The Black Stiletto Read online

  It was a difficult time, for I was very depressed. To top it off, Fiorello’s landlord ended up evicting me. I offered to pay the rent for November and December in installments, which was all I could afford. The man was sympathetic but insisted on sticking to his guns. There was nothing I could do. I packed my things, threw in a lot of Fiorello’s stuff that nobody would ever want—including his comics—and then, with head hung low, I went back to Freddie and asked for my old room. He was happy to have me, even though it was a tough thing for me personally. It was all about pride, I guess. It was a step backward, but in the long run it turned out to be good. Freddie was “family”—real family, not Fiorello’s family, if you know what I mean. And to tell the truth, living at the gym made the commute to work and to martial arts lessons much more convenient. I got over the pain of leaving Little Italy pretty quickly.

  Moving on from losing Fiorello wasn’t so easy.

  Freddie gently lectured me about associating with people like Fiorello. He said they were “evil” deep down, even when they were nice and loving on the outside. “Nothing good would have come out of the relationship,” Freddie told me. This hurt to hear, but I knew he was probably correct. Nevertheless, I loved Fiorello. I never saw his bad side.

  Being upset those few weeks in November and December also made me think back to Texas and what happened with Douglas. I was happier than I’d ever been when I was with Fiorello, so I was able to push the stepfather incident out of my mind. It came back full force. I really hated Douglas and other nameless men like him in the world. My anger resurfaced, and I probably wasn’t very pleasant to be around. Once, I was with Lucy and Sam at the diner, and Sam said something stupid and insulting to Lucy. I called him a “creep” to his face and stormed out. It didn’t bother him at all, I’m sure, but I think it hurt Lucy’s feelings. She never said anything about it, though, and I never apologized. I meant what I said.

  I also remember a distinctly vivid dream I had about my mother. She was crying and in pain. I desperately wanted to tell her I was alive and doing just fine, but of course she couldn’t hear anything I said. You know how weird dreams can be. And then I started crying and woke up feeling bad. For a day or two I considered sending a postcard to Odessa, just to let her know I was all right.

  But I never did.

  Tony the Tank reappeared two days after Christmas. Why is it that significant events always happen to me around the holidays? I’ll never know. Anyway, he called me from a pay phone in California, of all places. The phone in the gym rang around the time I was collecting all the towels that the men just leave lying around. Wash day. Anyway, I heard the ring and my sixth sense, or whatever you want to call it, told me it was something important. I ran across the gym floor and grabbed the phone. I was really pleased to hear Tony’s voice.

  “Judy, is that you?”

  “You bet it is. Where the heck’ve you been, Tony?”

  “Long story. I’m in Los Angeles right now.”

  “L.A.? What for?”

  “Longer story. How you doin’?’

  I sighed. “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t sound okay. I hear it in your voice.”

  “I miss him, Tony.”

  “So do I, sweetheart.”

  I suddenly got the feeling Tony was in trouble. Why else would he be in California? “What’s going on, Tony? You can trust me.”

  “I know I can. I have to smooth over some stuff with the don, that’s all. In the meantime I have to steer clear of New York.”

  “Is it anything to do with Fiorello?”

  “In a way. Yeah.”

  “What happened, Tony? Why was Fiorello killed?”

  “Judy. ..”

  “Please tell me, Tony. It’s been driving me crazy. I gotta know.”

  I heard some shuffling on his end. Then he said, “Judy, Fiorello tried to cheat the boss. I hate to say that, but it’s true. He was skimmin’ off the top. Keepin’ more money for himself than he shoulda. The boss found out. They clipped him. Him and his bookie, who was in on the deal.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “I’m sorry, Judy.”

  “Were you involved in it, too, Tony?”

  “Not really, but the thing is—I knew about it and didn’t report it. And now the boss knows that. It’s not an offense bad enough for them to clip me, but they can make life difficult. I have to make amends. Do the don some great favor or service that proves I’m still loyal. I’m out here tryin’ to arrange that as we speak.”

  “I see.” I wished I could see Tony’s face. It would help me determine if he was telling the truth or not, but I sensed he was. “How did Fiorello die?”

  “Typical execution, Judy. A couple of plugs in the back of the head. I’m sorry.”

  Tears came to my eyes again.

  “Don DeLuca gave the order?”

  “Sure he did.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “You mean who pulled the trigger?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Had to have been the twins. They usually work together, so I imagine they were both there. As to which one of ‘em actually did the deed, I have no idea. Probably Roberto did one guy and Vittorio did the other. I heard they’re both wanted by the cops for a couple of other jobs. I doubt they’ll be showin’ their faces in public.”

  My bile rose. From then on I felt nothing but disgust for Fiorello’s so-called family.

  “I’ll kill ‘em, Tony.”

  “Don’t be dumb, Judy. Best to try and forget about it, darlin’. Just remember Fiorello for the kind heart he had. He cared about you a lot, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

  “I gotta go. You take care now, Judy, y’hear?”

  “Sure. You, too, Tony.”

  “Ciao.”

  Then I got an idea. “Hey, Tony.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is the don having another New Year’s Eve party like he did last year?”

  “Yeah. It’s an annual event at the Algonquin. It’s always a nice party. Unfortunately, I won’t be there this year.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Ciao, Tony.”

  “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

  We hung up and I turned to face the empty gym.

  New Year’s Eve. The don’s party.

  I decided they’d have an uninvited guest.

  On December 31, 1957, I finished making my disguise. I was amazed at how good it looked. It was tight, sleek, and, in my opinion, sexy. The thin black leather worked well. It was heavy enough to keep me warm during cold weather, but pliable enough to move in with my better-than-average agility. The fit was skin tight and almost resembled a rubber diving suit except it was sleeker and, well, prettier, if I do say so myself. The mask covered my head down to the bottom of my nose. I’d made holes for the eyes and I punctured tiny outlets on the sides so that I could hear—but my ears were still covered. My hair had to be folded in a bun before putting it on.

  I had recently purchased some light-weight, knee-high black boots to wear over the pants. They had a bit of a heel on them, but this didn’t prevent me from running, climbing, or kicking. At first I thought the boots would hamper my movements, but they were so streamlined they were practically part of my legs.

  The knife training with Fiorello had been a constant throughout our romance. At our last lesson, he’d told me I was better with a blade than anyone he knew—besides him, of course. He didn’t lie about things like that, either. Fiorello was, in many ways, a stricter teacher than either Freddie or Soichiro. I’d learned a lot and was very proficient with the weapon. As to which type of knife I wanted to use, I’d chosen the stiletto very early on. As I mentioned before, it just felt right in my hands. Fiorello bought a U.S. Marine Raider Stiletto for me. I liked it a lot. It was a fairly recent design from the Second World War. It was hilt heavy, so it fit snugly in my hand. The double-edged, sharp-tipped blade was around seven and a half inches long and had an oval crossguard. The slender, symmetrical grip was bottle s
haped. I figured the knife weighed almost a pound and a half. Easy to throw, too. There were times when I actually beat Fiorello in our games of target practice.

  I strapped the stiletto’s sheath on the outside of my right thigh. This position allowed for rapid-fire access to the hilt. For months I’d practiced a quick-draw maneuver, over and over, until I could unsheathe the knife, raise my arm, and throw the weapon at a target—in one second. Nine times out of ten, the stiletto hit the intended object. Made me think of that bastard Douglas and all the times he pretended to be a gunslinger, quick drawing his pistol in the house. I sure wanted to meet him outside the saloon on Main Street, ha ha!

  Fiorello taught me another trick I employed, and that was to carry a second, concealed knife. He owned a homemade six-inch flat blade “wrist dagger” he said was once used by an OSS operative he knew. That’s a U.S. spy agency that was active during World War II. I took the dagger and sewed the sheath onto the inside liner of my left boot. If I had to, I could reach over and pull out the blade.

  Taking a cue from some of the superheroes in Fiorello’s comic books, I fashioned a belt to wear and carry other items I thought would be useful—a thirty-foot-long coil of rope, a small flashlight, and Fiorello’s lockpicks. Yes, Fiorello owned some lockpicks he used on a few occasions, mainly to get through locked doors. Sometimes they worked on safes, or so he said. I didn’t press him on that, but he showed me how to open doors with them. I figured they’d come in handy.

  I put on the disguise and looked at myself in the mirror.

  Not bad. A little scary looking. Which was good.

  I looked at the time. Nine o’clock. The party at the Algonquin had already begun.

  As I prepared to leave through my room’s fire escape window, I noticed Fiorello’s comics on my bed. I thought it would be funny to come up with a name, the kind those superheroes had. It would be an inside joke between Fiorello, wherever he was, and me. The name came to me with little effort.

  The Black Stiletto was born.

  12

  Roberto

  THE PRESENT

  I found this shitty furnished studio apartment in Brooklyn, on the east side of Prospect Park. It’s the basement of a brownstone, and it seems the entire neighborhood is black. I’m the only white guy on the whole block. Big deal. There weren’t many white guys in Sing Sing, either. I probably could’ve afforded something better, but I don’t know how long my money will last. Just in the short time I’ve been out of jail, I spent 20 percent of my small fortune. I have to watch it from now on.

  It’s been tough settlin’ in, I gotta admit. The world has changed so much. I opened a checkin’ account at a bank and was given a plastic card—a credit card—that I’m supposed to use to withdraw money. Never heard of that. I mean, I’d heard of debit cards, but I never had one. Think I’ll stick to cash transactions. It’s how I always operated.

  I hadn’t begun trackin’ down the old crew. That’s next on the agenda. I wonder who’s in charge of our thing now. That’s what we’d say, it was this thing of ours. I know the family ain’t what it was. The crew I belonged to don’t even exist anymore. Wiped out by the feds durin’ the sixties. So organized crime mutated into something else. I know it still exists, just not in the way I was used to. I just gotta learn the new ropes. I may be an old man, but I’m still handy with a gun. And I have a brain that still works. I could be useful to somebody, somewhere. I know it.

  The sorry excuse for a desk in my apartment was so small I could barely get my legs under it, and I’m not a big guy. It musta been made for a child. In fact, the more I think about it, everything in the room appeared to be leftovers from some dumb kid’s room.

  I thumbed through my black book, recognizin’ some names and not havin’ a clue about others. I hadn’t splurged to get a phone in my room, but I might have to. Or get one of those cell phone contraptions. I went lookin’ for a pay phone on the street yesterday and couldn’t find a damn one. Actually I found one near the subway entrance by the park, but it was outta order. Looked like it hadn’t worked for ten years. Yeah, I’ll probably get one of them cell phones. That’s what everybody uses now. I’d look like a dumbass without one.

  The weather was warm outside, so I left the apartment and went for a walk. It was nice walkin’ on the street after being cooped up in Sing Sing. It was supposed to be good for my heart murmur, but sometimes too much exercise made me dizzy. I couldn’t stop gawkin’ at the women. I couldn’t help it. I thought about findin’ a hooker or somethin’ and spend some of that money. It’s been too long. I may be old but the plumbin’ still works. Thank God for that. The last time I got laid was during the day on New Year’s Eve, nineteen fifty-seven. Gloria. Nice dame. Italian. We mighta had something if it hadn’t been for the party. The don’s New Year’s Eve party. That’s when I got pinched.

  And it was all because of the fuckin’ Black Stiletto.

  Almost had her, though. I was so close. She was lucky, that’s all I can say. There’s no way, under any other circumstances, that she coulda beat me in a fight. She was good, but I was better. I know it.

  And I’m gonna make her pay for what happened to me. I hope to God she’s still alive and kickin’ somewhere. I don’t care about anything else. I don’t mind if it’s the last thing I do before I die. I’ll go to my grave in peace.

  Somebody must’ve tipped off the Black Stiletto that Don DeLuca had given the order to clip Fiorello. And that same somebody probably let her know the don gave the job to Vittorio and me.

  I always found it hard to believe the cops never found out who the Black Stiletto really was. To me it was obvious. Who else woulda had such insider knowledge of the family? Who else was takin’ lessons on how to box? Who else lived with Fiorello Bonacini, the best knife man in the crew?

  Judy Cooper.

  I still remember the first time she stuck her nose in our business. It was at the New Year’s Eve party a year earlier, the one that rang in nineteen fifty-seven. She was Fiorello’s date, before they’d become a real item. Damn fine lookin’ woman. After that, she was always with the guy. He shared everything with her, I know. That time she came to the don’s house in Glen Cove, the day after we whacked Fiorello, she was all up in arms. Wanted to know who was responsible. Any other dame woulda shut up and let the men handle it. She was up to somethin’. That’s one thing that gave her away to me. And then there were the eyes. Brown, with some little green specks. I saw those eyes close up, face-to-face. I’d recognize ‘em anywhere. And I swear I saw those same eyes behind the Black Stiletto’s mask.

  Searches on my new laptop computer didn’t yield any results. All the Judy Coopers that came up in the search engines weren’t the woman I was looking for.

  I guess I have to shadow her old haunts. The trouble was hardly anything that was in Manhattan durin’ the late nineteen fifties still existed.

  I asked myself who else mighta known? Did Fiorello? Probably not. The Black Stiletto’s first appearance was that New Year’s Eve party, just as nineteen fifty-eight had reared its ugly head. But who were Fiorello’s friends? I know he was close to Carmine and Guido. And Tony.

  Yeah. Tony the Tank.

  Fiorello and Tony were like brothers, they were so close.

  Findin’ Tony would have to be a high priority. He might know somethin’.

  Yes, sir. The day was lookin’ brighter.

  13

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  It felt very strange moving through the city in my disguise. I had to stick to the shadows. I couldn’t just get on a subway train or a city bus. I found that sometimes it was easier to travel by rooftop if I was going east or west on a single block. Most of the buildings downtown were so close together that I could jump between them. I tried it for the first time that night. It was easier than I would’ve thought. In fact, it was exciting. As I leaped from structure to structure, I felt my blood pumping through my veins, the adrenaline giving me a spark and an edge. I was alive.<
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  A couple of times when I was on the street, I was spotted by pedestrians. Couldn’t be helped. They pointed and said, “Look!” “Who is that?” “What is that?” I ignored them and kept going. I imagine they thought I was on my way to a costume party. I didn’t really care about them. I just didn’t want to be seen by the police. They might’ve tried to stop me, I don’t know. At that point, I’m not sure what they would’ve done. All the bad stuff with the cops happened later.

  Anyway, I tried to keep out of the lights as I approached the Algonquin Hotel, which was on 44th between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The time was around eleven thirty as I stood across the street in a dark spot to survey the place. I could hear the band in the Rose Room. The front of the building was crowded, the street was busy with traffic, and the lights under the awning were bright—I certainly couldn’t go in that way! But to the right of the main entrance I could see an opening to a narrow, internal alleyway that ran parallel along the side of the building. A steel door to the alley opened and a guy wearing a white apron came out with bags of trash. He placed them at the curb and then went back into the little alley and closed the door.

  I hadn’t thought the plan through. How was I going to get inside?

  The answer was simple. I simply took off my mask and removed the knife from my leg. Became one of the pedestrians, albeit with some very strange clothes on. That’s when I got the idea to add a small knapsack to the disguise—something I could wear on my back to carry stuff in. I made a mental note to work on that when it came time for improvements. Anyway, I walked across the street in plain sight—yeah, I probably looked odd. But it was New Year’s Eve in New York City. Several pedestrians did double takes as I walked past in that slinky black outfit—but they were looking at my body, not my face. I then stuck close to the buildings and approached the alley door just as the doorman at the front entrance went inside for something.

  I was in luck. The man in the apron hadn’t closed the door securely—it was ajar. I quickly slipped inside and moved against the side of the building, lurking in the gloom. There, I replaced my mask and knife. So far, so good.