The Black Stiletto (17 page)

Breathe
, Soichiro would say.
Breathe.

Yeah, right.

Roberto’s face was distorted in a grimace as he held his lower leg, writhing on the ground. Perhaps I
did
break it.

Then, precious oxygen finally filled my lungs. Sounded like a wheezing motor when I finally inhaled. The blinding stars in my vision slowly dissipated, so I got to my feet and shook my head.

Pedestrians stared at me. I heard police sirens. I had to get out of there. But there was something I had to do.

I drew the stiletto from its sheath and approached Roberto. I kicked his arm, causing him to let go of his leg. With one hand, I grabbed him by the neck and slammed his back onto the sidewalk. I held him there and touched the tip of the blade to his cheek. He opened his eyes and stared at me—looking past the mask and into my own eyes. He squinted and then his pupils flared.

Did he recognize me
?

“This is for Fiorello,” I said. I raised the stiletto, ready to plunge it into his chest—when a police car screeched around the corner, its lights blazing. The crowd around us immediately dispersed, making room for the cruiser to drive on the sidewalk and stop just a few feet from where Roberto and I lay in a frozen tableau.

Then a
second
patrol car roared around the corner and pulled up behind the first.

Policemen jumped out of the cars, took cover behind open doors, drew their guns, and aimed at me.

“Freeze!” one shouted.

I hesitated. My acute hearing picked something out of the street noise that didn’t belong. A low rumbling. A train. Below
me, underground. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue subway entrance about ten yards away.

Slowly, I lowered my hands and sheathed the stiletto, and stood. I don’t think the police had seen the knife, otherwise they would’ve ordered me to drop it.

“Put your hands up!”

I showed them my empty palms and raised my arms, elbows bent, my hands at shoulder level.

And then I bolted.

“Halt!”

One of the cops fired his gun and missed, but whoever was in charge shouted, “Hold your fire!”

I dashed into the subway entrance and practically flew down the steps. As I ran, the pain in my ribs increased—I wagered at least one was broken. Reaching the station below, I leaped over the turnstile, and felt a sudden wave of nausea as I ran down the platform. Fighting the dizziness, I continued running, prepared to jump onto the tracks if I had to—but the train I’d heard was just pulling in. Several policemen followed me down and gave chase. The train stopped and the doors opened. I pushed through the crowd getting off and boarded several cars ahead of the cops. Had they gotten on? I didn’t know.

The doors closed and the train pulled away from the station. I wasn’t sure which platform I’d been on. Was I going uptown or downtown? I didn’t care, I just had to move forward and be ready to jump out at the next stop. As it was late on New Year’s Eve, the train was full of people. They looked at me as if I were an alien creature from one of those dumb science-fiction movies that were so popular. I ignored the stares and moved forward in the car until I came to the door at the front. I pulled it open and stepped out, between the train cars, and opened the next one. Before I went farther toward the front of the train, I suddenly realized I’d be
too far from the subway exit on the platform when I got off. The turnstiles were usually situated in the middle. So I stayed put.

I never saw the cops. The train slowed and eventually stopped. Thirty-Fourth Street. I was on a downtown train, thank God. I joined a throng of passengers as they poured out of the car. Sure, there were comments: “What the—?” and “Who are you, lady?” and “Get a load of this!” and “What are you supposed to be?” But I pushed through them, made it to the turnstiles, exited like a normal paying customer, and hobbled up the steps.

I was at Macy’s and Herald Square.

The rest of the trip home was a blur. I was in pain and scared out of my mind. I really don’t remember how I did it. It was on foot the whole way, I can tell you that much. But I managed to avoid people, stick to the shadows, and stay as invisible as possible.

So much for the Black Stiletto’s first “adventure.”

16
Judy’s Diary
1958

The next morning was difficult, to say the least. I was sore all over and my head hurt. Roberto Ranelli had really slammed me with a few good ones. I had a large discoloration on my left cheek and my eye above it was bloodshot. My lips were puffy and cut. My entire right side and stomach was bruised from Roberto’s kicks and my left leg was stiff and marked from being hit by the taxi. I walked with a limp, but nothing was broken.

When I came into the kitchen, Freddie was sitting at our little dining table, the
New York Daily News
in hand. Coffee and breakfast. He glanced up and his mouth dropped.

“Jesus, Judy!” He stood.

“I’m all right,” I said, gesturing him back down. “Just let me get some coffee.”

“You sit, I’ll get it.” He kept his eyes on me as I sat at the table and slid the newspaper over in front of me. Poured some coffee and set the cup on the table. “Eggs?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

The headline read: MAFIA HEAD DEAD. In smaller lettering was a subheading:
POLICE SEARCH FOR MYSTERY FEMALE ASSASSIN
. I winced and then read the story.

Don DeLuca had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. His neck was broken. His wife was quoted as saying that a “woman dressed entirely in black” had threatened them in their
Algonquin Hotel suite. Mrs. DeLuca was convinced the “mystery assassin” killed her husband, but I knew that wasn’t true. The man fell and hit his head on the coffee table; he broke his neck in the process. I may have been indirectly responsible, but I didn’t
kill
him. The story went on to say the hotel receptionist testified someone calling herself “the Black Stiletto” had phoned for an ambulance from the DeLuca suite.

To further complicate things, a second homicide had occurred elsewhere in the hotel. The body of Vittorio Ranelli was found in the ladies’ room on the first floor of the hotel. Cause of death was not revealed, nor was the mystery woman from the DeLuca suite implicated. Several arrests had been made, including that of Roberto Ranelli, Vittorio’s twin brother and alleged Mafia hit man. Like Tony had said, both Ranellis were wanted for questioning in several murder cases. The surviving Ranelli had been treated at Bellevue Hospital for a head injury and a broken leg, and then released into police custody. Most of the other arrests involved possession of illegal weapons and using them in a public place.

New York’s Mayor Robert Wagner was quoted as saying that Giorgio DeLuca was a known criminal, the head of a powerful Italian organized crime operation, and that he “got what he deserved.” DeLuca had been arrested numerous times over the years on a variety of charges, mostly racketeering, but the police never had sufficient evidence to bring the don to trial. The mayor went on to say, “Whoever this mystery woman is—this ‘Black Stiletto,’ or whatever she calls herself—what she did was wrong in the eyes of the law. But in reality she did the city a favor.”

Nevertheless, Police Commissioner Stephen Kennedy reiterated the woman was wanted for questioning and asked that anyone with information pertaining to the assassin’s identity should come forward. He added that the police were pleased Roberto Ranelli was apprehended “at last.”

The U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Paul Williams, declared there was enough evidence against Ranelli on one case to bring him to trial for murder and that the mobster “would be going away for a long time.”

It was all scary stuff, but I felt avenged. The don had died—not by my hand—but I suppose one could argue it was because of me. Vittorio received his comeuppance. And it appeared Roberto would spend the rest of his life in prison. That was good enough for me.

Freddie slapped the plate of eggs on the table and retook his seat.

“So,” he said.

“So what?”

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. I was hoping he wouldn’t figure it out, but I guess it was kind of obvious, considering what I looked like.

“Freddie—”

He held up his hands. “I’m not tellin’ anyone. Don’t worry.”

“Look, I—”

“You don’t have to explain anything, Judy. I think I understand why you did it. I don’t
approve
, but I understand. I strongly suggest, though, that you never do it again. You could have been hurt pretty bad. Or worse. Hell, they coulda arrested you. You’d be tried for murder, even if the victim was a Mafia hit man.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes as I tried to eat. He was right, of course. But what Freddie
didn’t
understand was how the whole experience had made me feel. Donning that disguise—the costume—empowered me. It gave me some sort of entitlement I didn’t have as normal, everyday Judy Cooper. It provided me with a purpose for all the lessons and training—the boxing, the
karate
, the knife wielding. I really didn’t think I could give it up. Not yet, anyway.

“Judy, promise me you won’t do it again.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Oh, Freddie. I don’t think I can. I’ve always wondered what I was going to be and do when I grew up. I think I just found out what that is.”

17
Martin
T
HE
P
RESENT

Gina and I went to the nursing home on Saturday to visit Mom as planned. I’ve read much of that first diary, was about halfway through it. Pretty incredible stuff. I suppose it’s all true—why wouldn’t it be? Unless my mom lived in a fantasy world and made it all up, which I don’t think is possible.

It’s been driving me crazy that there was so much about my mom I didn’t know before. This whole business has put me in a funky mood, and I woke up this morning angry.
Why didn’t I know?
One thing really puzzles me—how come Mom never told me about her brothers? My
uncles
. I wonder if they’re still alive. Did they know about their sister? From what I’ve read so far, it appeared my mom left Texas behind and never looked back. I don’t know if I should try and look them up. Wouldn’t know where to start.

At Woodlands, I signed us in and checked Mom’s mail. When she moved out of the old house, I had all mail forwarded to the nursing home. She normally didn’t get much, but today there was a letter. From New York. There was a handwritten Queens address on the envelope. I opened it and saw it was dated a couple of days earlier and was signed “Tony.”

Tony
.

Tony the Tank?

“What’s that?” Gina asked.

“Just mail for your grandma.”

“And you’re reading it?”

I looked at her like she was bonkers. “Well,
she
can’t read it.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

I was still a little upset with my daughter. Anyway, I read the letter, which was short and to the point. Tony said it’d been a long time since he’d written, for which he apologized. He also gently chastised my mom for not writing him, too. He hoped her address hadn’t changed; if it had, he trusted the post office to forward it. Tony spent a few sentences saying his health “had improved,” whatever that meant, but that he was old and cranky. He still lived alone and was able to take care of himself, which he considered a blessing.

Then he wrote something that sent a chill down my back. He said, “The main reason I’m writing is to let you know Robert Ranelli was paroled. He’s out of jail. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but he’s alive and he’s free.”

Damn.

Surely it couldn’t be a big deal. How could Roberto Ranelli have any idea where my mom lived now? And he’s older than she is—probably pushing eighty. Over fifty years had passed. He’d be in no shape to come looking for her.