The End Game

At the far end of the lobby was a single stomach-high reception desk made of brushed steel and inlaid squares of marble and wood. A man and a woman stood behind the counter. Both wore those odd Nehru outfits, and as we neared them en route to the elevators their faces turned downcast.

“You know what I miss?” Sam said.

“I dunno, Sam. The Cold War?”

“Used to be you walked into a hotel, it didn’t feel like you were somehow annoying the employees. This place, it’s pretty, but it’s not Howard Johnson’s.”

The last time the two of us spent a substantial amount of time in a high-rise hotel in the service of the superrich, Sam ended up taking out most of the fifth floor of the Hotel Oro. I had the sense that doing the same here would not be met with indifference. The Hotel Oro was owned by Russians of dubious intent. The Setai was owned by the GHM chain, the difference being the hotel chain would be more likely to chase you to the ends of the planet with a passel of lawyers. I’ll take Russians of dubious intent any day over lawyers. So, I made it a point to give the dour humans behind the reservations desk a nice smile as we passed.

Nothing. Not even a wave.

We took the elevators up to the fortieth floor, where they opened to the penthouse level. I expected to be greeted by some tough guys in suits, because that’s normally what you find at the entrance to a penthouse suite, but the hallway was empty save for the marble floor and the impressionist paintings on the wall alongside archival photos of the hotel in its Prohibition past.

“How much you suppose a room up here costs?” Sam said.

“Twenty grand,” I said.

“You think that includes breakfast?”

“I’m going to say no,” I said.

“Howard Johnson’s, you get a buffet breakfast and a room for a C-note.”

“It’s a cruel world.” I knocked on the door. I thought maybe when it opened I’d finally get to see my tough guys in suits, but instead Gennaro Stefania himself opened the door. He wore tan shorts, a polo shirt with the Ottone logo on the breast and no shoes. He was tanned and healthy-looking from a distance, but up close you could see that his eyes were red and puffy. I didn’t think it was from lack of sleep.

“You must be Michael Westen,” he said.

“We all must be someone,” I said. We shook hands, but there wasn’t much there. It was like shaking a straw man. You could tell he was a fine-tuned athlete, but there was a lot being sapped out of him.

“Come in,” he said, and stepped out of the way for Sam and me to pass. “Let me give you the tour, for what it’s worth.”

We stepped into the penthouse and Gennaro took us through room by room, and only then did I realize what being part of the Ottone family meant: there were two living rooms in the penthouse, a separate music room that featured a Steinway piano, and at least 10,000 square feet, which was needed since there were four bedrooms, four baths replete with Jacuzzis, even quarters for a butler. There was also a full bar with flat screen televisions and a stocked cigar humidor.

“You mind?” Sam said to Gennaro. Surprisingly, he was pointing to the humidor and not the five bottles of Macallan 30 year or the two dozen Samuel Adams Utopia blend beers.

“Help yourself,” Gennaro said. “It’s all paid for.”

That’s the wrong thing to say to Sam, who took one Cuban to smoke and grabbed a few more for a rainy day. Another couple for the sunny days, too.

“Just like Howard Johnsons,” I said.

The penthouse was surrounded by a wrap-around terrace that featured an eternity pool and another hot tub, as if the four inside weren’t enough.

But the curious thing was that Gennaro was all alone.

“Nice place,” I said.

“It’s too much,” Gennaro said. “It’s all too much.”

“You could rent the bathrooms out by the hour,” Sam said. He was trying to be funny, maybe make Gennaro crack at least the smallest smile, but I could tell he was in no mood.

“Why don’t we sit down,” I said and Gennaro just nodded, but didn’t really move. It was as if he was in a trance and needed someone to give him even the most rudimentary cues so he’d know what to do with himself. So I said, “Why don’t we sit down on one of the nine sofas?”

Gennaro nodded again and made his way toward an L-shaped taupe sofa that was positioned so that it faced out toward the sea. He dropped into the corner of the L, like he was being punished, and just stared out the window. I pulled a chair up and sat across from him and motioned for Sam to join me, which meant he had to pull himself away from the Utopias, which he’d just discovered.

“So,” I said, once Sam was beside me, “tell me your problem.”

Gennaro reached into his pocket, pulled out an iPhone and handed it to me. “Two days ago,” Gennaro said, “I received that message in my e-mail.”