The Black Stiletto Read online

  “How ‘bout a kiss?” the first guy taunted. He leaned closer to me—and I let him have it with a right hook, just like when I hit Mack on the nose that time. Well, it surprised the guy. He yelped and pulled back. The other two couldn’t believe what I’d just done.

  I assumed a fighting stance. Suddenly, though, I wasn’t sure if I should go for traditional boxing or try some of the karate I’d learned. For some reason, I didn’t feel as confident with the martial arts as I did with boxing. So I put up my dukes and prepared to jab and cross.

  “Look, Stu,” one said, “she thinks she’s Jake LaMotta!”

  The one I’d punched—Stu—spat and pointed. “Get her!”

  They attacked.

  Training and sparring in the gym or studio is practice. Sure, you can get hurt, but you’re not going to die. In a real-life situation like the one I found myself in, anything can happen. I was fighting for my life—and suddenly everything I’d learned went out the window. I couldn’t think straight. I just punched and kicked and fought like a banshee. I knew my blows connected, but some of theirs did, too. The pain was terrible. For a few seconds I had no confidence.

  And then some of Soichiro’s words came back into my head. I assumed a traditional stance and applied the techniques I’d been taught. Relax. Breathe. The boxing jabs became knifehand chops. Instead of girly kicks, I performed perfect karate front kicks—mae geri. A roundhouse kick—mawashi geri—actually knocked one opponent to the ground. And a side kick—yoko geri—caused one guy to double over and vomit! That left Stu, the leader.

  He produced a switchblade out of thin air.

  “You’re gonna die, bitch!” he hissed.

  The sight of the weapon surprised me so much that I froze. He jumped forward, his arm swinging. I felt the blade strike my shoulder and slice through the front of my shirt, just over my right breast. It penetrated the skin—deeply. I cried out in pain and leaped backward. He kept coming, though, wildly swinging the knife in unpredictable directions. This was where my boxing training came in handy—I danced around him, barely avoiding being cut again. But then he backed me against the wall of a building. He stood a few feet in front of me, legs apart, the knife pointed at my belly.

  I saw my opening and unleashed a vicious front kick to his groin.

  Stu’s eyes went wide as he bellowed in agony. The blade dropped to the ground. He fell to his knees and then rolled over into a fetal position.

  All three guys were down.

  I ran.

  When I got to the gym, Freddie took one look at me and almost started crying. “Judy! What happened?”

  There was a big mirror near the punching bags, and I saw the damage. My nose was bleeding and my upper lip was busted. There was a big red welt on my left cheek. Worst of all, though, my shirt was drenched in blood.

  Freddie helped me take it off. There was a six or seven-inch cut that went from my right shoulder down to the top of my breast. It was deep, too.

  “Judy, we gotta get you to the hospital. That has to be stitched.”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve seen you stitch up some of the guys here. You do it.”

  “Judy, I can’t do something like this.”

  I didn’t want to go to the emergency room. I don’t know why, but I was afraid of hospitals. Besides, I didn’t want to go through having to talk to the police.

  “Yes, you can, Freddie. Just do it. I’m gonna wash my face. You get the stuff.”

  “It’ll leave a bad scar if I do it.”

  I didn’t care. “Now, Freddie!”

  And so Freddie stitched me up. It hurt like hell—I guess I can say that word now, I’m a big girl. I drank a quarter bottle of Jack Daniel’s while he was doing it. By the time he was done, I felt great. It sure was ugly, though. I tried not to think about that as I put on a robe to cover myself.

  I still have that scar today. I’m still self-conscious about it and try to hide it—no bare shoulder dresses for me.

  Freddie made some scrambled eggs and bacon for me. It hit the spot. I was pretty looped and exhausted from the adrenaline rush, but I gave Freddie a hug and thanked him.

  Before retiring to my room, the idea came to me. It wasn’t a foolish notion wrought out of liquor, either. I meant it when I said, “Freddie, next I want to learn how to fight with a knife.”

  7

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  I shut the diary at that point and sat there on the front stoop of the house.

  Dumbfounded.

  My mom? Boxing? Taking karate?

  Holy shit.

  I glanced at my watch. The afternoon was gone. The last several hours had vanished. I was due back at the accounting firm where I worked in Deerfield long ago. My cell phone had rung two or three times while I was glued to the pages of my mother’s confessional, but I ignored it. I pulled it off my belt and checked the caller IDs. Yep, the office called twice and my daughter once. I listened to my voice mail messages—nothing urgent, the boss was just wondering where the hell I was. Gina had gymnastics practice that afternoon and wondered if I could pick her up at school later. Her car was in the shop and Carol—my ex—was busy.

  Gymnastics.

  Geez, did this stuff run in the family? I wasn’t athletic in any way. I was more of a pencil pusher, all my life.

  Come to think of it, Gina was very athletic and had been since she was a toddler. I remember my mom watching Gina closely with a smirk on her face. Was she secretly proud? Had she seen herself in her granddaughter? Now Gina was a senior in high school, having participated in every sport imaginable while she was growing up. She was also into the drama and acting thing, which was a little weird, so go figure.

  I called the office back and let them know I wouldn’t be back in today. Then I called Gina and left a message on her cell to say I’d pick her up at seven, as requested. Then I pondered what my next course of action should be. My brain was fried and I felt emotionally drained. I couldn’t think straight.

  Nevertheless, I had the presence of mind to decide I shouldn’t leave any of Mom’s stuff in that secret room. I had to get it out of there and store it somewhere safe.

  Hell, it had been safe where it was! I just didn’t want to leave it in a house that might someday be sold.

  I went back inside and down to the basement. Among the empty cardboard boxes that were still there, I found one that would work as a container. First, I lined the bottom of the box with the remaining diaries, the comics, newspapers, and the gun. I then carefully removed the costumes, mask, knapsack, and knife from the wall and placed them on top of the other stuff. The boots went on top. The lid closed, just barely. I locked the secret door with my keys, picked up the box, and carried it upstairs. There was some packing tape in the kitchen—I used that to seal the carton. The diary I was currently reading—1958—I stuck in my pocket.

  Making sure the house was locked and secure, I drove away and then realized I had no idea where I was going to put the stuff. I didn’t really want to take it home. I’m not sure why. It felt, I don’t know, somehow kind of sleazy. I still couldn’t get around the knowledge that my mother was famous—or rather, infamous.

  As I drove along Euclid Avenue toward Route 53, I passed the bank that was once my mother’s. We had closed all her accounts when she moved into the nursing home, but I knew they had safety deposit boxes there. On an impulse, I turned into the driveway and parked.

  They knew me at the bank. It didn’t take long to rent a large box. The carton fit neatly inside the bigger container and was then locked safely in the vault. I put the key on the same ring with the other two that had come in mom’s surprise package.

  As I left the bank’s parking lot, I felt the diary practically burning a hole in my jacket pocket. There was something I needed to do before heading back home.

  I had to see Mom.

  Turning the car around, I got back on Arlington Heights Road and headed north, through Buffalo Grove, and then turned east toward Riverwoo
ds. Woodlands North was located on Deer-field Road, just east of Milwaukee Avenue.

  As I drove, something else hit me.

  Richard Talbot. My father. Had Richard Talbot even existed?

  I signed in, walked down the long hall to the Alzheimer’s Unit, punched in the code for the door—it was no secret, it was posted in plain sight—and went inside. Strode through the common room and into another corridor toward the dining room. Mom’s room was on the right.

  She was all alone, sitting in one of the chairs by her bed, just staring at the portable television. It wasn’t on. Her roommate wasn’t there.

  “Hi, Mom!” I said as cheerfully as I could.

  She looked up at me and wrinkled her brow. The raven-colored hair she once had was now grey and white, but it appeared as if it had recently been shampooed and styled. Her eyes were still a piercing brown with green specks, just as she’d described in the diary. Unfortunately, they looked at me blankly.

  “It’s me, Martin. Your son.”

  Her head moved back to the television. I’m not sure if she comprehended what I said or not.

  “It’s not happy,” she said.

  “What?”

  She didn’t repeat it.

  “What’s not happy, Mom?” I sat in the only other chair and faced her. “How are you today?”

  The woman who was once Judy Cooper merely sighed loudly.

  “Your hair looks nice. Did you go to the salon today?”

  She nodded, but it could very well have been yesterday.

  “How come you’re in here all alone?” I asked. “Don’t you want to go out to the common area where all your friends are? It’s almost time for dinner, I think.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah. Are you hungry?”

  “It’s not happy.”

  “What’s not happy, Mom? Are you not happy? This is a real nice place. Everyone here is very sweet to you.”

  She nodded and smiled at me. Maybe she did recognize me.

  I decided to go for it. I pulled out the diary and held it in my hands. Her eyes went to it, but she didn’t react.

  “Do you know what this is?” I asked her. I held up the diary and showed it to her.

  Her face remained expressionless.

  “Mom, what did you do in New York and Los Angeles before I was born?”

  She sighed again and shifted her long body in the chair. My mother had remained tall, but now she was terribly thin.

  They were risky questions. I’m not sure I even had the right to ask her. I didn’t want to upset her, but I had to know if any of it still meant something to her. “Do you remember?”

  “New York?” she asked.

  “Yeah. You lived in New York at one time. Remember?” Remarkably, she nodded. “Did you ever put on a costume?”

  There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Her brow creased.

  “Mom?”

  “He was late.”

  “What? What did you say? Who was late?”

  “Fiorello was late.”

  “Fiorello?” Who the fuck was Fiorello? “Who’s Fiorello, Mom?”

  “I was worried. That’s why.”

  “Why, what? Mom? Who’s Fiorello?”

  Geez. Was he a boyfriend? A lover? Oh my God, could he have been my father? Was Fiorello “Richard Talbot”?

  “Mom, tell me who Fiorello is. Was he someone you knew?”

  She nodded and tears came to her eyes. “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  Mom tried to say something but was unable to do so.

  “Mom, Fiorello wasn’t my dad, was he?”

  And then, with surprising coherence, she looked at me and answered, “No, Fiorello was murdered long before you were born. I loved him.” She then turned her head back to the blank television set and stopped speaking. The conversation, such as it was, was over.

  I guess I needed to read more of the diary.

  8

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  Dear diary, I fell in love for the first time shortly after my nineteenth birthday.

  With a gangster.

  Ever since the attack on the street, I’d been hounding Freddie to find me someone who could teach me how to wield a knife. I don’t know why, but I was fascinated by the weapon. Sleek, flat steel with a sharp edge, shiny, silent, beautiful. Maybe it was because I’d been cut by one. I have no idea. All I know is I started looking in shop windows at displays of knives. I’d go inside and ask to see them—combat knives, hunting knives, stilettos, folding knives, sliding blades, Bowie knives, switchblades, and even Swiss Army knives. I loved the feel of the handles in my hand. It just felt right. Mind you, my intention was not to kill anyone. I wanted to learn how to use a knife simply because I found it—sexy. There, I said it. There was something about the concept of a knife, that it could pierce flesh so easily and draw blood. That sounds icky, I know, and it wasn’t really anything I looked forward to actually doing. I honestly hoped I’d never have to use one in self-defense. I just wanted to know how.

  It was around Thanksgiving when Freddie finally relented. We were sitting in the common living room upstairs above the gym. He had recently bought a television and we liked to watch I Love Lucy and The Honeymooners together. They made us laugh. One of the first things we saw on the new set was the Ed Sullivan Show when Elvis Presley was on. I went crazy. I loved Elvis and still do. I can’t get enough of him. Freddie couldn’t stand him, but I bought a little portable record player and, when I could, I bought some of Elvis’s records and played them in my room. I guess I liked that new rock and roll music. I wore out my copy of Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock.”

  Anyway, I’d been bugging Freddie some more about knife fighting, and he said, “Back when I was boxing, I knew some of the mob. There was this young guy, an Italian, naturally, who was real good with a knife. I didn’t know him very well, but he was one of the few fellas in that bunch of weasels who was nice to me. He was friendly. I mean, he was probably a killer. He was in the Mafia and he was an expert with blades. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

  “When can I meet him?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Judy. He’s dangerous. That whole group is dangerous. It’s best to stay away from ‘em.”

  “I’m not afraid. When can I meet him?”

  Freddie agonized over this for days. I kept pestering him until he finally set it up. We’d meet his “friend” at a restaurant shortly before Christmas.

  When the evening finally arrived, I did my best to look good. By then, I’d saved some money and started actually buying nice women’s clothing. Lucy and I had gone out a few times to some nightclubs like Jack Dempsey’s and the Copacabana. It was fun to see how men reacted when I dolled myself up. Lucy had given me some makeup tips, which was something I’d never learned prior to that. She told me to buy Maybelline mascara and taught me how to apply it, so I guess I looked pretty good.

  Anyway, Freddie and I splurged and took a cab down to Fulton Street for the appointment. The restaurant was a really old fancy place called Gage & Tollner’s, an establishment that had been around since before 1900. They still had gas lamps. It was dreamy.

  When I first saw Fiorello, I swear my heart skipped a beat. That was his name—Fiorello Bonacini. He was in his twenties—later I’d find out he was twenty-seven. Fiorello had wavy black hair that reminded me of Elvis Presley, amazing blue eyes that penetrated my own—like knives—and the kindest smile. When Freddie introduced me to him, I immediately expected that crazy animal intuition of mine to kick in and send off alarms—but it didn’t. In fact, my instincts told me Fiorello was an honest, benevolent human being. Yes, I sensed there was danger behind those blue eyes, but I found it exciting. Absolutely, I understood the man was a killer—I could feel it. He had taken lives. There was no question about it. But he had such charisma, an indefinable magnetism that rendered me speechless.

  He was already at a table; he stood when he saw us.


  “Buona sera, Freddie,” he said. “It is good to see you again.”

  “You, too, Fiorello. May I present Miss Cooper? Judy, this is Mister Bonacini.”

  I offered my hand. He took it and actually leaned over to kiss it. “A pleasure. Please call me Fiorello.”

  “Thank you. You can call me Judy.”

  “Please sit.” He actually pulled my chair out for me. No man had ever done that before.

  Well, for most of the dinner—which was exquisite—the men talked. I sat there like a dummy, smiling like a fool. Whenever Fiorello addressed me, I answered in monosyllabic sentences. But he continued to grin at me and there was a twinkle in his eye that made me melt.

  It was over dessert when he finally got down to business. “So, Judy,” he said, leaning closer to keep his voice down, “Freddie tells me you are an excellent boxer and that you have been learning Japanese fighting techniques?”

  “That’s right. It’s called karate.”

  “I have heard of it.” He shook his head. “Very foreign. I prefer the ways of the old country. More traditional, I suppose. Old-fashioned. But it has always worked for me and my people. The boxing I understand. But why in the world would a beautiful girl like you want to learn how to fight? You should be learning how to cook instead.”

  I was too enthralled to be insulted. “I do know how to cook.”

  Freddie added, “She’s a pretty good one, too.”

  “Then why aren’t you married and having babies?” Fiorello asked. “You would be a prize on the arm of a very lucky man.”

  I felt my face flush. “Thank you, but no, that’s not what I want out of life right now.”

  “What do you want?”

  Put to me like that, I didn’t know how to answer. I shrugged. “All I know is I don’t want that. Not yet, anyway.”

  “So you want to learn how to use a knife.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I thought before replying. “I feel it’s a calling. All of it. The boxing, the martial arts, and now knives. I was born to know this stuff.”