The Black Stiletto (14 page)

I had recently purchased some light-weight, knee-high black boots to wear over the pants. They had a bit of a heel on them, but this didn’t prevent me from running, climbing, or kicking. At first I thought the boots would hamper my movements, but they were so streamlined they were practically part of my legs.

The knife training with Fiorello had been a constant throughout our romance. At our last lesson, he’d told me I was better with a blade than anyone he knew—besides him, of course. He didn’t lie about things like that, either. Fiorello was, in many ways, a stricter teacher than either Freddie or Soichiro. I’d learned a lot and was very proficient with the weapon. As to which type of knife I wanted to use, I’d chosen the stiletto very early on. As I mentioned before, it just felt right in my hands. Fiorello bought a U.S. Marine Raider Stiletto for me. I liked it a lot. It was a fairly recent design from the Second World War. It was hilt heavy, so it fit snugly in my hand. The double-edged, sharp-tipped blade was around seven and a half inches long and had an oval crossguard. The slender, symmetrical grip was bottle shaped. I figured the knife weighed almost a pound and a half. Easy to throw, too. There were times when I actually beat Fiorello in our games of target practice.

I strapped the stiletto’s sheath on the outside of my right thigh. This position allowed for rapid-fire access to the hilt. For months I’d practiced a quick-draw maneuver, over and over, until I could unsheathe the knife, raise my arm, and throw the weapon at a target—in one second. Nine times out of ten, the stiletto hit the intended object. Made me think of that bastard Douglas and all the
times he pretended to be a gunslinger, quick drawing his pistol in the house. I sure wanted to meet
him
outside the saloon on Main Street, ha ha!

Fiorello taught me another trick I employed, and that was to carry a second, concealed knife. He owned a homemade six-inch flat blade “wrist dagger” he said was once used by an OSS operative he knew. That’s a U.S. spy agency that was active during World War II. I took the dagger and sewed the sheath onto the inside liner of my left boot. If I had to, I could reach over and pull out the blade.

Taking a cue from some of the superheroes in Fiorello’s comic books, I fashioned a belt to wear and carry other items I thought would be useful—a thirty-foot-long coil of rope, a small flashlight, and Fiorello’s lockpicks. Yes, Fiorello owned some lockpicks he used on a few occasions, mainly to get through locked doors. Sometimes they worked on safes, or so he said. I didn’t press him on that, but he showed me how to open doors with them. I figured they’d come in handy.

I put on the disguise and looked at myself in the mirror.

Not bad. A little scary looking. Which was good.

I looked at the time. Nine o’clock. The party at the Algonquin had already begun.

As I prepared to leave through my room’s fire escape window, I noticed Fiorello’s comics on my bed. I thought it would be funny to come up with a name, the kind those superheroes had. It would be an inside joke between Fiorello, wherever he was, and me. The name came to me with little effort.

The Black Stiletto was born.

12
Roberto
T
HE
P
RESENT

I found this shitty furnished studio apartment in Brooklyn, on the east side of Prospect Park. It’s the basement of a brownstone, and it seems the entire neighborhood is black. I’m the only white guy on the whole block. Big deal. There weren’t many white guys in Sing Sing, either. I probably could’ve afforded something better, but I don’t know how long my money will last. Just in the short time I’ve been out of jail, I spent 20 percent of my small fortune. I have to watch it from now on.

It’s been tough settlin’ in, I gotta admit. The world has changed so much. I opened a checkin’ account at a bank and was given a plastic card—a credit card—that I’m supposed to use to withdraw money. Never heard of that. I mean, I’d heard of debit cards, but I never had one. Think I’ll stick to cash transactions. It’s how I always operated.

I hadn’t begun trackin’ down the old crew. That’s next on the agenda. I wonder who’s in charge of our
thing
now. That’s what we’d say, it was this
thing
of ours. I know the family ain’t what it was. The crew I belonged to don’t even exist anymore. Wiped out by the feds durin’ the sixties. So organized crime mutated into something else. I know it still exists, just not in the way I was used to. I just gotta learn the new ropes. I may be an old man, but I’m still handy with a gun. And I have a brain that still works. I could be useful to somebody, somewhere. I know it.

The sorry excuse for a desk in my apartment was so small I could barely get my legs under it, and I’m not a big guy. It musta been made for a child. In fact, the more I think about it, everything in the room appeared to be leftovers from some dumb kid’s room.

I thumbed through my black book, recognizin’ some names and not havin’ a clue about others. I hadn’t splurged to get a phone in my room, but I might have to. Or get one of those cell phone contraptions. I went lookin’ for a pay phone on the street yesterday and couldn’t find a damn one. Actually I found one near the subway entrance by the park, but it was outta order. Looked like it hadn’t worked for ten years. Yeah, I’ll probably get one of them cell phones. That’s what everybody uses now. I’d look like a dumbass without one.

The weather was warm outside, so I left the apartment and went for a walk. It was nice walkin’ on the street after being cooped up in Sing Sing. It was supposed to be good for my heart murmur, but sometimes too much exercise made me dizzy. I couldn’t stop gawkin’ at the women. I couldn’t help it. I thought about findin’ a hooker or somethin’ and spend some of that money. It’s been too long. I may be old but the plumbin’ still works. Thank God for that. The last time I got laid was during the day on New Year’s Eve, nineteen fifty-seven. Gloria. Nice dame. Italian. We mighta had something if it hadn’t been for the party. The don’s New Year’s Eve party. That’s when I got pinched.

And it was all because of the fuckin’ Black Stiletto.

Almost had her, though. I was so close. She was lucky, that’s all I can say. There’s no way, under any other circumstances, that she coulda beat me in a fight. She was good, but I was better. I know it.

And I’m gonna make her pay for what happened to me. I hope to God she’s still alive and kickin’ somewhere. I don’t care
about anything else. I don’t mind if it’s the last thing I do before I die. I’ll go to my grave in peace.

Somebody must’ve tipped off the Black Stiletto that Don DeLuca had given the order to clip Fiorello. And that same somebody probably let her know the don gave the job to Vittorio and me.

I always found it hard to believe the cops never found out who the Black Stiletto really was. To me it was obvious. Who else woulda had such insider knowledge of the family? Who else was takin’ lessons on how to box? Who else lived with Fiorello Bonacini, the best knife man in the crew?

Judy Cooper.

I still remember the first time she stuck her nose in our business. It was at the New Year’s Eve party a year earlier, the one that rang in nineteen fifty-seven. She was Fiorello’s date, before they’d become a real item. Damn fine lookin’ woman. After that, she was always with the guy. He shared everything with her, I know. That time she came to the don’s house in Glen Cove, the day after we whacked Fiorello, she was all up in arms. Wanted to know who was responsible. Any other dame woulda shut up and let the men handle it. She was up to somethin’. That’s one thing that gave her away to me. And then there were the eyes. Brown, with some little green specks. I saw those eyes close up, face-to-face. I’d recognize ‘em anywhere. And I swear I saw those same eyes behind the Black Stiletto’s mask.

Searches on my new laptop computer didn’t yield any results. All the Judy Coopers that came up in the search engines weren’t the woman I was looking for.

I guess I have to shadow her old haunts. The trouble was hardly anything that was in Manhattan durin’ the late nineteen fifties still existed.

I asked myself who else mighta known? Did Fiorello? Probably not. The Black Stiletto’s first appearance was that New Year’s
Eve party, just as nineteen fifty-eight had reared its ugly head. But who were Fiorello’s friends? I know he was close to Carmine and Guido. And Tony.

Yeah. Tony the Tank.

Fiorello and Tony were like brothers, they were so close.

Findin’ Tony would have to be a high priority. He might know somethin’.

Yes, sir. The day was lookin’ brighter.

13
Judy’s Diary
1958

It felt very strange moving through the city in my disguise. I had to stick to the shadows. I couldn’t just get on a subway train or a city bus. I found that sometimes it was easier to travel by rooftop if I was going east or west on a single block. Most of the buildings downtown were so close together that I could jump between them. I tried it for the first time that night. It was easier than I would’ve thought. In fact, it was exciting. As I leaped from structure to structure, I felt my blood pumping through my veins, the adrenaline giving me a spark and an edge. I was alive.

A couple of times when I was on the street, I was spotted by pedestrians. Couldn’t be helped. They pointed and said, “Look!” “Who is that?” “
What
is that?” I ignored them and kept going. I imagine they thought I was on my way to a costume party. I didn’t really care about them. I just didn’t want to be seen by the police. They might’ve tried to stop me, I don’t know. At that point, I’m not sure what they would’ve done. All the bad stuff with the cops happened later.

Anyway, I tried to keep out of the lights as I approached the Algonquin Hotel, which was on 44th between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The time was around eleven thirty as I stood across the street in a dark spot to survey the place. I could hear the band in the Rose Room. The front of the building was crowded, the street
was busy with traffic, and the lights under the awning were bright—I certainly couldn’t go in that way! But to the right of the main entrance I could see an opening to a narrow, internal alleyway that ran parallel along the side of the building. A steel door to the alley opened and a guy wearing a white apron came out with bags of trash. He placed them at the curb and then went back into the little alley and closed the door.

I hadn’t thought the plan through. How was I going to get inside?

The answer was simple. I simply took off my mask and removed the knife from my leg. Became one of the pedestrians, albeit with some very strange clothes on. That’s when I got the idea to add a small knapsack to the disguise—something I could wear on my back to carry stuff in. I made a mental note to work on that when it came time for improvements. Anyway, I walked across the street in plain sight—yeah, I probably looked odd. But it was New Year’s Eve in New York City. Several pedestrians did double takes as I walked past in that slinky black outfit—but they were looking at my body, not my face. I then stuck close to the buildings and approached the alley door just as the doorman at the front entrance went inside for something.

I was in luck. The man in the apron hadn’t closed the door securely—it was ajar. I quickly slipped inside and moved against the side of the building, lurking in the gloom. There, I replaced my mask and knife. So far, so good.

The alley stretched along the hotel to a door midway down. I quietly advanced and carefully opened it, detected that no one was inside, and went in.

I was in a narrow, carpeted hallway. From my recollection of being there a year earlier, the corridor was perpendicular to the lobby, south of the front desk. The ladies’ room was there in the hall.

To the right, through a swinging door, was the kitchen. I looked through the porthole window—it was a beehive of activity. Cooks were busy at the stoves and waiters and busboys were all over the place. This was the kitchen’s back entrance. To get to the Rose Room and the party, waiters and busboys had to go through double swinging doors on the opposite side, or into the service elevator to deliver room service. I figured I was safe from discovery unless a busboy took out another bag of trash.