The Black Stiletto (33 page)

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. I feel weird,” she said.

“Are you sick?”

“No. It’s like—I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like how I feel before a test or something. Kinda scared.”

I think I understood. I was feeling the same thing.

“Can you walk with us?”

“Yeah.”

She got up and we slowly moved into the hallway and headed back toward the common room. Mom held my arm as we walked, just like she always did. It was almost as if she was an elegant lady of royalty and I was her escort.

The Alzheimer unit’s common room lay between us and the doors leading to the rest of the facility. There was still another long hallway to the main entrance. Several residents, along with a couple of nurses and staff people, were still in the common room, slowly making their way to the dining room behind us.

Then I saw him.

An elderly man had come in the double doors and approached
the desk. He looked a little shabby, wearing clothes that were slightly too big for him. The most striking thing about him was his demeanor: cold, calculating, and to the point.

“I’m lookin’ for Judy Talbot,” he said.

The nurse smiled and pointed our way. “Why, that’s her, right there!”

The man jerked his head toward us and narrowed his eyes.

Oh my God
, it was Roberto Ranelli! It had to be!

I froze. I didn’t know what the hell I should do. Pick Mom up and run with her in my arms? Confront the guy and send him on his way?

He walked toward us and stopped just a few feet away. Ranelli looked at my mother, up and down, and snarled, “Yeah, it’s you, all right. I recognize you, you fuckin’ bitch!”

That got everyone’s attention. Every head in the room turned toward us. The newcomer emanated such
menace
that it was impossible to ignore him.

“Dad, who’s that?” Gina asked.

Mom stared at him unemotionally. I have no idea if she recognized him. And yet, I felt her grip on my arm tighten.

“Do you know who I am, bitch?” he growled. “I’m Roberto Ranelli! You killed my brother Vittorio! And now I’m gonna kill
you
!”

“Dad, he’s got a gun!” Gina shouted.

I don’t know how she knew that, for it was after she’d announced it that his hand went into his jacket pocket
and he pulled out a revolver
!

“No!” I shouted.

But then my mother did something I’ll never forget as long as I live. The woman who was Judy Cooper, seventy-two years old and suffering from Alzheimer’s, released my arm, rearranged her entire body in a
different
posture, and then
swiftly kicked the son of
a bitch right between the legs
!

Ranelli yelled in pain and anguish, dropped to his knees, and then fell on his side. He curled into a fetal position and gasped. Gina kicked the revolver away out of his reach.

My mother remained in this defensive stance, still as a statue, until she sensed the danger was passed.

And then she relaxed, assumed the deportment of her normal, fragile self, and took hold of my arm as if nothing had happened
.

By then, the nurses and staff were going nuts. They called for backup. Someone knelt beside Ranelli and examined him.

“Who is this man?” someone demanded.

“Call the police,” was all I said. “He tried to shoot my mother.”

A nurse hollered, “He’s going into cardiac arrest! Call a code blue!”

I turned my mother around. “Let’s go back to your room, Mom. We’ll go to McDonald’s another time.”

As all hell broke loose in the common room, we slowly strolled back to her unit. Gina followed us, slightly in shock. I helped remove the sweater and assisted Mom onto the bed, and then I took off her shoes. I don’t believe she was aware of what had just occurred.

She was asleep within seconds.

Needless to say, what I’d just witnessed had shaken me to the core. In those few moments in which Mom defended herself without thinking about it, I felt a change come over me. An enlightenment, if you will. I don’t know how to explain it. All I know is that suddenly I wasn’t angry anymore. Maybe a little peeved at myself for being a jerk the past few days, but the resentment with Mom and frustration with Gina disappeared. And I knew I needed to keep Mom’s secret safe for now. There was no telling how many more Roberto Ranellis there might be out there.

The police asked me and Gina a lot of questions. Of course,
Gina knew nothing. There was a lot I didn’t know, but some things I kept to myself. I insisted I had no idea who Roberto Ranelli was or why he’d come to Woodlands North to try and kill my mother. Apparently he was indeed the suspect in the brutal slaying of Kathy Reynolds, and he was a recently paroled convict who had served time for murder.

A detective named Harrigan wanted to talk to my mother. He was convinced she knew Ranelli. Why else would the old man go looking for her at our old house in Arlington Heights? And why would she have reacted the way she did? We woke her up, but, alas, there was nothing my mother could tell him. She didn’t even understand the questions. Harrigan quickly realized she was incapable of answering.

Outside her room, the detective asked me if my mother had ever lived in New York. I told him she did, back in the fifties. He shrugged and said, “Maybe it was just an old grudge. But I guess it’s a moot point now.”

“Why?”

He told me Ranelli suffered a stroke or a heart attack; he wasn’t real sure, but it was something pertaining to the heart. At any rate, Ranelli was DOA at the hospital. I guess my mom’s assault on his nuts was too much for him.

Harrigan gave me his card and asked me to call if I remembered or found out anything that connected my mother to the killer. I dutifully said I would.

He started to walk away, but then he stopped and asked, “How did she know how to kick him like that?”

I shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. Don’t most women know how to kick a guy in the balls? Maybe it was just a natural response.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Harrigan grudgingly accepted that theory and went on his way.

I think perhaps it was true. The maneuver Soichiro taught her
long ago had stuck with her like an instinct. They say that with Alzheimer’s, certain mental functions—playing and appreciating music, for example—are the last to go. I imagine my mother’s self-defense training was the same type of thing. It’s something you don’t forget.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Gina asked me.

I couldn’t tell her anything. Not yet. Someday, maybe.

“I don’t know, honey.”

Gina looked at me and said,
“You’re lying, Dad. I can tell.”

I walked Gina out to her car and we had a composed, civilized talk. I didn’t tell her what I knew, but I did say she was more like her grandmother than she could imagine.

“Your grandma was a real individual,” I said. “Totally independent. Always went her own way, no matter what.”

“I think that’s great,” my daughter said.

“Yeah. It is. I think she’d want you to be the same way.”

I held out my arms to Gina. “Congratulations on Juilliard, sweetheart.”

“You mean I can go?”

“If it’s what you really want.”

“Oh, Dad!” And she hugged me.

Before leaving Woodlands, I went back to my mom’s room to say goodbye. She had fallen asleep again, so I quietly entered and stood next to her bed. I tucked the blanket around her, leaned over, kissed her cheek, and whispered that I loved her.

More than ever.

38
Judy’s Diary
1958

D
ECEMBER
31, 1958

It’s New Year’s Eve again. Yep, that date is definitely significant to me in one way or another.

In ten minutes it’ll be midnight and we’ll usher in the year 1959. At the moment I’m in my room above the gym, having taken a break from the annual party downstairs. Freddie is there, of course. Lucy is in attendance, thank goodness. She’s recovering nicely from her ordeal and still spends some time in rehabilitation, but she seems to be doing great. Lucy lived with me for a month after she got out of the hospital, and she just got her own apartment three days ago. She’s even gone back to work at the diner,
and
she’s dating her rich lawyer beau, Peter Gaskin. So, good for her! (PS—Lucy says he might ask her to marry him! Wouldn’t that be something? The Black Stiletto could be the bridesmaid, ha ha!) Some of the gym regulars are there—Jimmy and Louis and Wayne and Paul and Corky and—well, you probably don’t know some of those names, do you, dear diary? Even Tony the Tank decided he’d come to
our
party before going over to Don Franco DeLuca’s celebration—which is still a tradition, although they don’t have it at the Algonquin anymore.

Anyway, before I go back downstairs, I thought I’d catch you up before I close the book, so to speak, on this incredible year.

A lot has happened, that’s for sure. As my personal life has gone through changes, I’ve also started to pay more attention to what’s going on in the world around me more than ever before. Earlier in the year some teenager named Bobby Fischer won an international chess championship and was declared a genius. The government launched a satellite called “Explorer” into space, which means all those scary science-fiction movies are coming true! The Cuban Revolution still dominates the news, and as of yesterday it looks like Che Guevara and his men will take over Havana any day. Fat lot of good my intervention did! Khrushchev is our latest foreign enemy, and everyone is still scared of nuclear war and what the Communists might do. And Alaska is about to become our 49th state.

For me personally I saw a few movies and read a number of books, including the dirtiest one I ever laid my hands on—
Lolita
, by some Russian author whose name I never can remember. Freddie and I have some favorite TV shows and watch them together when we can. We don’t like to miss
Peter Gunn
since it started in September. We also enjoy
Jack Benny, Ed Sullivan, Milton Berle
, and I really, really love
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
! I’m still crazy about Elvis and rock and roll music, although Dean Martin’s not too bad. I achieved a black belt in
karate
. And I grew closer than ever with the friends I call my family—Freddie, Lucy, and Soichiro.

But most significantly, Judy Cooper became the Black Stiletto.

Apparently she is wanted for questioning in Odessa, Texas. My little escapade in Goldsmith cost me. Too many of those witnesses in the bar talked to the police and insisted the Stiletto had come looking for Douglas Bates that night. Well, when Douglas turned up dead two days later, naturally they suspected “the masked woman in black.” Of course, they don’t know for sure if she was the
real
Black Stiletto. I doubt they have any evidence against me from the crime scene. Some blood stains, perhaps, but
they can’t do anything with those except maybe figure out my blood type, for what that’s worth. And I happen to be O+, which I’ve read is the most common blood type in the world. I mean, blood’s not like fingerprints, and I was wearing gloves the whole time. But to play it safe, I guess I won’t be going back to Odessa any time soon.

The dreams and nightmares linger in the shadows of my subconscious. They’re not a nightly occurrence anymore, thank God. I’m not sure if I’ll ever totally be rid of them, but I have no regrets whatsoever. I truly believe my mother is resting in peace now, and I certainly feel vindicated for what happened to
me
. I also don’t have any remorse for Don DeLuca or Vittorio Ranelli. Oh, that reminds me. It was just in the papers—Roberto Ranelli’s trial ended with a guilty verdict. He was sentenced to life in prison. I guess I don’t have to worry about him ever again.

My biggest problem now is the NYPD. And the FBI, to some extent. I’m still curious about that agent, Mr. Richardson, who said we would meet someday. And while I was in Texas, there was an editorial in the
Times
from the police commissioner. He talked a lot about how crime was on the rise in the city and what we as citizens can do about it. He said “the Black Stiletto is not the answer,” and he vowed that she will be brought to justice. Doesn’t he realize I’m doing everyone a favor? Again, public opinion is on my side. There’s actually an advertisement in the back of the
Daily News
to join a Black Stiletto Fan Club! Freddie cut it out and suggested we both join as a joke. Supposedly as a member you get a poster of that old police sketch of me that’s still floating around, as well as copies of the now-famous photographs that Max took at that bar on First Avenue. They’ve been syndicated all over the world. Anyone who doesn’t know who the Black Stiletto is by now has been living on the moon.

Well, the Stiletto is not going to disappear. It’s become a habit. They call it a “compulsion.” So what? It’s who I am now. I
must
be the Black Stiletto. I truly believe that what I do is right. What’s wrong with fighting crime and protecting the innocent? As long as I steer clear of the cops, I should be okay.