The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “This is Detective Van Holt. I have a lot of questions for you.”

  Sacco was shocked to hear from this cop again. “You can ask all the questions you want, but you’re not gonna get any answers. Now what is this about?”

  Van Holt told him what had happened at Lauren’s house. Sacco couldn’t believe his ears and slammed the phone onto its cradle. And the detective was so baffled by the increasing complexity of the Lauren Baker robbery case his head was spinning.

  Sacco hastened to the hospital to console his lover, though she was sedated and semiconscious. The day after, following a three-hour cosmetic surgery to obliterate Lauren’s facial wounds, eyes bandaged, she wakened to hear Sacco’s voice at her bedside.

  “How’re you feelin’?”

  “Nick?” she said in a hush without moving her dried, chapped lips.

  He petted Lauren’s hand, a medley of medicinal odors in the room. “Yeah, it’s me. Right now you probably hate me more than anyone else in the world.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me . . . ?”

  “I was going to, but I wanted to wait for the right time. I’m really sorry. I’ve been livin’ with that nut only because I didn’t wanna walk away from my kids.” His chin was on his chest as he fought back tears. “I . . . I want you to do me a special favor.”

  “Why would I want to do you a favor after what you’ve done to me?”

  “Because I’m ready to get rid of her and marry you. And what I’m asking of you is not to press charges.”

  That prompted Lauren to react by lifting her head off the pillow, though she couldn’t. “I can’t believe what you’re saying to me. Just look at what she’s done to me!”

  “I know how you feel, and I can’t blame you. But I want you to do it for my kids. I don’t want them to be without their mother.”

  “I wish I never met you, Nick,” Lauren whispered, despondency in her strained voice.

  CHAPTER 92

  Seventy-two hours after the ferocious butchering, Sacco posted $5,000 cash bond for Nora. One of the bail stipulations ordered her to be committed to a clinic and examined by psychiatrists. This lightened the weight off Sacco’s shoulders, his fear that in one of her stormy fits Nora might’ve harmed the babies. Against her will, he and two friends, who lived on the ground floor apartment of his brownstone, were driving her to a medical clinic. “You want everybody to think I’m crazy, Nick. Don’t you? But I’m not the one who’s crazy. Take me back home, you bastard, and you can keep your whore,” Nora shrieked in a prolonged scream, pounding madly on the ceiling of the car. “Take me home, you baaasssstard!”

  “It’s not my decision to commit you to a clinic. You heard what the judge said,” Sacco answered, the two neighbors cringing at the emotionally disturbed Nora as they sat on either side of her in the rear seat. “Besides, don’t you want help so you can feel better?”

  “I don’t need help. Now get me home, you fuck.”

  Nora was admitted in a psychiatric ward for a two-week period, and Sacco’s mother cared for the children. Lauren was discharged from the hospital, her eyes still bandaged, though the ophthalmologist’s prognosis of her vision had been encouraging. Sacco took her home in Hewlett, and throughout the ride she didn’t talk. She was sore from the cosmetic surgeries, but her most painful soreness was from the deception she had suffered. “Honey, I know it’s hard to get over it, and I understand you’re still mad at me.” Sacco kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. “But as I already told you, I was gonna come clean. I was just waitin’ for the right time.”

  His girlfriend didn’t acknowledge him and turned her head into the window. He decided not to belabor the point, and remained quiet. At Lauren’s house, he parked in the driveway. “I’ll get the wheelchair out of the trunk. The nurse should be comin’ soon. She’ll be with you through the night, and then another one will come at eight o’clock in the mornin’.”

  She finally spoke and said dryly, “The nurse has to stay with me because you can’t.”

  Sacco sat the debilitated Lauren in the wheelchair and rolled her to the side door, the woman’s eyes moist and languid, her face expressionless. He had festooned the living room with cheerful banners of well wishes and set a vase of red roses on the coffee table, even though she couldn’t see any of it. He pushed Lauren to where the fresh flowers were and let her inhale the fragrance. But she began crying. “You can be so sweet, and I just don’t understand how you could have lied to me.” And she reached for his neck to hug. Her boyfriend knelt, and they embraced, Lauren weeping, tears leaking under the bandages.

  “It’s all gonna be okay, baby. And as soon as my divorce goes through, we’ll get married.”

  She nodded gratefully.

  The cosmetic surgeon was buoyant about Lauren’s recovery; on removing the stitches in her face, the scars would fade to unnoticeable, pencil-thin lines. And she and Sacco were hopeful her eyesight would return to near normal, though prescription glasses might’ve been needed.

  “Do you mean what you said? Are you really going to leave her?” And she searched into Sacco’s eyes for reassurance.

  “There’s nothin’ between Nora and me anymore. I only stayed with her because I’m afraid that one day she’ll go off and hurt the kids. Look what she did to you.”

  “But don’t you see, Nick. You scorned her. And . . . I . . . I can almost forgive her.”

  “Forgive her! Honey, you know how many scorned women are out there,” he said, his arm stretched, pointing to somewhere beyond the walls of their concubine. “Does that mean every wife whose husband cheated on her should go out and cut up the other woman?”

  “Everyone handles things differently. I don’t know what I’d do in the face of infidelity.”

  “Well, you don’t gotta worry about that with me.”

  “I hope not . . . I hope not, Nick.”

  As time passed, and Lauren’s wounds healed, her vision eventually clearing to normality. At Sacco’s insistence, she consented to withdraw the charges against his estranged wife. His divorce was consummated, and he took a hiatus from his burglaries. But he had something in store for Lauren, a gift: a Tiffany diamond necklace, and for good measure a Burma ruby platinum bracelet. She was in seventh heaven, but more so at his proposal to marry her. And Lauren was up on her toes with happiness as if she were a little girl whose daddy had given her a new doll. “Will I marry you? Of course, I will.” And they kissed, Sacco leading her to the bedroom.

  The wedding was a private ceremony at a chapel in downtown Las Vegas on North Bruce Road off Route 515. The newlyweds took pleasure in their honeymoon holed up at the Flamingo Hotel & Casino. But the faces of Sacco’s children kept crossing his mind, and he couldn’t leave those images behind. He went out onto the terrace of the suite to be alone with his thoughts, the Nevada scorching sun sinking into its cradle of mountains that encircles the City of Sin.

  Lauren, a sensitive soul, knew her Nick was in anguish. And beneath the hardness of his manliness, she understood the cause of his torment. Lying in bed, she called out to him, “Nick, are you all right?” No answer. “Come in from that hot sun before it burns you to ashes. It must be 110 degrees out there on that furnace of a terrace, honey. Come back to bed. We’re not finished and still have a long way to go.”

  Sacco, guilt-ridden and remorseful, rested his two hundred and twenty pounds on a chaise lounge, watching distractedly the flaming orange sun sliding into the earth behind the mountain range. “My kids are scarred emotionally for life. Goddamn it!” he murmured to himself. “I knew somethin’ wasn’t right with that Nora, and I shouldn’t have married her. Never mind having babies with her.”

  CHAPTER 93

  The December winter had crept in, and the new Mr. and Mrs. Sacco purchased a beach house for the winter in the sunny Florida Keys, a soothing place for Lauren’s convalescence. But a heartache was vexing him, those feelings of self-blame and repentance that stubbornly refused to wane.
The home his kids lived in stood in a bustling neighborhood of Brooklyn, populated by drug-abusing teenagers, young prostitutes, and criminally prone adolescents. He thought about it, and after many sleepless nights he decided to relocate his children to where it’d be better fit for their upbringing.

  Sacco was now in the market for a house in a respectable, bucolic town in Long Island devoid of petty criminals—environs bordered by serenity. He was in high spirits, eager to talk about it with his ex-wife. This resolve, though, brought on a queasiness, the disquieting polarity of anxiousness and relief; anxiousness from fear that Nora might not have been in accord; and relief in knowing that his children and their mother would fare better in a safer environment and a privileged lifestyle.

  Sacco called his ex-wife, and what followed the third ring shot a shuddering pain into his stomach. Nora’s latest act of spitefulness rocked him and he screamed into the phone, “That senseless bitch. Why did she do this?” He glowered at the receiver as if it were at fault.

  CHAPTER 94

  To Sacco’s devastation, the recorded message on Nora’s telephone line said, “Sorry, this account is no longer active. Please check the number and dial again.” She had run off with the toddlers. She was gone. He was crushed and felt life was no longer worth living. But the Cat, a man of resilience who did not cower to tragedy, was not to surrender to this fate. He’d search and scour every corner of the country until he’d find his two little darlings.

  Lauren was on a Delta flight to Fort Lauderdale, and her ultimate stop would be the beach house in the Keys, a splendid home. The cresting ocean was its backyard. She was flying alone; her groom, grief-stricken over the disappearance, or as he declared it, the kidnapping of his children, embarked on a quest to locate Nora. But Sacco’s efforts were a futility. Nora, perhaps, had moved to another state, if not to a foreign country. Resigned he’d never rekindle with his girls, the Cat rejoined Lauren in Florida but couldn’t wipe away his sorrow.

  Maybe . . . just maybe one day Nora will be in need of money and resurface.

  As for the fates of the Pierre protagonists, no one can run from his or her destiny, and as mortals they all yielded to theirs.

  Al Visconti, the eighth member of the Pierre marauders, was incarcerated for an unrelated offense in Sing Sing, a New York State maximum-security prison. Studying the statutes in the prison law library, Visconti devised a foolproof means to escape. How? He composed a typewritten, officially formatted Habeas Corpus writ—an order issued by a court to release a prisoner. Visconti then mailed it to a friend on the outside, who was in possession of a judge’s seal—one that he stole. This comrade of Visconti affixed the judge’s seal and forged his signature on the phony Habeas Corpus brief, and pretending to be a process server duly served it on the warden. The warden examined the document, and having reviewed numerous court orders throughout his tenure, had no doubts about its authenticity. Within forty-eight hours, pursuant to the provisions set forth in the writ, he released Visconti.

  And here’s why this diabolical feat should’ve been in the Hall of Fame of Escapees, if such an award existed: Al Visconti hadn’t escaped through a tunnel or by scaling a wall and wasn’t listed as a fugitive. Thus he wasn’t being sought by the authorities. And so, Visconti vanished into the blue yonder.

  In 1984, he once again tested his luck. Visconti was operating an illegal poker game, a nightly affair, and his dealer was a card mechanic, a cheater. One evening, because of a sore loser the poker game got out of hand. A shootout ensued, and Al Visconti lost his life in the process.

  Donald “the Greek” Frankos was thriving as a contract killer, whose primary employer was a Mafia capo, “Fat Tony” Salerno. In 1982, the Greek was indicted for a string of murders, and in prison he coauthored a book titled Contract Killer, though it did not sell in volume. The end for the Greek came in 2011; he died in a New York State maximum-security penitentiary, the Clinton Correctional Facility.

  Bobby Germaine, a consummate stickup artist, was on the run, the result of a botched holdup at a jewelry store on East 57th Street in Manhattan. But his magnum opus, in concert with the infamous Henry Hill, was the burglarizing of Estée Lauder’s New York penthouse, stealing $8,000,000 in furs, silverware, and artwork. In 1979, still in partnership with Hill, he was distributing narcotics, and on the premise of his son’s testimony Nassau County detectives arrested him. Posing as a writer, Germaine claimed to the police that he wasn’t Bobby Germaine, though his fingerprints confirmed otherwise. On his release from prison, he moved to Florida and in 1989 died of heart complications.

  In 1987, Christie “the Tick” Furnari was sentenced to one hundred years. He met the common fate of many Mafia bosses; they’re either murdered or imprisoned for life. Those who preserve freedom and die peacefully are as rare as a white fly. But Furnari may die in his bed at home after all; due to a grave medical illness the Federal Bureau of Prisons freed the aging consigliere in 2014. As of this writing he’s still among the living.

  Detective George Bermudez did not enjoy his early retirement. FBI Agent Matt Hammer never dropped Ol’ George from his crosshairs, reminding him that the NYPD might’ve closed its files, but not the Bureau. And it was for this unofficial ongoing reminder that the former detective could not sell Sammy Nalo’s jewelry. But mercifully, after Sacco and Frankos had ditched him floating out at sea, thanks to the kindhearted Sacco for alerting the St. Thomas authorities, a local Coast Guard vessel spotted the shady detective adrift, and rescued him.

  George Bermudez, who had since been existing on his pension, passed in 2009.

  Judge Andrew Tyler, in the course of his judgeship managed to slip out of a few nooses. In 1971, prior to his post on the bench of the State Supreme Court he had assumed an unpaid position as the chairman of the Harlem Anti-Poverty Program. Not long into this occupation, he was criticized and forced to step down for misappropriating welfare funds. And that began the marring of Tyler’s reputation.

  On with Judge Tyler’s soap opera: in 1976, he was arrested for perjury, though through clandestine manipulations of the justice system, the charges were overturned on appeal. At another point in his career, Tyler was under scrutiny for accepting bribes. But following much-publicized accusations, he was cleared to resume his judgeship and reinstated to reign as the Honorable Judge Tyler. He died in 1989.

  Assistant District Attorney Doug Pope, shortly after the Pierre case, resigned from the Manhattan DA’s Office and joined a circus . . . no, just kidding. His last known move was that he had blended into the legal circles, and evidently never attained his wishes to achieve fame and wealth.

  Nora Sacco and her two girls, to date, have not had any contact with Nick Sacco, and he hasn’t seen his children in forty years.

  Lauren Baker, the second Mrs. Sacco, loved her husband dearly. The marriage flourished, though she often regretted the Cat’s felonious livelihood. Sadly, she was killed in an accident. Lauren was bicycling on a summer evening along the shoulder of Atlantic Boulevard in Key West, and a drunken motorist fatally struck her. She was 37.

  FBI Agent Matt Hammer, an earnest lawman, solved a multitude of high-profile crimes. Preceding his participation in the Pierre case, he had spearheaded the investigation into the armed break-in at Sophia Loren’s suite at the Hampshire House hotel in Manhattan. But Mr. Hammer, who’s currently still alive, contributed wholeheartedly to fighting crime throughout his tenure with the Bureau.

  Bobby Comfort retreated to his home in Rochester and tended to his wife and daughters, who were now attractive, well-bred teenagers. He had renounced his vocation as a master thief and ventured into a legitimate jewelry store in the Rochester area. But the relentless harassment from police snoopers was an obstacle. They believed the stock in Comfort’s store was mainly of stolen items. Not the case, but Comfort chose to dismantle and shut down the operation. After all, despite the losses he had incurred, he had squirreled away a substantial nest egg.

  In 1987, Bobby Comfort succumbed to lung
cancer and passed on in peace in his home.

  Millie Comfort lived on to rear her daughters, but missed her Bobby. They had been undivided soul mates. She prayed and fought for him to quit smoking, the likely catalyst that fed the cancer. And all she has for consolation are those placating memories of Bobby. Health-wise, Millie aged gracefully, though the passage of time had bloated her.

  The tears Sammy Nalo shed over the loss of his onetime ally, confidant, and savior, Bobby Comfort, could’ve been counted on a fingerless hand. It was 1988, fourteen months since the painful death of his former partner, and Nalo burglarized a furrier’s warehouse in the Manhattan Fur District. In Naloesque tradition, he double-dipped into his cut of the robbery, and his co-robber retaliated by murdering him. Coincidentally, minutes apart from when Nalo had been fatally shot, one of his creditor bookmakers had set out to stalk and kill him. But the bookie was let down; Nalo’s murderer had wakened earlier.

  Nick “the Cat” Sacco amassed considerable wealth, though his life had been peaks and valleys of exhilaration and heartache. Already dejected over the separation from his children, Lauren’s tragic death demolished him psychologically. He mourned his love, and she is permanently lodged in his heart. The grief for her and his little girls lingered like a stalled, dark cloud. But as the years wore down the calendars, Sacco lightened his heavy heart.

  In 1974, to his dismay, NYPD detectives ensnared him, and through a plea deal he testified against a pair of the cruelest, vicious killers in the crime history of New York City. And the Cat is currently tucked away in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Prior to vanishing into the Witness Program, he did a magnanimous deed in redemption of his past.