The Black Stiletto

by Raymond Benson

  “Dad, I never agreed. You just thought I agreed ‘cause you don’t listen to me. You never hear what I say. Mom says the same thing.”

  Terrific. It figured Carol would take her side.

  “Well, Gina, are you sure you can get an athletics scholarship? What will you do with the degree? Either you go and be a professional athlete—and the last time I looked, there weren’t a lot of women making big bucks on balance beams—or you teach.”

  “Dad.”

  “What?”

  “I want to study theatre.”

  I thought I was going to spit out my pad Thai. “No you don’t.”

  “Dad! Listen to me. I’m a good actress. It’s what I really love. I mean, I love gymnastics, too, but that’s more of an exercise thing. Something I do because it feels good. I don’t want to make a living doing it.”

  “You can’t make a living as an actress.”

  “Plenty of people do.”

  “Gina, an extremely small percentage of actors actually makes money. They all can’t be Julia Roberts.”

  She made one of her dad-you-are-so-not-with-it faces.

  “Sweetheart, I want you to study something practical. It’s a tough world out there. You need a skill you can make a real living doing.”

  “What, like being a boring accountant?” She said it as if it was the lowest career move possible.

  “It’s put food on your table and clothes on your back, young lady.”

  She didn’t apologize.

  You know, it hurt to hear what she said. My daughter thinks I’m boring. I suppose I could say this was the kind of thing all fathers experience with teenage girls—and boys—and I should just shrug it off. But I couldn’t. It really bothered me.

  We spent the rest of the dinner in an awkward silence. When we were done, we went to my house. She went up to her room and then primped in the bathroom for five minutes—and then Jon came and picked her up. He seemed nice enough when Gina introduced me to him. At least he didn’t seem gay or anything, like some of those drama types.

  I figured she’d come in late and I wouldn’t see her until morning. Still stinging a bit from Gina’s denigration, I fixed myself a cocktail and sat down to read more of my mom’s diary.

  15

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  When I climbed over the roof edge and landed on my feet, I looked below. Someone was chasing me up the stairs. A single guy. It was difficult to see his face—only the top of his head was visible and he was moving fast. I turned and quickly surveyed the landscape.

  Rooftops. Of various heights.

  Maybe going up wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  I had to do something, so I sprinted across the roof to the back. Lucky for me, there was one of those bunkhouse type structures with a metal door presumably leading to a stairwell that descended back into the hotel. I grabbed the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Thinking quickly, I pulled the lockpicks out of the pouch on my belt, fumbled with them for another second, and then poked one into the keyhole.

  Gunfire!

  A bullet ricocheted off the metal door a few inches from my head. I stole a quick glance back. The man chasing me had reached the roof and had fired from the edge.

  It was Roberto Ranelli.

  The lockpick didn’t work. I had to try a different one.

  The enforcer fired a second shot. This time the round struck the roof near my right foot, spewing a cloud of cement chips and debris.

  He ran toward me. The next shot wouldn’t miss.

  Thank God the second lockpick did the trick and the door opened. I spun inside and slammed the door shut, locking it behind me. The stairs descended to the thirteenth floor, the highest in the building. I set off, taking the steps two at a time; but when I reached the next landing I heard two more muffled gunshots above me. Roberto had shot out the lock in the door. I kept going to the twelfth floor, then the eleventh. At one point he leaned over the rail and fired a shot at me down the center of the stairwell. The bullet didn’t hit me—I don’t know where it went—but the noise was monstrously loud and echoed all the way down to the bottom.

  Nothing I could do but keep running. If I had to fight my way out the front door of the hotel, I would.

  It was a good thing I had spent the last few years training with Freddie, otherwise I would have run out of breath long before. I had a feeling it wasn’t so easy for the man chasing me—I could hear him panting heavily, even from the distance between us.

  The stairwell finally came to an end on the second floor. I’d have to expose myself by going out to the elevator lobby and taking the open staircase down to the ground. Unfortunately, the lobby outside the door was full of people—mostly mobsters. My handiwork in the ladies’ room and in the DeLuca’s suite had obviously been discovered. The sound of running footsteps above me grew closer. He’d be on me in a few seconds. There was no other option. I burst out of the stairwell and flew down the staircase toward the back exit near the kitchen.

  Someone shouted, “Hey! Look there!”

  I was out the door in a flash and in the alleyway that ran parallel to the building. I reached the outer door, opened it, and erupted onto 44th Street. The front of the hotel was mobbed, no pun intended. An ambulance stood at the curb, along with two police cars. I didn’t linger. I bolted across the street, barely dodging oncoming traffic. Horns blared, attracting attention my way. Once on the other side of the street, I ran west toward Sixth Avenue, zigzagging through pedestrians and New Years Eve revelers. As soon as I got to the corner, I heard a single pair of running footsteps behind me.

  Ranelli had continued the chase alone.

  I darted back across 44th Street, heading south along Sixth. More people. Shouts of alarm as I rushed past. I took a chance and attempted to cross Sixth Avenue. A taxicab screeched to a halt and slammed into my left side, knocking me to the ground. If the driver hadn’t braked, I’d be dead. Still, the impact stunned me and I don’t know how long I laid there before I was able to pull myself up. I heard the driver say, “Lady? Are you all right?”

  The pursuing footsteps reached the avenue.

  I leaped to my feet, running as hard as I could.

  A gunshot. Screams.

  My left leg hurt badly. I was going to have a heck of a bruise there the next day, if I lived to see it. But I made it to the west side of Sixth Avenue and continued running south. I fell when I reached the corner of 42nd Street and Sixth. I don’t know what I tripped on, but I did. Maybe it was a wet spot on the pavement, or maybe it was an empty champagne bottle—I have no idea. At any rate, I went flying and did a belly flop on the sidewalk. It hurt so much I wanted to cry out, but I didn’t.

  Roberto Ranelli reached the corner just as I stood. He pointed his pistol at me—onlookers gasped and at least two women screamed at the sight.

  I was dead. I knew it.

  The killer pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  The gun was empty. He’d fired six shots and hadn’t stopped to reload.

  I faced Roberto and assumed a defensive position—legs apart, arms raised, hands flat and stiff.

  “I will kill you for this,” he spat as he holstered his gun. “Whoever you are. You and your entire family!” And then he attacked.

  A fist flew at my face. I deftly blocked it by chopping it away with a knife-hand blow to his forearm. He grunted and tried again, but missed. I saw an opening best suited for a boxing cross, so I let him have it. My fist connected with his jaw and his head jerked back. He recovered quickly and moved closer. I wanted to strike again, but I froze. I’m not sure what happened to me, but I forgot everything I was trained to do. I was a brown belt in karate, for Christ’s sake, and I couldn’t remember the first thing of how to defend myself.

  Before I could react at all, he clobbered me with a powerful right hook that connected with my left cheekbone. I swear I saw stars as lightning bolts of pain shot through my skull. His other fist slammed int
o my mouth, once, twice, and then he got me with another right hook. Reflexively, I brought up my leg and attempted a front kick—but he was too quick for me. He caught my leg, as if he’d been expecting my maneuver, and held it tightly. I hit him hard on the chest with a shotei uchi—a palm heel strike—but he used my instability to his advantage and toppled me. I fell hard and tried to roll away before he could kick me in the side, but I wasn’t fast enough. The toe of his shoe crashed into my right ribs, sending intense explosions of agony up my spine and into my brain. And then he kicked me again as I rotated, catching the blow this time in my stomach. It seriously knocked the wind out of me, but I had the presence of mind to lash out from my balled position at his stationary leg with a side kick. He yelped in pain and also dropped to the ground. I hoped I’d broken his tibia.

  I crawled onto my hands and knees, desperately attempting to catch my breath. My lungs wouldn’t work. I simply gasped in pain and struggled to relax the spasm in my diaphragm.

  Breathe, Soichiro would say. Breathe.

  Yeah, right.

  Roberto’s face was distorted in a grimace as he held his lower leg, writhing on the ground. Perhaps I did break it.

  Then, precious oxygen finally filled my lungs. Sounded like a wheezing motor when I finally inhaled. The blinding stars in my vision slowly dissipated, so I got to my feet and shook my head.

  Pedestrians stared at me. I heard police sirens. I had to get out of there. But there was something I had to do.

  I drew the stiletto from its sheath and approached Roberto. I kicked his arm, causing him to let go of his leg. With one hand, I grabbed him by the neck and slammed his back onto the sidewalk. I held him there and touched the tip of the blade to his cheek. He opened his eyes and stared at me—looking past the mask and into my own eyes. He squinted and then his pupils flared.

  Did he recognize me?

  “This is for Fiorello,” I said. I raised the stiletto, ready to plunge it into his chest—when a police car screeched around the corner, its lights blazing. The crowd around us immediately dispersed, making room for the cruiser to drive on the sidewalk and stop just a few feet from where Roberto and I lay in a frozen tableau.

  Then a second patrol car roared around the corner and pulled up behind the first.

  Policemen jumped out of the cars, took cover behind open doors, drew their guns, and aimed at me.

  “Freeze!” one shouted.

  I hesitated. My acute hearing picked something out of the street noise that didn’t belong. A low rumbling. A train. Below me, underground. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the 42nd Street and Sixth Avenue subway entrance about ten yards away.

  Slowly, I lowered my hands and sheathed the stiletto, and stood. I don’t think the police had seen the knife, otherwise they would’ve ordered me to drop it.

  “Put your hands up!”

  I showed them my empty palms and raised my arms, elbows bent, my hands at shoulder level.

  And then I bolted.

  “Halt!”

  One of the cops fired his gun and missed, but whoever was in charge shouted, “Hold your fire!”

  I dashed into the subway entrance and practically flew down the steps. As I ran, the pain in my ribs increased—I wagered at least one was broken. Reaching the station below, I leaped over the turnstile, and felt a sudden wave of nausea as I ran down the platform. Fighting the dizziness, I continued running, prepared to jump onto the tracks if I had to—but the train I’d heard was just pulling in. Several policemen followed me down and gave chase. The train stopped and the doors opened. I pushed through the crowd getting off and boarded several cars ahead of the cops. Had they gotten on? I didn’t know.

  The doors closed and the train pulled away from the station. I wasn’t sure which platform I’d been on. Was I going uptown or downtown? I didn’t care, I just had to move forward and be ready to jump out at the next stop. As it was late on New Year’s Eve, the train was full of people. They looked at me as if I were an alien creature from one of those dumb science-fiction movies that were so popular. I ignored the stares and moved forward in the car until I came to the door at the front. I pulled it open and stepped out, between the train cars, and opened the next one. Before I went farther toward the front of the train, I suddenly realized I’d be too far from the subway exit on the platform when I got off. The turnstiles were usually situated in the middle. So I stayed put.

  I never saw the cops. The train slowed and eventually stopped. Thirty-Fourth Street. I was on a downtown train, thank God. I joined a throng of passengers as they poured out of the car. Sure, there were comments: “What the—?” and “Who are you, lady?” and “Get a load of this!” and “What are you supposed to be?” But I pushed through them, made it to the turnstiles, exited like a normal paying customer, and hobbled up the steps.

  I was at Macy’s and Herald Square.

  The rest of the trip home was a blur. I was in pain and scared out of my mind. I really don’t remember how I did it. It was on foot the whole way, I can tell you that much. But I managed to avoid people, stick to the shadows, and stay as invisible as possible.

  So much for the Black Stiletto’s first “adventure.”

  16

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  The next morning was difficult, to say the least. I was sore all over and my head hurt. Roberto Ranelli had really slammed me with a few good ones. I had a large discoloration on my left cheek and my eye above it was bloodshot. My lips were puffy and cut. My entire right side and stomach was bruised from Roberto’s kicks and my left leg was stiff and marked from being hit by the taxi. I walked with a limp, but nothing was broken.

  When I came into the kitchen, Freddie was sitting at our little dining table, the New York Daily News in hand. Coffee and breakfast. He glanced up and his mouth dropped.

  “Jesus, Judy!” He stood.

  “I’m all right,” I said, gesturing him back down. “Just let me get some coffee.”

  “You sit, I’ll get it.” He kept his eyes on me as I sat at the table and slid the newspaper over in front of me. Poured some coffee and set the cup on the table. “Eggs?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  The headline read: MAFIA HEAD DEAD. In smaller lettering was a subheading: POLICE SEARCH FOR MYSTERY FEMALE ASSASSIN. I winced and then read the story.

  Don DeLuca had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. His neck was broken. His wife was quoted as saying that a “woman dressed entirely in black” had threatened them in their Algonquin Hotel suite. Mrs. DeLuca was convinced the “mystery assassin” killed her husband, but I knew that wasn’t true. The man fell and hit his head on the coffee table; he broke his neck in the process. I may have been indirectly responsible, but I didn’t kill him. The story went on to say the hotel receptionist testified someone calling herself “the Black Stiletto” had phoned for an ambulance from the DeLuca suite.

  To further complicate things, a second homicide had occurred elsewhere in the hotel. The body of Vittorio Ranelli was found in the ladies’ room on the first floor of the hotel. Cause of death was not revealed, nor was the mystery woman from the DeLuca suite implicated. Several arrests had been made, including that of Roberto Ranelli, Vittorio’s twin brother and alleged Mafia hit man. Like Tony had said, both Ranellis were wanted for questioning in several murder cases. The surviving Ranelli had been treated at Bellevue Hospital for a head injury and a broken leg, and then released into police custody. Most of the other arrests involved possession of illegal weapons and using them in a public place.

  New York’s Mayor Robert Wagner was quoted as saying that Giorgio DeLuca was a known criminal, the head of a powerful Italian organized crime operation, and that he “got what he deserved.” DeLuca had been arrested numerous times over the years on a variety of charges, mostly racketeering, but the police never had sufficient evidence to bring the don to trial. The mayor went on to say, “Whoever this mystery woman is—this ‘Black Stiletto,’ or whatever she calls herse
lf—what she did was wrong in the eyes of the law. But in reality she did the city a favor.”

  Nevertheless, Police Commissioner Stephen Kennedy reiterated the woman was wanted for questioning and asked that anyone with information pertaining to the assassin’s identity should come forward. He added that the police were pleased Roberto Ranelli was apprehended “at last.”

  The U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Paul Williams, declared there was enough evidence against Ranelli on one case to bring him to trial for murder and that the mobster “would be going away for a long time.”

  It was all scary stuff, but I felt avenged. The don had died—not by my hand—but I suppose one could argue it was because of me. Vittorio received his comeuppance. And it appeared Roberto would spend the rest of his life in prison. That was good enough for me.

  Freddie slapped the plate of eggs on the table and retook his seat.

  “So,” he said.

  “So what?”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. I was hoping he wouldn’t figure it out, but I guess it was kind of obvious, considering what I looked like.

  “Freddie—”

  He held up his hands. “I’m not tellin’ anyone. Don’t worry.”

  “Look, I—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything, Judy. I think I understand why you did it. I don’t approve, but I understand. I strongly suggest, though, that you never do it again. You could have been hurt pretty bad. Or worse. Hell, they coulda arrested you. You’d be tried for murder, even if the victim was a Mafia hit man.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes as I tried to eat. He was right, of course. But what Freddie didn’t understand was how the whole experience had made me feel. Donning that disguise—the costume—empowered me. It gave me some sort of entitlement I didn’t have as normal, everyday Judy Cooper. It provided me with a purpose for all the lessons and training—the boxing, the karate, the knife wielding. I really didn’t think I could give it up. Not yet, anyway.