The Black Stiletto (20 page)

The second mistake I made that night was to play along, humor him, and then try something sneaky. Maybe it was having the audience clearly on my side that gave me a false sense of security. I laughed, raised my hands, and told the crowd, “It’s all right, folks. The nice police officer is just doing his job. I’m going to cooperate.” There were cries of protest and even calls for me to run for it. I said, “No, I’m going with the nice policeman.”

The guy still had the pistol trained on me. I went to him, my hands still raised, and then I swiftly kicked the gun out of his hands. The weapon flew across the room and discharged, scaring the bejesus out of everybody. No one was hit, though. Anyway, before the cop could react, I performed a
judo
maneuver on him and threw him over my back and onto a table.
Slam!
Then I ran outside.

It was still pouring down rain. I should have started running south; I probably could’ve avoided everything else had I done so. But I looked up at the building and noticed scaffolding attached to the side, going all the way up the five stories. Everything above the bar was residential—apartments. My idea was to climb the scaffolding, get on the roof, and make my way west to Second Avenue over the tops of buildings. That was the third mistake.

So I took hold of the poles on the scaffolding and started to climb. By then, some of the bar customers had come outside to see where I’d gone. They didn’t notice me and I heard one guy said, “She must’ve got away.”

I reached the scaffolding’s second floor level, and something happened. My right boot slipped on the plywood that lay across
the frame; it was just too wet. I tried to grab the pole, but it was also slippery and the friction between my glove and the metal wasn’t good enough. It was like hanging on to a noodle.

I fell. Landed on my right leg and toppled flat on my face, right there in front of the group—just as the policeman joined them. I howled in pain. I sprained my ankle badly; at the time I thought I’d broken it. The policeman told everyone to stand back. There were cries of “She’s hurt!” “Leave her alone!” “Call an ambulance!” “Is she okay?” But the cop—
not
a nice policeman, as it turned out—shouted at them to get back inside. They didn’t, but the group gave him some room.

He had retrieved his gun and pointed it at me. He told me to slowly unsheathe my stiletto and toss it on the pavement. I had no choice but to do so. Then, with the gun still trained on me, he moved closer and
kicked
me on my injured leg! That caused the crowd to protest even more, and it just made me mad. The policeman then removed handcuffs from his belt. He ordered me to lie face down on the wet sidewalk and put my hands behind me.

The crowd turned ugly. “No!” “She didn’t do nothing!” “Let her go!” “Boo!” “Stinking cops!”

With my stiletto on the ground in front of me, I continued to lie on my side, curved into a ball as I nursed my injured leg. The cop must’ve thought I was too hurt to try anything, so he didn’t repeat the order for me to lie on my stomach. He bent over me, ready to snap on the cuffs. I reached into my left boot and drew my back-up weapon, the homemade wrist dagger. Grasping the handle firmly between my right thumb and the side of my index finger, saber-style, I lashed out and sliced the back of the cop’s gun hand. That was my fourth and most serious mistake of the night.

The policeman dropped his gun and shouted. I leaped to my feat and
clobbered
him. I mean, I hit him hard on the side of the face and knocked the guy out. He went down, flat on his back. I picked up my stiletto and then I ran. Well, I limped. The crowd
in front of the bar wasn’t sure how to react. Some of them cheered me on. Others were a little shocked, I think.

I got away and made it home in one piece, which was a minor miracle. It was a painful journey. I even managed to climb the telephone pole on 2nd Street and hobble across the roofs to the gym building and slip inside my bedroom window. Once I was out of my costume, I wrapped my swollen ankle. The next morning, Freddie took a look and rewrapped it. Ordered me to stay off of it for several days. It’s better now but it will probably take another week to get back to normal.

What isn’t better is my relationship with the NYPD. I’m now wanted for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Serious stuff.

The cops are really out to get me now.

20
Judy’s Diary
1958

A
UGUST
1, 1958

I saw Tony the Tank today. He came in the gym to see me. I’d spent the last couple of weeks working out and nursing my sprained ankle. It was nearly 99 percent healed. I told Soichiro about the sprain and that I wouldn’t be in to see him for a couple of weeks. He tsk-tsk’d me but seemed to understand. I’m very close to obtaining my black belt. Probably in another month I’ll have it. I just want to make sure my ankle is in perfect condition before I go on.

Anyway, Tony came in the gym and I was in the middle of spotting Jimmy with some new free weights we’d just purchased. At first I didn’t recognize him—he’d lost a lot of weight. When he waved, though, I knew it was him. Suddenly all the memories of Fiorello that I’d swept under the rug came blowing back at me.

“Jimmy, I gotta see someone,” I said, and then I went over to the front of the gym where Tony was waiting. We embraced and went through the “how ya doing, long-time-no-see” stuff, and then he asked if I had some time to get a cup of coffee with him. I checked the clock on the wall and figured I could take a break. I yelled at Freddie, who was coaching some young kids in the ring, and told him where I was going. He didn’t care, as long as I
came back. I think he was always afraid of losing me, not only as assistant manager, but as his substitute daughter.

So Tony and I went to the East Side Diner. Lucy was working and she sat us at a booth near the jukebox. Tony put some money in and played some of the more recent hit songs for me—“Purple People Eater” by Sheb Wooley, “Yakety Yak” by the Coasters, and “All I Have to Do is Dream” by the Everly Brothers. Tony teased me about liking that music. He was more of a Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin kind of guy.

“You’re lookin’ good, Judy,” he said. I told him
he
looked fantastic, seeing as how he’d lost the weight. He was still heavy, but not as bad.

“Yeah, I hadn’t been eatin’ my usual amount of pasta and meatballs. And I been runnin’ all over the place, doin’ this, doin’ that.”

“Well, they say exercise is good for you,” I told him.

We had coffee and talked about how he’d been in California doing some work for the family and was finally allowed to come back to New York. All perceived transgressions forgiven. As he spoke, I was thinking there was something he was avoiding, an important topic he wanted to bring up. He was nervous and fidgeted a lot. My intuition read him like a book. So I finally asked him straight out, “Tony, is there anything special on your mind?”

He lit a cigarette and said, “Yeah.” He waited a few seconds and then said it. “Judy, the family’s reorganized. You know, there’s a new don and everything. What with all the organized crime hearin’s in Washington goin’ on, the family’s kinda on the run. Movin’ business west to places like Las Vegas and L.A.”

“Yeah? Who’s the new don?”

“His name is Franco DeLuca, Giorgio’s little brother. You remember meeting him?”

“I don’t think I ever did.”

“Oh. Well, Franco’s the new Don DeLuca.”

“Okay.” I didn’t care. I wasn’t involved with any of those people any more.

“Judy, I came here to warn you.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a price on your head. Franco’s made it his mission in life to whack you.”

I felt my stomach suddenly churn. “Me? Why me?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Because of who you are at night. You know, the Black Stiletto.”

I swear my heart skipped a beat.
How did he know
? Jesus, I was real scared all of a sudden. “What are you talking about?” I asked him, trying to keep my cool.

“Judy, I know it’s you. No one else does, though. At least, I don’t think so.”

I was real quiet for a long time.

“Judy, say somethin’.”

“How did you find out?”

“I just put two and two together. I know you train at that gym and take those weird Jap fightin’ lessons. Fiorello taught you how to use a knife—yeah, I know that, too, he told me. And I realized—
I’m
the one who told you Don DeLuca gave the order to clip Fiorello and the Ranelli boys did the job. I sure didn’t tell anyone else. Just you. I figured it out.”

In a way it made me a little angry that someone else besides Freddie knew the truth about me. But I couldn’t blame Tony. It was my own dumb fault.

“So what happens now?” I asked.

“Nothin’. You just gotta be careful. I don’t think the Black Stiletto should show her face, er, mask, er, you know what I mean. There are standin’ orders to kill you on sight.”

“Great. The Mafia wants to kill me, the NYPD wants to kill me. I’m quite the popular girl in town, aren’t I?”

Tony shrugged with his hands. “Hey, you don’t have to keep doin’ all that stuff. You could make it go away by makin’
her
go away.”

“Look, Tony, you’re gonna keep this a secret, right?”

He looked at me like I was nuts. “Of course! Judy, I ain’t no rat. I’d never tell ‘em. I’d never tell anybody.”

“Promise?”

“I swear on my mother’s grave, bless her heart.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did she pass on? She lived in Italy, right?”

“She still does. She ain’t dead yet. But you know what I mean.”

“Tony.”

“I swear, Judy. I’ll never tell a soul. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Okay, Tony. I’m countin’ on you,” I said.

Still, I was uncomfortable with the fact that two people—Freddie and Tony—knew I was the Black Stiletto. I remembered something my brother John once told me when I was little—once a secret is known by more than one person, it’s no longer a secret.

21
Roberto
T
HE
P
RESENT

I found out for a fact our
thing
don’t exist anymore. Not like it was, anyway.

The only guy from the old crew who was still around and easy to locate was Guido Rossi. He was a little younger than me, maybe by two years. I didn’t know him all that well in the old days, but he knew who I was. I remembered him, though, as soon as I saw his beady eyes and long nose. His nickname was “Swordfish” because of the nose. Some of the guys would laugh at him and bring up the old Marx Brothers routine where “swordfish” was a password to get into a speakeasy durin’ Prohibition. That’s all I remembered about Guido. I never knew what he did for the family.

Guido was in a retirement home, one of those places they call “assisted living.” I hope I never have to be in one of them fuckin’ places. Not as bad as nursin’ homes, but still pretty awful. Might as well be in Sing Sing.

You shoulda seen his face when he saw me. Well, at first he didn’t recognize me. I went into the place and asked to see Guido Rossi, and the lady at the desk pointed to a room where some people were playin’ cards and board games. My eyes landed right on him, and that’s when I remembered who he was. Guido was in the middle of gin rummy with some other old geezer. I walked over to the table and said, “How’s it goin’, Swordfish?” Man, he
nearly dropped his hand. Guido peered up at me and adjusted his glasses.

“It’s Roberto Ranelli,” I said.

His jaw dropped. I thought he’d lose his false teeth. When he realized I was tellin’ the truth, he got up and gave me a big hug. I let him, although he smelled like piss. That’s the trouble with those places. Everything smells like piss. Sing Sing smelled like a lot of things, not just piss, so at least there was variety.

We went over to a bench and talked. He treated me with respect, just as he shoulda. I asked him who was still around, that kind of thing. Guido said just about everyone was dead. He didn’t know I was still alive. None of the family existed as a unit anymore. He told me he served a little time in the sixties, three years for racketeerin’. Got out on parole and good behavior. Three years is nothin’. I told him to try fifty.