The Black Stiletto Read online

  Of course, my love for Fiorello probably blinded me to the truth about the Mafia. I was hoodwinked by the glamour and attention.

  Living with Fiorello opened my eyes to a whole new way of thinking about men. Even though I’d grown up with two brothers—and a pervert for a stepfather—I didn’t really pay much attention. Fiorello was a funny guy. He was a great cook, he sang opera with records he’d play on the phonograph, and he liked comic books. Fiorello was a huge fan of Batman and Superman—that kind of stuff. Those comics were all over the place. I looked at them every now and then, just as I’d done back in Texas, but I couldn’t understand what he saw in them. I preferred mysteries and crime novels, especially Mickey Spillane. And I read Ladies Home Journal. I know, I’m weird.

  One thing I can say for my romance with Fiorello is that my wardrobe improved. He bought me a lot of new clothes, and I was no longer the tomboy dressed in men’s baggy trousers and polo shirts. I wore dresses, high heels, and stockings. The black stilettos I’d bought with Lucy became a staple. I loved them. My ability at applying makeup had improved and Fiorello often said I could be a “cover girl.” That pleased me.

  It was a wonderful life. While it lasted.

  Everything changed, though. It always does, doesn’t it?

  It was just after my birthday, 1957, and I was twenty years old. We’d known each other for nearly a year. Fiorello had promised he’d be home by eight o’clock in the evening so we could go to Sardi’s for dinner—one of our favorite spots. He was late. I didn’t worry about it at first, it happened sometimes. But by ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, I started getting nervous. It wasn’t like Fiorello. He would have called me if was going to be very late.

  At midnight, I decided to go to bed. I was uneasy—my instincts were going haywire—but I had a drink of whiskey to settle me down. I bathed, dressed in my nightgown, and went into the kitchen to get a last glass of water before retiring.

  The phone rang.

  It was Tony. He sounded very upset.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked. My heart was beating furiously because I knew. I sensed it.

  Fiorello had been murdered.

  9

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  After seeing my mom, I went to the office but couldn’t do any work. So I picked up the damned diary and started reading where I left off. Then my boss, Brad, called and wanted to see me. So I put down the book and went to his office. Brad is one of those managers who never praises his employees but doesn’t hesitate to find faults. I’ve worked for him a long time, and I never so much as got a “Good job, Martin,” from him. Well, it turned out he just wanted to chew me out for taking off work so long that day. I explained I had some comp time, but he didn’t give a shit. Said I was behind in some audit reports, which I was. I promised to get them done. On the way back to my office, I saw George, a fellow auditor, at the water fountain.

  “The axe is gonna fall soon,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Layoffs. Ten to twenty percent of the staff are gonna get pink slips.”

  “No. I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s what I hear.” George was always a fatalist.

  “Well, they can’t touch me,” I said. “I have seniority.”

  He raised his eyebrows and walked away. Screw him. I went into my office, shut the door, and picked up the diary. And then my cell phone rang. It was Gina.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  Dinner?

  Damn, I’d forgotten she was staying with me over the weekend. Carol and I had joint custody and it was my turn. The whole arrangement was kinda pointless now, seeing that Gina was seventeen, had her own car, and could basically do whatever she wanted. I almost told her to stay home if she preferred, but I didn’t.

  “You want to go out?” I asked her.

  “Maybe. Can we go to Big Bowl?”

  That was the popular Asian place. “Sure.”

  “Awesome. After that I have rehearsal.”

  “Rehearsal? On a Friday night?” She was in some play. I didn’t know how she managed to do sports and drama at the same time, but she did.

  “Well, it’s not a rehearsal at school. I’m getting together with Nick and Jon to go over lines. We need to work on ‘em.”

  “Nick and Jon?”

  “They’re in the play with me.”

  “I see.” Hey, I was still her dad. I took an interest in who she hung out with. “When’s your car gonna be ready?”

  “Maybe Monday. I hate not having it. It’s been over a week.”

  “That’s what happens when you have an accident, sweetheart. Body shop work takes time. You need to—”

  “—be more careful, yeah, I know, dad. Geez, it wasn’t my fault. We’ve had this conversation, what, three dozen times?”

  She was right. I probably dwelled on crap like that way too much. It’s all part of being an accountant, I think. I’m always thinking about the numbers. Money. Insurance. Dollars. Taxes. Bills.

  I decided to change the subject. “Heard from any of the colleges yet?”

  “Um, can we talk about that at dinner?”

  “Sure. So you’ve heard?”

  “From a couple.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Dad!”

  “Gina, tell me. I want to know.”

  “Well, Illinois State said yes and DePaul said yes.”

  “Terrific!” They were schools with good business programs.

  “But they’re not my first choices.”

  Yeah, lately she’d been going on about studying theatre. Can you imagine that? Who makes a living in theatre? I told her she was nuts and I wouldn’t pay for it if that’s what she wanted to do. It’s been a little bone of contention between us.

  Becoming an accountant was a no-brainer for me. Sure, it’s not a glamorous job, but it’s what I can do. And I’ve made a living. My firm, Bailey and Catlow, specializes in corporate taxes. I’m one of the senior auditors. I have exciting and wonderful opportunities of spending days, sometimes weeks, in some high-rise in Chicago going over some company’s records. Sometimes I go over and over and over them. And then I do it again. Whatever it takes. It’s thrilling, I gotta tell you.

  “Honey, you have to think about where you’re gonna get the best training for a career. We’ve talked about this.”

  “I know, I know. Look, I gotta go. See you at seven?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I looked at my watch. There was a little time before I had to get to the school, so I kept reading the diary.

  10

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  I was devastated. I simply couldn’t believe it.

  Tony didn’t have any more information at that point, so he hung up after saying he was sorry. I think he was crying. It wasn’t long before I was as well.

  After a sleepless night, drowning in tears and whiskey, I passed out and didn’t open my eyes until noon. I missed Soichiro’s class, so I called him and told him what had happened. He knew I’d been seeing Fiorello, although the two men had never met. Then I called Freddie, who was busy in the gym. He said all the right things, asked if I was okay, and inquired if I would like to come “home.” I told him, thanks, but I wanted to stay in Fiorello’s apartment, if I could. I had no idea if I’d be able to take over the lease or not.

  As a matter of fact, a week later the landlord dropped by, looking for the month’s rent. He was an old Italian guy who had respect for Fiorello, but the man wasn’t connected. He expressed concern and shock at the news, but then he made it clear that the rent would still have to be paid. He gave me until the end of the month to pay it, but by then, of course, December’s rent would be due the following week. The landlord was nice about it, but he intimated that if I couldn’t pay the two months’ rent, I’d have to leave. Fiorello and I weren’t married. I was tempted to tell him I knew
“people” that could convince him to let me stay, but I didn’t have the heart. After all, the landlord was in the right.

  Anyway, on the morning after Fiorello’s murder I was determined to find out what had happened. I phoned Tony, who didn’t answer. I tried a couple more of Fiorello’s friends in his crew. They didn’t have any details—only that there had been a shooting at one of the bookmaker’s establishments on the Lower East Side. Fiorello wasn’t the only one dead; the bookie had also been killed. Someone hit them, most likely a rival family looking to take over the bookmaking business in that area.

  It wasn’t a very satisfactory answer. Not for me, anyway.

  I put on my coat and went out. I knew where Don DeLuca lived—it was in Long Island, a town called Glen Cove. I’d been there twice with Fiorello—once for a dinner party in the spring and again on the Fourth of July. On both occasions he was friendly and treated me like I might have been Fiorello’s wife. That’s one thing I noticed about all the mobsters—they respected everyone’s wives. So I thought, naïvely, that Don DeLuca would tell me the truth about what happened to one of his men, providing he knew himself.

  I took the Long Island Railroad from Penn Station and arrived in Glen Cove around one o’clock. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the Don’s address. Even the driver seemed to know who lived there; he looked at me with suspicion, as if I was a gun moll or something.

  The don’s house was like a small fortress, a huge two-storey mansion on expansive grounds. There was a guy at the gate who motioned for me to roll down the cab window. He didn’t know me.

  “I’m here to see Don DeLuca. Tell him it’s Judy Cooper, Fiorello Bonacini’s girlfriend.”

  The guy made a face and went to the guardhouse by the gate. He made a phone call, spoke for a minute, made funny gestures with his hands, and then hung up. The gate opened.

  The cab drove inside and pulled into the circular drive in the courtyard adjoining the front of the house. Several cars were parked in a row on one side of the drive—all belonging to the don’s men. There were always troops of them at the home. I’m sure Mrs. DeLuca loved that.

  A fellow I knew named Carmine met me at the door.

  “Judy, I’m so sorry,” he said. “We just found out this morning.”

  “What happened, Carmine? Do you know?”

  “No, I don’t. Why did you come here, Judy? It’s not, well, it’s not appropriate.”

  “I don’t care. I’d like to talk to Don DeLuca.”

  Carmine made a face. “He’ll see you, but I gotta say, this is out of the ordinary. If you was married to Fiorello, it might be different.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He didn’t answer. We went into the large foyer, where a couple of other goons stood at attention. One of them had a gun in plain sight, holstered on his belt. Sheesh.

  For the first time, I felt uneasy in the place. My other two visits were with Fiorello and we had attended social affairs. I had previously ignored any negative sensations I may have felt from the house, but this time I sensed a strong, unpleasant ambiance. There was an invisible ugliness in the home that chilled me to the bone.

  Carmine led me into the don’s study, where the big man sat behind a desk. It might have been the office of a great lawyer, for the space was surrounded by bookshelves full of leather-bound tomes. A large picture window looked out into the spacious backyard.

  Don DeLuca stood as I came in. He held out his hands and took mine. “Miss Cooper, I am sorry about Fiorello. It breaks our hearts,” he said.

  The man was lying. I sensed it. The old instinct kicking in.

  “Thank you, Don DeLuca.” I actually curtsied to him. “And thank you for seeing me.”

  “Please sit down. May I offer you something to drink? It’s a little early in the day for me to indulge in something strong, but I have fruit juice, coffee, tea.”

  “No, thank you.” I took the seat in front of the desk, and he reclaimed his chair behind it. “Don DeLuca, I just—I want to know what happened to Fiorello. No one seems to know.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t either,” he answered. Again—a boldfaced lie. I saw right through him.

  “Please, Don DeLuca, I know more than you think about Fiorello and what he did for… for you and the family. I understood the risks involved. But I loved him. I have a right to know.”

  The Mafia boss considered my words and sighed heavily. “Miss Cooper—Judy, that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Judy, you and Fiorello were not married. We of the Catholic faith have strong feelings about that. Of course there are many men who have affairs, even married men who keep a comare, but it is rare for one of our own to openly live with a woman and not be married.”

  So much for treating me like one of the wives. His attitude toward me was palpably changed. I was taken aback by his words and must have had a blank expression on my face, for he added, “Please understand I didn’t mean that as a condemnation, only an observation. I loved Fiorello like a son. I was hoping he would marry you.”

  “Are you saying you’d be more forthcoming with me if I was Fiorello’s wife?”

  Don DeLuca looked away and stared out the window as if he hadn’t heard me. I got it, though. These men weren’t forthcoming about their business even to the women in their lives.

  After an awkward silence, the don spoke again. “Fiorello was reckless, my dear. He made some mistakes. Our opposite numbers in New Jersey got to him. We will take care of it. This is men’s business. I am sorry.”

  I realized that was all I was going to get from him.

  It was a complete fabrication. He knew who killed Fiorello, and it wasn’t an “opposite number.”

  I nodded and thanked him for his time, and then got up to leave. He stood, took my hands again, and said, “I hope we’ll see you again sometime.”

  “Give Mrs. DeLuca my regards.”

  “I will, dear.”

  On cue, the study door opened. This time, one of the Ranelli twins escorted me out. Once again, my nerves reacted negatively.

  As we walked toward the front door, he spoke with a perceptible sneer, “I already called you a cab. Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

  “No.” I looked at him and studied his face. “Which one are you?”

  “I’m Roberto.”

  “Roberto, do you know what happened to Fiorello?”

  The thug shrugged his shoulders and made a tsk-tsk sound. Again, that was an indication that they all knew the real story but they were intentionally hiding it from me. Fiorello was one of their own—why were they so unconcerned?

  Were they somehow responsible?

  Roberto Ranelli waited with me at the door without saying a word. He just stared at me, the same way Douglas had. With lust. Ill intentions. I desperately wanted to get away from him, but there was nowhere to go. Finally, the taxi arrived and pulled into the courtyard circle. It was a relief to get away from the darkness and evil that permeated that house.

  As the cab went through the gate, I looked back. Roberto hadn’t moved. He stood in the doorway, watching me with menace in his eyes.

  I spent the evening crying again as I sat in Fiorello’s apartment—our apartment—all too aware of the overwhelming emptiness.

  I was convinced Don DeLuca was hiding something. They all were. I had honed my ability to read faces and body language. Fiorello was not killed by enemies of the family. I hated to consider it, but what felt correct was my lover had been murdered by his own people. The question was why?

  I tried calling Tony again, but there was still no answer. Where was he? Did all this have something to do with him?

  Eventually anger overtook the pain. I had no proof, but I was certain Don DeLuca was responsible for Fiorello’s death. I vowed to find out the truth, and then I was going to do something about it. If I didn’t, who would?

  As I drank another glass of whiskey, my eyes fell on a stack of Fiorello
’s comic books. The latest Batman was on top. I picked it up and thumbed through it. In my foggy state of my mind, I read a bit and couldn’t help but laugh a little. The premise was silly—some millionaire dressed up in a costume, had a secret identity, and went out to fight crime. Who would really do such a thing?

  I suppose that was the germ of the idea that would change my life.

  11

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  JULY 5, 1958

  I woke up late today because I stayed up all night writing! Anyway, here I am again, continuing where I left off back in 1957 at the point when I decided to become the Black Stiletto.

  I never called it a costume, dear diary. I considered it a “disguise.”

  The first thing I did was draw some sketches on paper. I wasn’t much of an artist, and I definitely didn’t know how to sew—but I learned quickly. Stabbed myself in the finger with a needle several times in the process, too. I went out and bought material, which was the most difficult part. What should it be made of? I wanted it to be black for no particular reason other than I liked the way Batman could blend in with the night. I ended up buying some expensive, thin black leather. I spent a month in a trial-and-error process until I came up with a design I liked. All the time I was working on it I played the latest Elvis Presley records over and over on my phonograph—“All Shook Up,” “(Let Me Be) Your Teddy Bear,” and “Jailhouse Rock.”

  While this was going on, I did my duty at the gym, still attended my martial arts classes—I was a brown belt by then, working on my black—and managed to find time to train and exercise. And I did everything I could to find out what really happened to Fiorello. Tony the Tank was missing in action. No one knew where he was. I began to fear something bad had happened to him, too. All of Fiorello’s other friends observed the omerta, the Mafia’s code of silence.