The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  Comas readjusted his buttocks onto the brown, wicker chair. “Uh . . . no, not at all.”

  “Stay on top of him, Bill, and keep in touch.”

  NICK SACCO

  Christie Furnari found out that Bermudez had clipped Sammy’s swag and told me about it. But nobody was crying for Sammy. Hadn’t he taken that humongous diamond necklace for himself? And who knew what else he pocketed? We figured if he screwed us, then who gave a shit what happened to him. He was lucky that Frankos the Greek hadn’t killed him.

  Meanwhile, Agent Hammer had reported Bermudez to his superiors at the NYPD. Naturally, when they put Bermudez under the hot lamp he said he didn’t touch a thing in Nalo’s apartment. And he swore on a stack of Bibles that he didn’t know anything about Sammy’s supposedly stolen jewels. “Hell, Nalo didn’t lose whatever he claims he lost. He made it all up,” Bermudez told his precinct captain.

  But the examiners who were looking into this reminded Bermudez that Nalo hadn’t complained to the cops. Sammy mentioned it to someone who happened to be an informant, so he had no motive to make up such a lie. The examiners needed Sammy to file a complaint; without that they couldn’t officially accuse and charge Bermudez. But how could Sammy admit those jewels had been taken from him? If he were to say, “Yes, during the search someone swiped a lot of valuables from my apartment,” then he’d have to explain how he had gotten his hands on a million bucks of gems and gold.

  “Did you steal those lost items from the Pierre or from Sophia Loren?” Lieutenant O’Neil had asked Nalo.

  Nalo’s answer was, “I never had any jewelry, or gold, or silver, or anythin’ like that in my apartment, or anywhere else. And I never stole anythin’ from anyone. So if you’re tryin’ to tell me that somebody stole a million bucks in jewels from me, that’s a lotta horse shit.”

  The NYPD closed the investigation, and Bermudez, wisely, went into an early retirement, and moved to Florida, thinking that would be the end of the story.

  CHAPTER 73

  DECEMBER 14, 1972

  Bobby Comfort, Sammy Nalo, and the lawyers Greenspan and La Rossa appeared for sentencing before Judge Tyler. Pope was also present. As prearranged, Comfort and Nalo pleaded guilty to possession of stolen property. His Honor guided Comfort through the customary allocution, a series of questions a judge asks a defendant prior to accepting a guilty plea: 1) Did you authorize your lawyer to change your not guilty plea to a guilty plea?; 2) Did anyone coerce you to change your plea?; 3) Did anybody promise you any form of compensation or special treatment in exchange for your guilty plea?; 4) Are you currently of sound mind?; and 5) Are you satisfied with your lawyers’ rendering of counsel?

  Upon finishing Comfort’s allocution, Judge Tyler subjected Nalo to that same custom. His Honor then asked Assistant DA Pope if the defendants’ guilty pleas were satisfactory to him as the representative of the People of the State of New York.

  “Yes, the People are in accord with the guilty pleas to a Class E Felony, possession of stolen property,” Pope answered against his own will.

  “Very well. I hereby sentence Robert Comfort and Sorecho Nalo to a determinate sentence of seven years confinement in a state penitentiary as deemed by the Department of Corrections. You are so ordered to begin serving your sentences on January 2, 1973.”

  Seven years! All parties had agreed to a four-year sentence. What was going on?

  As Pope’s sullenness vanished and a cheery smile bloomed on his lips, Greenspan and La Rossa objected vehemently. La Rossa, his cheeks now red, barked, “That was not our understanding. You and the district attorney consented to a maximum of four years.”

  Greenspan was about to voice the same grievance, but Comfort whispered in his ear. The lawyer nodded and remained quiet.

  “Mr. Greenspan, you were about to speak your piece?” Judge Tyler said.

  “I concur with Mr. La Rossa. What you are doing is unacceptable. We had an agreement.” Greenspan hurled a sheaf of papers onto the tabletop. “My client will withdraw his guilty plea.”

  “Mine as well,” La Rossa echoed affirmatively.

  “This is not a kindergarten game. I will not permit the defendants to withdraw the guilty pleas,” Tyler decreed. “Since our last conference, I reviewed Mr. Comfort and Mr. Nalo’s backgrounds, criminal histories, and propensities, and the crimes they presumably committed are far graver than I had known. For that reason, I support the district attorney’s original wishes to imprison the defendants for longer than four years.”

  “Your Honor,” Greenspan said, “The judicial precepts of the United States of America uphold a defendant’s innocence until he or she is proven guilty. Judge, you, on the contrary, are presuming these two gentlemen are guilty. And you’re in breach of the plea bargain that was set forth and agreed upon by everyone concerned, you included.”

  But Tyler wasn’t listening; he banged his gavel and said, “Court adjourned.”

  NICK SACCO

  That was all an act, and the only one who had not been in on it was Pope. Judge Tyler intentionally did not honor the deal he had cut with Comfort and Nalo’s lawyers. And that was a smart move. The judge damn well knew that on appeal the seven years would be reduced to the four years that had been worked out. But for now, handing out a harsher punishment gave legitimacy to the sentencing; who’d ever believe a judge had taken a $250,000 payoff and then reneged on a plea deal?

  Brilliant!

  Free on bond for another three weeks, Bobby and Millie Comfort drove home to Rochester. They wanted nothing more than to be together every day, every hour, every minute before he had to surrender to the New York State Department of Corrections on January 2, 1973. This was the beginning of a second honeymoon. Millie laid little Nicole in her bed, and the moment she fell into a deep sleep, mom and dad were tumbling in the master bedroom. Bobby and Millie’s orgasms quelled, and they sat smoking in bed. Millie kissed him on the nape of his neck, and in a resolute manner said, “I want you to promise me something right now.”

  Bobby emptied out his throat of smoke and watched it disappear into the air. “Anything, sweetie. Anything.”

  “Anything?” she repeated, a smirk on her perfectly shaped mouth. “Well, for one thing, when you come back from prison you better have stopped smoking.” A sudden seriousness vamped on her face. “And I want you to promise me you’ll never do another job ever again, and that you’ll stop hanging out with that Sammy.” Millie caressed Bobby’s chest and rested her head on it. “I made up my mind. I can’t live like this anymore. Not knowing when the other shoe is going to drop. Not knowing when a cop will come knocking down our door. Not knowing when you’ll be gone.”

  Bobby felt a drop on his chest, one of his wife’s tears. He pulled Millie tighter into him, his nostrils whiffing the fragrance in her hair. “Oh, c’mon now, stop crying.”

  Millie’s shoulders began shivering. “No, I mean it. It’s not fair. Not fair to me and Nicole. If . . . if you can’t make that promise, you won’t find us when you get out.”

  He inhaled another drag and stared at the ceiling, his arm around Millie’s rib cage, a hand on her breast. “I don’t think I’ll be doing any more jobs. As far as Sammy . . . well, we’ve been friends for . . .”

  She wiggled from his embrace. “I don’t care how long you and that snake have been friends. I want you to stay away from him. Sammy’s bad medicine. Period.”

  “If that’ll make you happy, then that’s what I’ll do.” But did Comfort really mean it?

  Speaking of Sammy, his propensities and ideals were altogether different than Comfort’s. Not many days before he’d begin his incarceration and still gambled incessantly, forever obligated to bookmakers and loansharks—debts that often led to fatal near-misses. But in these final weeks of his liberty, Nalo frequented Middle Eastern restaurants, though never in the company of his wife, a retired prostitute and active pole dancer. Nalo, a cryptic being, had two lives, one of which he kept secret. Apart from his gambling addiction, he h
ad another vice, one far more destructive: women. He was addicted to anyone in a skirt, and fanned a penchant for Moroccan and Egyptian belly dancers, quenching his libidinous appetite at the Arabic-themed Sirocco on 29th Street and Madison Avenue in Manhattan. And there, Nalo practiced his perverted rituals.

  One evening, diamonds and emeralds in his pockets, Nalo was eyeing the top-billed performer of the night, Nabila. On ending her frenzied number, she walked off the parquet dance floor and passed close to Nalo’s table, her ankle-length, yellow, veiled skirt brushing past his leg. Obsessed by Nabila, and tingled by her skirt, Nalo outstretched his arm, grasped the dancer’s hand, and dropped a three-quarter-carat diamond in her palm, a baiting ploy he had tempted on countless women. “Hi Nabila. I’m Sammy.” He grinned and winked at the caramel-toned belly dancer.

  “I got many more of those.” Nalo was seducing Nabila—no, mesmerizing her. He patted the seat of the chair next to his. “Sit and have a drink with me.”

  “Okay, but just one,” she said in what sounded to be an Indian accent, her voice tinny. “I don’t drink with men I don’t know.” An outright lie.

  Sure, tell me another one. “Nabila! What a pretty name. And you’re such a pretty girl. Can I get to know you?”

  “What makes you think I wanna get to know you?”

  Nalo raised his forefinger as if to say I got something to show you, and said, “Give me your hand.” She did. “Close your big, beautiful eyes.” And she obeyed. He dug into his jacket pocket for a half-carat ruby, and rubbed it in her hand. “You can look now.”

  Nabila’s mouth fell open in total surprise. “Oh, Allah! Is this for me? It’s . . . it’s beautiful, but I can’t keep this . . . I don’t even know your name.”

  Nalo folded his arms. “Of course you can keep it. It’s my gift to you, and only because you’re so beautiful and talented. And I don’t want you to think I want anything from you. So you still don’t wanna get to know me?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure. And look, I have to get ready for my last dance set tonight at one o’clock.”

  He slid the sleeve of his jacket, uncovering the gold-banded Piaget, which was partly obscured by his hairy wrist. “It’s 11:30. I gotta go take care o’ somethin’. What time will you be finished?”

  “One-thirty.”

  “I’ll be back then and take you to my place, Port Said.” Nalo had set the hook, and was reeling her in. “I’ll talk to my partner, and from time to time he may book you there. By the way, my name is Sammy.”

  Nabila knew of Port Said. She was thunderstruck.

  Nalo, so rapt in conquering Nabila, his female fix of the evening, did not notice that the shifty eyes of three Middle Eastern hoodlums, arcane undesirables who were habitués of Club Sirocco, had been watching him. He paid his check, and inebriated by Nabila drifted toward the door of the club, a floating bounce in his step. It was a blustery winter night, and Nalo started walking north on Madison Avenue to where his Volvo was parked. The swishing of three or four pairs of boots was not too far behind him. He quickened his pace, but the cagey footsteps gained on him before he could unlock the door of his car.

  CHAPTER 74

  Nalo fumbled in his trouser pockets for the key to the Volvo, but couldn’t find it. In what seemed an eternity, at last his fingertips touched the key ring. He yanked it out, and hands shaking, struggled to wiggle the door key inside the lock. “Oh shit!” He lost his grip on the key ring, and it landed somewhere under the car.

  A hundred feet into the darkness a voice called him, “Sammy.”

  In four to five seconds, Nalo felt the aggressive weight, arms, and hands of three muggers, gruff Arab goons who had stalked him when he left Sirocco. They scrapped and tussled, and the hoods immobilized the outnumbered Nalo. Quick, harried movements were all he remembered as they battered him. Baseball bats were the thugs’ preferred weapons, and dizzy and unsteady, Nalo collapsed to the ground. One of the attackers frisked his pockets and stripped him of the gems he had on his person, the others looking on in a pouncing stance. The ruffians ran off, and Nalo lay on his back in the gutter of the sidewalk, drowning in his own blood, looking listlessly at the star-speckled sky.

  Ali-Ben and Al Green were living large, and though carousing in Amsterdam and Rome had been a splendid excursion, nowhere else, they felt, could replace New York, the Big Apple. But they had to stay clear of the old haunts and not be under the nose of anyone who had a score to settle. New York City was populated by eight million people; what were the odds of running into someone they’d double-crossed? Ali-Ben, a foreigner, had never heard of Murphy’s Law, but Green was familiar with that widely accepted adage: If something can go wrong, it will, and usually at the worst time.

  They tuned their radar to the longest range on the alert for anyone who might’ve been on the hunt for them. The person of most concern was Donald “the Greek” Frankos—and for good reason. Comfort and Nalo’s calculations in dividing the Pierre boon, Frankos knew, had been a flimflam. The total they shared with him was a paltry $70,000. And to add insult to injury, Nalo, or maybe he and Comfort jointly, had cheated everybody else of other items, the $780,000 diamond necklace, for example. And more infuriating, word reached Frankos that Green and Ali-Ben had run off with the bulk of the Pierre swag. The Greek had been shortchanged, and he was dead set on correcting that indiscretion.

  Unlike Comfort and Nalo, and even Sacco, Frankos was not a passive, forgiving burglar. No, he was a cold-blooded contract killer, and the world wasn’t vast enough for those two fraudsters to run from him. But where would he begin scouring for Green and Ali-Ben? One of Frankos’s spies had told him they were somewhere in Europe, painting it red, spending lavishly, in part, his rightful stake.

  It had been a week since Sammy Nalo’s beating outside Sirocco, and he was convalescing, his bruises and lacerations healing from the bludgeoning of the baseball bats. He had a few lasting bumps on his head, and considering the brutality of the assault he cheated death.

  Nalo sent an envoy to Frankos. He wanted to clear the air with the Greek, rather than to constantly look over his shoulder. And perhaps Frankos might become his ally in salvaging the satchel from Al Green and Ali-Ben—if only they could be found.

  Nalo, still sore and limping, hobbled into the Ibis Club, where Frankos was waiting for him. They sat at a banquette table and ignored the belly dancers; these trying days had been taxing, and Nalo had no appetite for women. The only agenda on his mind was to amend any misunderstandings with Frankos. The Greek, too, seemingly restless, didn’t waste a minute tackling a bitter subject.

  “Sammy, you and Bobby Comfort fucked me on my cut. You guys said the take from the Pierre was about a million, and the papers said it was more like eleven million, and only you and Comfort know what it really was. So what do I gotta do to get what’s due me?” He pointed as if he were holding a gun and taking aim at Nalo. “And we gotta straighten out the money from that necklace you took for yourself.”

  The music was loud and tinny, and they had to speak at high volume, which made Nalo jumpy. He was feigning that all was well so those within earshot wouldn’t hear Frankos menacing the indomitable Sammy the Arab. That would dilute his reputation as a no nonsense heavyweight.

  Nalo squirmed in his chair. “I don’t have the necklace. It wound up in the hands of the FBI.”

  “That’s not my problem. If you hadn’t taken it for yourself, it wouldn’t be in the hands of the FBI. Would it?” The Greek’s face was contorted with wrath, his upper lip curled into a snarl. “Like I said, it’s not my problem, Sammy.” He jabbed the air with his index finger, as though he had the urge to stab Nalo if only he had a knife. He eyed the eating utensils on the tablecloth, a fork and a knife. One of those might do, he thought. But another time for that. “It’s your fault you lost the necklace. So I want my cut for it. Understand?”

  Nalo, dried saliva on the corners of his lips, guzzled a half glass of water. “Look, Greek, Bobby and I took the fall all by ours
elves without takin’ down you or any of the other guys. In a few days, we’re goin’ into the joint for four goddamn years. But we kept quiet and didn’t push you into the hot coals. And now you’re breaking my balls for a bigger cut!”

  “You’re damn right you kept quiet, otherwise you wouldn’t be goin’ into the joint; you’d be goin’ to your grave. Understand what I’m talkin’ about, Sammy? You better straighten me out before you turn yourself in. Got it?” The Greek chucked a ten-dollar bill on the table and stormed away.

  Sammy slouched into his chair and released a breath of air he’d been holding for the past fifteen minutes.

  Frankos was on a rampage, and Nalo believed him when he had said that should he cross the Greek he’d be in a grave. That was no idle threat; it was due notice that Frankos would duly follow through. Nalo had to appease him. But who could he ask to intervene in subduing the Greek’s vengeance? No one. He had bought his own coffin; when the newspapers had published the articles about the FBI recovering the necklace, everybody was livid.

  And it was a miracle Nalo’s heart was still beating. What was he to do? Even if Nalo ducked the Greek until he had to begin his prison bid, that wouldn’t be a solution. For a pittance, Frankos could just as readily have him killed in prison.

  Forlorn, Nalo drove to his Bronx apartment. As he lay sleepless in bed thinking what might be his best course of action, the telephone shrilled. It was 2:10 A.M., who could it be at this hour? Pondering whether to answer the call, he reluctantly did. “Hello, who’s this?”

  The caller spoke for fifteen seconds, and Nalo, hanging on to every word, sat up in bed. “You saw who? Where?” He was listening into the phone without breathing. “You’re sure it was him?”

  CHAPTER 75