned Greenspan in search for answers.
“Bobby, just three hours ago I told you I haven’t heard anything yet from Pope. I can’t keep calling him. What do you want me to do, put a gun to his head?”
“That may not be a bad idea.”
“Look Bobby, things have to fall into place, and sometimes it takes much longer. But I’ll get La Rossa on the phone, and we’ll call Tyler’s law clerk. Maybe she has some news. All right?”
Greenspan and La Rossa, on a teleconference with Judge Tyler’s law secretary, Gertrude Higgins, inquired if District Attorney Hogan’s office had decided on the proposed four-year plea deal.
“Thus far, Mr. Hogan hasn’t
confirmed it nor denied it,” she said apathetically. Ms. Higgins was a social iceberg who seemed to loathe anyone else but herself. She was so flat-chested that if she turned sideways you couldn’t see her.
“A week has come and gone, and we have an obligation to our clients to expedite this issue,” La Rossa said.
“If you gentlemen wish, I can have Judge Tyler phone you later this afternoon. That’s the best I can offer.”
Two hours had lapsed, and Judge Tyler did return the two defense attorneys, call. “I’m just as perplexed as you are. I don’t have an answer as to why DA Hogan is avoiding me. I’ll speak with him tomorrow morning, and hopefully I can pry him a bit.”
Greenspan, though he didn’t mind it, couldn’t begin to guess why Tyler was so obliging, as if he had an incentive to push for leniency. Greenspan couldn’t have thought that Furnari had channeled a $250,000 bribe to His Honor. La Rossa, though, was not in oblivion; he had been the conduit to Tyler, and it was he who delivered the cash to the judge. But postponing the outcome of the case was a torture for Nalo and Comfort; and it wasn’t any less unbearable for Millie, who was carrying the grief of a widow. They’d been on pins and needles for the past three weeks, and a settlement had been intangible, if not unattainable.
CHAPTER 68
JULY 14, 1972
Al Green and Ali-Ben were acclimating to living in Rome in a regal hotel at three hundred dollars per night ($2,500 at present value). As far as the blonde-haired Katja and the Afro-sporting Georgina, they were becoming stale and wilted to their dates, and by the weekend Green and Ali-Ben would fly to Amsterdam and trade in “the worn out bitches for two fresh whores.” They were ignorant to the fact that flying to Holland to shop for sex was unnecessary. Rome had its own red-light district, and it wasn’t far from the Grand Hotel Plaza. A fifteen-minute taxi ride, barring traffic, and you’d be in proximity to the Hotel Pulitzer on Via Guglielmo Marconi, a wide concourse boasting a row of mature elm trees on its center island. This boulevard was a runway of prostitutes of all kinds: heterosexuals, homosexuals, lesbians, transvestites, and bisexuals. This mélange of debauchery attracted a potpourri of effeminate males, bizarre freaks, and even eunuchs. And irrespective of one’s preference and persuasion, on Via Guglielmo Marconi he or she could satiate all sorts of sexual appetites. It was the Fulton Fish Market of prostitution.
Between now and the weekend Green and Ali-Ben would be taking pleasure in their last licks of the buxom Katja and the luscious Georgina. At the moment, as the sun sank, they roved here and there, sightseeing for a preview of Rome’s nightlife. The Romans were out wandering about, many lapping ice cream cones, and others munching on paper bags of peanuts, all chatting at the same time with laughter after every sentence. Green, Ali-Ben, and the girls strolled on Via Veneto, promenading in and through boutiques. They paused in front of an art gallery, which they didn’t care to visit, and walked farther toward the shoe stores. On display in the brilliantly lit window of one shop, named Rossana Sul Veneto, was a pair of tan lizard-skin boots. The price tag read 400 lira, or $2,300. Katja, excited as a second-grader, arms flailing and wiggling her hips, pounded Ali-Ben’s chest and jumped up and down. “Look at those boots, Ali.” She wrapped her arm around his and asked in a girlish voice, “Will you buy those beautiful boots for me?”
Ali-Ben couldn’t resist; Katja’s eyes could morph from those of a street-smart slut to the look of an angelic, adolescent virgin.
“Shit, they’re so expensive that not even the lizards can afford them. But I’ll make you happy,” Ali-Ben said.
They all went inside the boutique, and Katja tried on the boots, looking in the mirror this way and that way. She said they fit fine, and the shop owner boxed the dazzling footwear. Ali-Ben counted out a sheaf of liras and paid him. Georgina was not to be outdone. Browsing in another corner of the shop, she spotted a Gucci leather handbag that cost Al Green 730 lira, or $3,800. But money was no object; the $11,000,000 in jewelry they had swiped from Comfort and Nalo, even at this spending rate, could last a lifetime.
Dusk had fallen, but Via Veneto was bright from the street lamps and the light spilling out from the beautifully propped store windows. Contrary to popular belief, clothes-shopping marathons are laborious for women, more so when spending someone else’s money, and by now Katja and Georgina had an irrepressible hunger. Green hailed a cab and they were off to Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, the Park Avenue of Rome. There, two blocks east of the Teatro Valle was a highly recommended restaurant, Don Carlo, an eatery that specialized in exotic recipes. And that depends on what one considers exotic. The maître d`, outfitted in a white, long-tail tuxedo, sat the party of four at a round table in the center of the softly lit dining room. The new customers—an African American with garish gold chains on his neck and wrists, a swarthy, bearded Arab, and two women, whose comportment and clothing advertised their wares—were conspicuous and intrusive to the other diners.
Luciano Pavarotti’s powerful, melodramatic voice—a tenor that vibrated everyone’s intestines—emanated from the ceiling speakers, singing an aria from Puccini’s opera, La Bohème.
Che gelida manina
se la lasci riscaldar.
Cercar che giova?
The menu, exorbitantly priced, naturally was in Italian, and Georgina once again did the interpreting. One of the specialties at Don Carlo was the braised horse flank in ragu sauce. The thought of eating horse meat upset Green and Ali-Ben’s stomachs, though it shouldn’t have disturbed the Turk. He, a native of Turkey, was accustomed to feasting on goat meat, lambs’ heads, raccoons, rabbits, and donkeys, but maybe his palate must’ve been Americanized.
“Fuck this fancy shit,” Green groused, flinging his napkin. “I ain’t havin’ no horse meat, and all this crap. Let’s go to a place where we can get some barbecue ribs and fried chicken. And maybe a couple o’ bags of French fries.”
Ali-Ben chortled. “What’s wrong with you? Ribs and fried chicken! Where’re you think you are, down south in Alabama on your grandfather’s pig farm?”
He laughed boisterously, the girls cackling, though they hadn’t understood Ali-Ben’s spoof. And Don Carlo’s patrons, disrupted by the outbursts, pitched snide looks at the unruly vacationers.
Katja and Georgina had a taste for Belgian waffles and cheese blintzes, a favorite of the Dutch, but those delicacies did not exist in Italy. Italians, staunch braggarts of the local cuisine, are stubbornly unreceptive to sampling other countries’ foods.
The dinner cost another thousand dollars, and of course, for Ali-Ben and Al Green, two rich American music promoters, as they’d represented themselves, the carousing would not be over without snorting lines of cocaine, drinking, and dancing at Bacchus, a world-famed, snobbish nightclub on the eastern end of Corso Vittorio Emanuele II. It was not too far from Don Carlo, and the quartet of revelers tramped and skipped merrily to Bacchus as the girls, to the appall of the night strollers, kissed sloppily and groped their gentlemen’s genitals.
The nightclub’s bouncers were discriminately selective in admitting the eager applicants at the door. And one look at Ali-Ben and his entourage was all it took for the doormen to wave him and his lewd company away. Green stepped forward and did his own waving, but with a US one-hundred-dollar bill, the world’s universal currency. The bouncer swallowed the green bill into his palm, and motioned the two couples into Bacchus’s lounge. A fifteen-foot marble statue of Julius Caesar in a toga and sandals, sword in hand, loomed in the middle of the four-sided bar.
Sly Stone’s hit song “I Wanna Take You Higher” was blaring from the loud speakers, and you couldn’t hear yourself talk. The dance floor was large and twenty meters square. Above it rotated a slow-spinning glass ball four feet in diameter, strobe lights illuminating it, shooting colored rays of flashes careening in every direction, impairing one’s vision. That was part of the discotheque trend of this period.
Ali-Ben and Katja inched to the dance floor, and began swaying more and more to Sly Stone’s
beat, “getting into the groove.” A slick Italian man, who cut the personification of a Roman Casanova, was dancing alone, pantomiming a lewd advance at Katja; not that the lascivious gesture offended her, but it bruised Ali-Ben’s masculinity. Amid the ear-piercing rock music, he and the intruder hissed and cursed at one another, the bickering soon ensuing to a shoving match. The mob of dancers gaped incoherently, and three or four bouncers dove in. A gun materialized, and PAH, PAH, PAH, three shots rang out, resonating above the music, and Casanova was mortally wounded. Someone pointing at Ali-Ben and Green hollered, “Sono stati quei due, il negro Americano, e l’Arabo che va con lui.” Those two did it, the American negro and the Arab with him. Which wasn’t true.
Under the blinding strobe lights, Ali-Ben or Al Green hadn’t seen who had produced and fired the pistol, but they knew that if they didn’t disappear pronto, the authorities would’ve implicated them in the shooting. They took the Dutch girls by the hand and scuttled for Bacchus’s exit.
Out on Via Vittorio Emanuele II, they piled into a taxi, Ali-Ben and Green panting faster than a dog in heat. “The Grand Hotel Plaza,” Green instructed the driver.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Georgina muttered somberly to the boys, “Somebody in the club said you two did it.”
Green and Ali-Ben stared at her, a gaze of incredulity on their faces.
“I don’t know what happened in there, but we gotta get off the streets and get outta Rome tomorrow morning,” Green said to no one in particular.
But they didn’t have flight reservations, and this was the middle of July, the height of the travel season. Ali-Ben, a Muslim, prayed to his Allah to avail two tickets for the next Alitalia flight to New York—or anywhere in the USA. And Green, who didn’t believe in a god, started praying now. He wiped his forehead and murmured, “Oh, dear Jesus, git me outta this mess, my man.”
The Pierre Hotel Affair Page 28