The Black Stiletto (24 page)

They were pictures of Colonel Ward and Draper. In bed. Need I say more?

I brought them back to the living room and dropped them at Draper’s feet. The man reacted in horror to my discovery. He actually started crying.

“So, it’s the other way around, isn’t it? Pulgarón had these pictures of you and the colonel. That’s why you both cooperated?” The poor man nodded. “So why doesn’t he name you in the conspiracy? He’s in jail as a foreign spy. Why haven’t they come for you yet?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “He’s a very proud man.” Draper continued to cry. “He was supposed to phone me when he got to Havana. When I didn’t hear from him, I started to pack. I didn’t want to take any chances. Billy won’t name me.”

“Who?”

“The colonel.”

“Oh.” The newspapers had called him William Ward. I got it.

“I guess it
is
only a matter of time before Rafael tells all,” Draper sobbed.

“I would think so. Look. I’ll make a deal with you.” The poor man raised his head and looked at me hopefully. “I’m gonna make a call to the FBI. You’re gonna turn yourself in. You’re gonna admit your role in this scheme.”

“No!”

“Wait.” I held up my hand. “In return, I’ll take these photos with me and destroy them. Who has the negatives?”

“Rafael!”

“Well, I doubt he has them on him. They’re probably in Cuba, right?”

“I guess so.”

“What are the chances of other people knowing who the people in those pictures are?”

“I don’t know. Slim, I think.”

“That’s what I think, too. The negatives are probably hidden in a safe place, and I don’t think Pulgarón is gonna be retrieving them anytime soon. By the time someone finds them, no one’s gonna know who you are or care. Now, isn’t that a fair trade?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, then I’ll leave the photos on the floor and still call the FBI. Either way you’re going to jail.”

“No!”

“Well?”

“All right, I’ll confess!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

I went to his phone and dialed
O
. Went through the rigmarole of getting connected to the FBI again. The same agent answered the line. I asked him for his name, and he replied that it was Richardson. Once more, I told Agent Richardson about a U.S. traitor, trussed up in his apartment. I held the phone to Draper and nodded at him. He spoke slowly and succinctly, but he confessed it all. How he worked at the U.N., had met Pulgarón on a flight to Cuba, and one thing led to another. When he was done, I spoke to Richardson again. After I revealed Draper’s address, I said, “Listen, Agent Richardson, I’m the Black Stiletto. I better get some credit for busting this spy plot, don’t you think?”

“That’s not up to me, ma’am,” Richardson answered. “But I’d
appreciate it if you give me your real name and address. We’d like to talk to you.”

I laughed aloud. “Nice try, buster. See you in the comic books.” I hung up, grabbed Draper’s photographs, and stuck them in the envelope. The traitor cried again. I felt kinda sorry for him, but he was still a Commie spy. I patted his head and said, “Take care of yourself, Draper.”

As I made my way home to the gym, I tore the photos into tiny pieces and left them in a trashcan here, a trashcan there, and so on, all the way down to the East Village.

Like I said, I was a little miffed when I saw the papers this morning and the Stiletto wasn’t mentioned. And neither was Draper. That concerned me, too.

I went outside to a pay phone, called the FBI, and asked to speak with Agent Richardson. When he finally answered, I told him who I was.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“My, you’re polite. Did you pick up the package I left for you last night?”

“We did. Thank you for the tip.”

“You’re welcome. I didn’t see anything in the papers about him.”

“That’s right. We’re keeping his arrest under wraps for now.”

“Oh? Why?”

“He’s a bigger fish than the others. United Nations and all. Sorry, I can’t reveal more. Oh, and by the way, we found Mr. Pulgarón dead in his cell last night. He’d hung himself.”

At first I was stunned. Was Richardson telling the truth? Had the Commie really committed suicide or was he the victim of an “accident?” In all honesty, I didn’t care much. After all, the guy
had
seen my real face. Now there was no one who could identify me.

“I see,” was all I said about that. Then I asked him, “Any reason why I didn’t get any credit for these arrests?”

“Ma’am, you’re a fugitive wanted by the NYPD. The FBI can’t very well tell the world you’re the one who gave us the tips, now could we?”

“I suppose you’re right, but it’s not really fair, is it?”

“Can’t help it, ma’am.”

“I hope you’re not going to hurt Mister Draper. He’s the sensitive type.”

“We’ll take good care of him, ma’am.”

“Thank you. You’re a nice man, Agent Richardson. Maybe someday we’ll meet.”

“I’m sure we will.”

We will?

“Nice talking with you. Goodbye.”

I hung up and went back to the gym. It sounds silly, I know, but I was hoping I’d get some press for what I did. Was it naïve to think it might help my standing with the cops? I guess it was. But by writing it all down—all the events of the past couple of days—at least that’s made me feel better. It was satisfying enough, knowing I helped put away some Reds.

Score one for America.

27
Roberto
T
HE
P
RESENT

I found where Tony was livin’ in Queens, just where Guido said. The guy was in a dump almost as awful as mine. A ground-floor apartment in Astoria, not too far from the park. Crappy neighborhood. I guess the rent was cheap. Saw Tony leave his building. Tony the Tank had become a fat old man. He walked with a cane. Went down to the corner grocery store, slowly strolled back to his buildin’ with a shoppin’ bag in one hand and the cane in the other. I didn’t feel sorry for him.

This was gonna be easy.

I crossed the street and approached him from behind, just as he unlocked the front door to his buildin’. I reached beyond him and held the door open for him.

“Thanks,” he said, barely lookin’ at me.

“My pleasure, Tony,” I replied.

He turned his head at me again and squinted. Maybe his eyes weren’t so good. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“You sure do. It’s me, Roberto. Roberto Ranelli.”

He dropped his bag of groceries. “Oh, lemme get that for you,” I said, so I did.

We stood there in the open doorway for what seemed like a whole minute. He was speechless. Finally, I said, “You gonna ask me in, or what?”

“Uh, sure, Roberto. Come on in. It’s good to see you.”

I followed him down a dingy hallway to a room at the back, carryin’ his groceries. He unlocked the door and we went inside. Just a studio apartment. Smelled like cat litter. Sure enough, there were two of the mangy things, slinkin’ around and makin’ them noises. I hate cats. I used to hunt stray cats when I was a kid and have some fun with ‘em when I caught ‘em. Gave me practice for what I’d do to my enemies later on.

“I heard you were gettin’ out,” Tony said. “It was in the paper, did you know that?”

“No. Why would they put it in the paper?”

“Just a small item. It made more of the fact you’d been in for fifty years or whatever it was. Now you’re out and you’re, what, seventy-something?”

“Seventy-eight.”

“Yeah. How do they think a man can get a job at our age? And when you can’t, what do they think you can live on?”

“You sayin’ I’m better off in prison, Tony?”

“No, Roberto, I’m not sayin’ that. Sit down. You want coffee?”

“Nah. Thanks.” I took one of two chairs at a small dinin’ table.

“I’m gonna make some for me. You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Tony went over to his gas stove and boiled water. He had one of those cup thingies with a filter that you put on top of a mug. I watched and waited.

“So where you livin’?” he asked.

“Brooklyn. Got a place kinda like yours.”

“A dump? You live in a dump, too? Is that what happens to all us old gangsters?” He laughed. I didn’t. “Not many of us still around, Roberto.”

“I know.”

“Actually, I can’t think of anyone else. Do you know of any one?”

“I saw Guido Rossi.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about Guido. How’s Guido doin’? Haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“He’s alive. Still.”

“Good for him.” Tony finished makin’ the coffee and sat down across from me. “So to what do I owe this wonderful visit?” he asked.

“Nothin’. Just came to see you is all.”

“Well, thank you, Roberto. I appreciate it.”

“Actually I wanted to know somethin’.”

“What? If I know the answer, I’ll be happy to tell you.” He lifted the mug of coffee to his mouth.

“Is Judy Cooper still alive?”

Tony spurted the hot liquid. I guess I touched a nerve. He put the cup down and wiped his mouth, pretendin’ it was nothin’. “Judy who?”

“Judy Cooper.”

“I don’t know a Judy Cooper.”

“Sure you do. You did. She was Fiorello Bonacini’s girlfriend, remember? The good-lookin’ dame from Texas?”

“Oh, yeah! Golly, Roberto, I haven’t thought about her in years. In, like,
forever.
Why in the world would you want to know if she’s still kickin’?”

“Kickin’. I like that, Tony. Kickin’ is the right word for her, ain’t it.”

“Huh?”

“Why do you think I wanna find her, Tony?”

“I don’t know.”

“So answer me. Is she still alive?”

The man looked away, sipped his coffee. “How should I know? I haven’t seen her since Kennedy was president.”

“You know where she lives, Tony?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Can’t say or won’t say?”

“Roberto. Jesus, what’s this all about?” He turned to me as he put his mug on the table. His hands were shakin’. He was hidin’ somethin’.

I stood and went around the table. I picked up his cane, held it in both hands, and placed it across the front of his neck.

“Roberto! What are you doin’? Hey!”

I pulled the cane, chokin’ him a little. He struggled and gasped and made all the right noises. Then I stopped. He coughed and spit and wheezed.

“You know where she is, Tony,” I said. “And you’d better tell me.”

“Roberto, I don’t know nothin’, I swear.” He was really scared now. Tremblin’ like a frightened puppy. He’d placed his hands on the table and nervously fiddled with his fingers. I popped the cane down hard on ‘em. He yelled. I’m pretty sure I broke some of the bones in his right hand. I didn’t care if he attracted anyone’s attention. If someone came, I’d just hurt them, too. Tony musta seen I meant business. He said, “Okay, okay, Roberto. Hold on. Wait.” He held his hurt hand under his arm and rocked back and forth. “Why didja do that, Roberto? Fuck, Roberto. It hurts!”

“Of course it hurts. That’s the idea,” I said. “You gonna tell me what I want to know or you want me to break the other one?”

“No, no, I may have somethin’. Just a minute. Please. Don’t hit me again.”

“I’m waitin’.” I didn’t want to let on I was feelin’ a bit of pain in my chest from all the excitement. Damn heart murmur.

He stood and went to a nightstand by his crummy bed. Opened a drawer with his good hand, reached in, and pulled out a couple of envelopes. “I might have somethin’ here from Judy. It’s really, really old.” Tony sat on the bed, pulled off a rubber band, and started goin’ through ‘em. I stood there and watched. I shoulda taken ‘em from him, but I didn’t. I was stupid.

Eventually he picked out three envelopes. I wasn’t sure what
the hell he was doin’ at first, but he started tearin’ a strip off the top of each one. Maybe I thought he was gonna give me the pieces. I was dumb, ‘cause as soon as he’d torn corners off all three envelopes—
he stuck ‘em in his mouth and swallowed ‘em
.

“You piece of shit!” I shouted. I struck him several times with the cane and he rolled over onto the floor. I quickly grabbed the torn envelopes and realized what he’d done. He’d ripped off the return addresses and postmarks and then ate ‘em. I went through the rest of the letters, but they were from people I didn’t know. I took a card out of one of the envelopes. It was a birthday card and she’d written, “Hi Tony, I hope this finds you well. Will write more later.” Signed it “Judy.” The other two were handwritten letters. I read ‘em, but there wasn’t a single clue about where she lived when she wrote ‘em.

I beat Tony to death anyway and left his buildin’.

28
Judy’s Diary
1958