The Black Stiletto (13 page)

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

J
ULY
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.

It was a difficult time, for I was very depressed. To top it off, Fiorello’s landlord ended up evicting me. I offered to pay the rent for November and December in installments, which was all I could afford. The man was sympathetic but insisted on sticking to his guns. There was nothing I could do. I packed my things, threw in a lot of Fiorello’s stuff that nobody would ever want—including his comics—and then, with head hung low, I went back to Freddie and asked for my old room. He was happy to have me, even though it was a tough thing for me personally. It was all about pride, I guess. It was a step backward, but in the long run it turned out to be good. Freddie was “family”—
real
family, not Fiorello’s family, if you know what I mean. And to tell the truth, living at the gym made the commute to work and to martial arts lessons much more convenient. I got over the pain of leaving Little Italy pretty quickly.

Moving on from losing Fiorello wasn’t so easy.

Freddie gently lectured me about associating with people like Fiorello. He said they were “evil” deep down, even when they were nice and loving on the outside. “Nothing good would have come out of the relationship,” Freddie told me. This hurt to hear, but I knew he was probably correct. Nevertheless, I loved Fiorello. I never saw his bad side.

Being upset those few weeks in November and December also made me think back to Texas and what happened with Douglas. I was happier than I’d ever been when I was with Fiorello, so I was able to push the stepfather incident out of my mind. It came back full force. I really hated Douglas and other nameless men like him in the world. My anger resurfaced, and I probably wasn’t very pleasant to be around. Once, I was with Lucy and Sam at the
diner, and Sam said something stupid and insulting to Lucy. I called him a “creep” to his face and stormed out. It didn’t bother him at all, I’m sure, but I think it hurt Lucy’s feelings. She never said anything about it, though, and I never apologized. I meant what I said.

I also remember a distinctly vivid dream I had about my mother. She was crying and in pain. I desperately wanted to tell her I was alive and doing just fine, but of course she couldn’t hear anything I said. You know how weird dreams can be. And then I started crying and woke up feeling bad. For a day or two I considered sending a postcard to Odessa, just to let her know I was all right.

But I never did.

Tony the Tank reappeared two days after Christmas. Why is it that significant events always happen to me around the holidays? I’ll never know. Anyway, he called me from a pay phone in California, of all places. The phone in the gym rang around the time I was collecting all the towels that the men just leave lying around. Wash day. Anyway, I heard the ring and my sixth sense, or whatever you want to call it, told me it was something important. I ran across the gym floor and grabbed the phone. I was really pleased to hear Tony’s voice.

“Judy, is that you?”

“You bet it is. Where the heck’ve you been, Tony?”

“Long story. I’m in Los Angeles right now.”

“L.A.? What for?”

“Longer story. How you doin’?’

I sighed. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay. I hear it in your voice.”

“I miss him, Tony.”

“So do I, sweetheart.”

I suddenly got the feeling Tony was in trouble. Why else would he be in California? “What’s going on, Tony? You can trust me.”

“I know I can. I have to smooth over some stuff with the don, that’s all. In the meantime I have to steer clear of New York.”

“Is it anything to do with Fiorello?”

“In a way. Yeah.”

“What happened, Tony? Why was Fiorello killed?”

“Judy. ..”

“Please tell me, Tony. It’s been driving me crazy. I gotta know.”

I heard some shuffling on his end. Then he said, “Judy, Fiorello tried to cheat the boss. I hate to say that, but it’s true. He was skimmin’ off the top. Keepin’ more money for himself than he shoulda. The boss found out. They clipped him. Him and his bookie, who was in on the deal.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I’m sorry, Judy.”

“Were you involved in it, too, Tony?”

“Not really, but the thing is—I
knew
about it and didn’t report it. And now the boss knows that. It’s not an offense bad enough for them to clip me, but they can make life difficult. I have to make amends. Do the don some great favor or service that proves I’m still loyal. I’m out here tryin’ to arrange that as we speak.”

“I see.” I wished I could see Tony’s face. It would help me determine if he was telling the truth or not, but I sensed he was. “How did Fiorello die?”

“Typical execution, Judy. A couple of plugs in the back of the head. I’m sorry.”

Tears came to my eyes again.

“Don DeLuca gave the order?”

“Sure he did.”

“Who killed him?”

“You mean who pulled the trigger?”

“Yeah.”

“Had to have been the twins. They usually work together, so I imagine they were both there. As to which one of ‘em actually did the deed, I have no idea. Probably Roberto did one guy and Vittorio did the other. I heard they’re both wanted by the cops for a couple of other jobs. I doubt they’ll be showin’ their faces in public.”

My bile rose. From then on I felt nothing but disgust for Fiorello’s so-called family.

“I’ll kill ‘em, Tony.”

“Don’t be dumb, Judy. Best to try and forget about it, darlin’. Just remember Fiorello for the kind heart he had. He cared about you a lot, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

“I gotta go. You take care now, Judy, y’hear?”

“Sure. You, too, Tony.”

“
Ciao
.”

Then I got an idea. “Hey, Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“Is the don having another New Year’s Eve party like he did last year?”

“Yeah. It’s an annual event at the Algonquin. It’s always a nice party. Unfortunately, I won’t be there this year.”

“Okay. Thanks.
Ciao
, Tony.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

We hung up and I turned to face the empty gym.

New Year’s Eve. The don’s party.

I decided they’d have an uninvited guest.

On December 31, 1957, I finished making my disguise. I was amazed at how good it looked. It was tight, sleek, and, in my opinion, sexy. The thin black leather worked well. It was heavy enough to keep me warm during cold weather, but pliable enough to move in with my better-than-average agility. The fit was skin
tight and almost resembled a rubber diving suit except it was sleeker and, well,
prettier
, if I do say so myself. The mask covered my head down to the bottom of my nose. I’d made holes for the eyes and I punctured tiny outlets on the sides so that I could hear—but my ears were still covered. My hair had to be folded in a bun before putting it on.