“Judy, promise me you won’t do it again.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Oh, Freddie. I don’t think I can. I’ve always wondered what I was going to be and do when I grew up. I think I just found out what that is.”
17
Martin
THE PRESENT
Gina and I went to the nursing home on Saturday to visit Mom as planned. I’ve read much of that first diary, was about halfway through it. Pretty incredible stuff. I suppose it’s all true—why wouldn’t it be? Unless my mom lived in a fantasy world and made it all up, which I don’t think is possible.
It’s been driving me crazy that there was so much about my mom I didn’t know before. This whole business has put me in a funky mood, and I woke up this morning angry. Why didn’t I know? One thing really puzzles me—how come Mom never told me about her brothers? My uncles. I wonder if they’re still alive. Did they know about their sister? From what I’ve read so far, it appeared my mom left Texas behind and never looked back. I don’t know if I should try and look them up. Wouldn’t know where to start.
At Woodlands, I signed us in and checked Mom’s mail. When she moved out of the old house, I had all mail forwarded to the nursing home. She normally didn’t get much, but today there was a letter. From New York. There was a handwritten Queens address on the envelope. I opened it and saw it was dated a couple of days earlier and was signed “Tony.”
Tony.
Tony the Tank?
“What’s that?” Gina asked.
“Just mail for your grandma.”
“And you’re reading it?”
I looked at her like she was bonkers. “Well, she can’t read it.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
I was still a little upset with my daughter. Anyway, I read the letter, which was short and to the point. Tony said it’d been a long time since he’d written, for which he apologized. He also gently chastised my mom for not writing him, too. He hoped her address hadn’t changed; if it had, he trusted the post office to forward it. Tony spent a few sentences saying his health “had improved,” whatever that meant, but that he was old and cranky. He still lived alone and was able to take care of himself, which he considered a blessing.
Then he wrote something that sent a chill down my back. He said, “The main reason I’m writing is to let you know Robert Ranelli was paroled. He’s out of jail. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, but he’s alive and he’s free.”
Damn.
Surely it couldn’t be a big deal. How could Roberto Ranelli have any idea where my mom lived now? And he’s older than she is—probably pushing eighty. Over fifty years had passed. He’d be in no shape to come looking for her.
Or could he?
Nah.
Tony closed by wishing her well and admonishing her to write. I folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and stuck it in my pocket.
Had she been in touch with Tony all these years? I never found any evidence of it when I’d gone through all her stuff in the house. All her correspondence, personal papers, and such were kept in a desk drawer in her bedroom or in a filing cabinet in what we called the “guest bedroom.” I don’t remember ever having guests. It was the catchall room for stuff that didn’t go anywhere else.
I had her address book at my house. I’d have to remember to go through it and take a closer look at what was in it. Maybe Tony’s address and phone number was there and I never knew it. I could call him. Maybe. Tell him about my mom’s condition.
Wait a minute!
If Tony was warning Mom that Roberto Ranelli was out of prison, then Tony must know Mom was the Black Stiletto!
That would be at least two people who knew her secret—Tony and Freddie Barnes, the manager of the gym where she lived and worked. Were there more?
I put all these thoughts aside. Gina and I went to the Alzheimer’s unit to see Mom. The nurse on duty stopped me to say Mom’s roommate had died. She’d eventually get another one, but for the moment Mom would be alone in her room. I didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. When we got there, mom was just sitting on her bed, staring across the way at the other empty bed. She was dressed in a nightgown.
“Hi, Mom!” I said as cheerfully as I could.
“Hi, Grandma!” Gina said, mimicking my enthusiasm.
Well, Mom’s eyes went straight to Gina and they lit up. A big smile spread across her face and she held out her arms. My daughter dutifully went to her and gave her a hug.
“How are you, Grandma? You doing okay?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” my mom answered. “I guess so.”
I took one of the chairs in the room; Gina sat on the bed with Mom. “Well, you’re looking pretty,” she told her.
“I am?”
“Sure.”
I was amazed. It wasn’t entirely clear my mom knew who Gina was—or me either—but you could see that the old gal was aware she had a connection with my daughter. And they had a decent conversation. Much better than I’m ever able to do.
“Ask her about New York,” I ventured.
“Hey, Grandma, isn’t it true you used to live in New York?”
Mom’s brow furrowed. “New York?”
“Yeah. New York City?”
Then mom smiled and nodded. “That’s right, I live in New York.”
Gina laughed. “No, Grandma, not now. You live here now. But when you were younger you lived in New York. Remember?”
“Of course.”
I wasn’t so sure she did remember or was just saying that. But then she said—
“I live at the gym.”
Gina laughed again. “The gym? You live at the gym? I didn’t know you could live in a gym, Grandma.”
I’m sure my jaw dropped.
“You’re joking, right, Grandma? You didn’t live in a gym.”
“I did,” she answered.
Gina looked at me. I just shrugged.
“Well, Grandma, who knows, maybe I’ll live in New York, too. I don’t know if I’ll live in a gym, though.”
Wait a second. “New York?” I asked.
Gina waved at me to shut up and continued talking to her grandmother. “You know I graduate from high school soon. I’ll be going away to college in the fall.”
“That’s nice,” Mom answered.
“But I’ll come and visit you as often as I can.”
“I’d like that.”
Gina got up and went to Mom’s dresser, where we keep a portable CD player and a few CDs. Mom doesn’t operate it herself, but sometimes the staff will put on music. Gina picked out a CD of Elvis Presley’s greatest hits—I’d bought it for Mom a while back because I knew she liked him.
“Feel like dancing a little?” Gina asked her.
“Gina, I don’t think she’s up to dancing,” I said.
“Sure she is.” Gina put on the CD and skipped to the track “Blue Suede Shoes.” The King started belting out the song. Gina held out her arms—and my mom took her hands and stood.
And I sat there fascinated as Gina and my mother moved around the center of the room together. Gina did most of the real dancing while holding my mom’s hands, but Mom managed to sway back and forth on her feet. Her huge smile indicated she was obviously very happy.
Astonishing.
18
Judy’s Diary
1958
Time passed and I healed, dear diary. I trained harder at the gym, continued my work with Soichiro, and tried my best to forget about what I had done on New Year’s Eve. The thing is—I had no regrets about it. Had a few nightmares and woke up with the shakes a few times, but that eventually passed. I kept telling myself Don DeLuca and the Ranelli twins got what they deserved, and that helped. The newspapers were full of speculation and innuendo about me—well, about her—and most of it was insulting and ridiculous. One paper suggested the Black Stiletto was really a man. Another claimed the mayor and the police force actually knew the Stiletto’s identity and it was their underhanded
way of striking at organized crime. Witnesses appeared on the radio, on local television newscasts, and in print, describing the Stiletto’s appearance and the “superhuman” feats she was able to do. One claimed I’d bent steel with my bare hands and “flown” like Superman. Oddly enough, not one person snapped a photo of me that night. Several artist depictions were published, though, and none of them was remotely correct.
By the end of January, the urge to don the disguise again was overwhelming. My prophetic statement to Freddie became a reality. I was the Black Stiletto, and she needed to make an appearance again. My injuries no longer hurt and I was able to run, jump, and kick even better than before.
I picked a lousy night to go out. It was snowing, the streets and sidewalks were wet and slippery, and it was cold. The leather suit kept me warm, but my hands and fingers nearly froze. I decided to incorporate gloves the next time. I did fashion a black knapsack to wear on my back. Inside it I carried a few more miscellaneous tools—additional rope, a screwdriver and small hammer, a first-aid kit, and street clothes. If I suddenly needed to become a normal pedestrian, I could strip off the mask and don a trench coat over my disguise. I didn’t know what I’d do for warmer weather, but I’d think of something.
Anyway, it was around ten o’clock at night. I was close to Washington Square Park, near NYU, darting from shadow to shadow. It was a game I played with myself—I tried to get from one part of town to another without being seen by a soul, even though dozens and dozens of people were on the streets. I was successful most of the time. If someone did happen to see me, I’d skedaddle so fast that he or she was left unsure of what they’d seen.
My second altercation with “bad guys” came when I saw a young couple leave the Waverly movie theater on Sixth Avenue and head along 4th Street toward the park. They were about my age, probably college students, obviously in love. The boy had his arm around the girl and they were giggling and cuddling, enjoying the snowfall and the intimacy of walking together. I followed them for a bit simply because they were attractive and made me feel warm inside. Not many people were out—it was a bad-weather weeknight—and the stretch of 4th Street was deserted.
As the couple approached the intersection of Thompson and 4th, three hooligans emerged from the park and stood in front of them. I sensed fear from the couple; the newcomers weren’t known to them. My acute hearing picked up harsh words from one of the thugs. The boy started to fumble with something in his pocket and then pulled out his wallet. It was a robbery, right there on the street.
My heartbeat increased and I felt an adrenaline rush. It was what I’d secretly hoped would happen. Okay, I was looking for trouble. I wanted to test myself again and see if I was ready to tackle another challenge. This incident fell right into my lap, so to speak.
I was on the opposite side of 4th, lurking in the shadows. I ran across the road and stood some ten feet away from the group.
“Don’t give him your wallet,” I said.
Everyone looked at me. I saw terror in the girl’s eyes. The three muggers jerked their heads toward me and practically snarled.
“What the hell?” one said.
“Who are you?” another asked.
“Who do you think I am?” I took a couple of steps forward.
“I don’t know, but you’re a freak, whatever you are.” the first guy said.
“Turn around and go home,” I ordered. “Let these people pass.”
“Screw you, lady.”
Then I saw the knife. One of them had a switchblade.
“You really don’t want to use that, do you?” I asked.
“Sure I do. Come closer and I’ll show you.”
I tried to laugh, you know, be cool. The truth was that I was just as scared as I’d been the first time I was the Stiletto.
Nevertheless, I stepped closer.
“Come on.” I gave him a little beckoning motion with my hands.
He came at me awkwardly, untrained and unsure of himself. I easily disarmed him, knocked the knife out of his hand, twisted his arm behind his back, and pushed it up over his shoulder blades.
The creep cried out in pain.
I didn’t break his arm, though.
“Tell your friends to beat it,” I said.
He resisted, so I put a little more pressure on his arm. He yelped and then said, through his teeth, “Beat it, guys.”
But the other two weren’t having it. They looked at each other, nodded, and then rushed me. I released Clown Number One and pushed him hard at the other two. They collided like bowling pins. Before Clown Number Two could throw a punch at me, I performed a front kick to his solar plexus. He doubled over, staggered away, and left the path clear for me to take care of his friends. Clown Number Three was on top of me by that time. He tried his best to hit me, but I dodged him easily, gave him two hard straight lefts, and then a right hook to the face. Out like a light. Clown Number One ran away.
The couple backed away from me.
“It’s okay,” I said, holding up my hands. “Are you two all right?”
They nodded, speechless.
“Do you have far to go? You want me to walk you home?”
“N-n-no, that’s okay,” the boy said. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, thanks,” the girl added.
“You’re welcome.” And, believe it or not, there was this awkward moment where none of us knew what to say next. Finally, I went, “See you around. Bye.” and started to leave.
“Wait!” the boy said.
“Yeah?”
“Are you that lady? The Black, um…?”
“Stiletto?”
“Yeah?”
“Could be.” I winked and then ran.
I thought it was a pretty classy exit.
I sat in the East Side Diner the next day with the newspaper. There was another story about me. Apparently the couple had called the cops when they got home. Somehow the Daily News found out and went over to interview the kids. The couple was enthusiastic in their praise of my “heroics,” but the paper spun it in a way that led readers to believe I might have set the whole thing up as a publicity stunt. You know, hired the muggers, just so I could save the couple and get some press. Sheesh.
Once again, there was an artist’s sketch, using the couple’s description of my disguise. It was the most accurate yet. Alas, none of the thugs came forward to provide additional information, ha ha.
“I think she’s great,” Lucy said, setting down a cup of coffee for me.
“What?”
“I said I think she’s great.” She nodded at the article. “The Black Stiletto.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“I wonder who she is.”
I shrugged. “I don’t believe she really exists.”
“No? Why not?”
“It’s kind of silly, isn’t it? Some woman dressing up like a costumed hero? Who would do that?”
“I don’t know. But enough people have seen her. She’s got to be real.”
“People claim to see flying saucers, too, Lucy. That don’t mean they’re real.”
“I know.”
The new Elvis Presley song, “Don’t,” started playing on the jukebox. I’d only heard it a couple of times, and I squealed, “Oh, you got the new record!”
“Yeah, the guy came in this morning and put new ones in it. You heard he got drafted, right?”
“Who, Elvis?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, I heard that before Christmas.”
“Would you believe they’re letting him finish his new movie before he goes?”
“Really?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “How many other people would the U.S. Army do that for?”
“I don’t know. I’m happy for Elvis. I think he’s dreamy.”
“If you say so.” She walked away to tend to more customers.
I tapped my hand to the music and reread the article about me.
The Black Stiletto made numerous but inconsequential appearances in
February and March. Nothing happened. I couldn’t find a crime to save my life. I went up and down the Bowery and even into parts of what they called Alphabet City on the Lower East Side. In April, though, I stumbled on a liquor store robbery not far from the Second Avenue Gym. A colored man who was high on something had a gun, and he was determined to relieve the proprietor of all the cash in the register. It was a place Freddie and I went to sometimes, so I actually knew the owner. Nice old Irish man; name of O’Malley.
I was on top of a building across the street when it happened. I should explain—I had mapped out a rooftop route from the gym as far as I could get going east toward First Avenue. It was impossible, of course, to go west—Second Avenue was a bit wide, ha ha, and I could only go so far north and south before hitting the respective 2nd or 1st Street impasses. Usually I left my bedroom window, climbed to the roof by means of the fire escape, ran east along 2nd Street to a spot I knew where I could shimmy down a telephone pole to the ground. It was in such a dark and unobtrusive spot on the street that no one ever saw me. From there I’d make my way on foot to my destination, wherever it might be.
Anyway, I was at that telephone pole, about to descend to the sidewalk, when I looked down and over at the liquor store. Through the window I saw the robber pull a gun and watched poor old O’Malley raise his hands. I was down that pole in a flash. Before O’Malley had managed to get the cash register drawer open, I was in the store.
Since the crook had a loaded weapon, I drew the stiletto and pointed it. “Drop the gun and nobody gets hurt,” I said. Well, my voice must’ve startled the guy, who was already hopped up on some of those drugs they take, and he turned and fired at me! Luckily, he was a very bad aim, but the bullet shattered the glass window on the storefront. I ducked down an aisle for cover—and the guy fired again at the bottles above my head. It was vodka or gin—I can’t remember—but I was drenched. It took me days to clean it out of my suit.
“Call the police!” I shouted at O’Malley, but he was too scared to move. He kept his hands raised, fearful that the robber would turn back and shoot him out of spite.
I kept hidden, but I ran down the aisle and up the next one so I’d be behind the crook. The sight of me had shaken him pretty badly, so he wasn’t thinking straight. I could hear exactly where he was, too. When I came around the edge of the aisle, his back was to me. He pointed the gun down the vacant aisle, wondering where the heck I was.
The Black Stiletto Page 13
