The Black Stiletto

by Raymond Benson

  “Yeah? Who’s the new don?”

  “His name is Franco DeLuca, Giorgio’s little brother. You remember meeting him?”

  “I don’t think I ever did.”

  “Oh. Well, Franco’s the new Don DeLuca.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t care. I wasn’t involved with any of those people any more.

  “Judy, I came here to warn you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a price on your head. Franco’s made it his mission in life to whack you.”

  I felt my stomach suddenly churn. “Me? Why me?”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Because of who you are at night. You know, the Black Stiletto.”

  I swear my heart skipped a beat. How did he know? Jesus, I was real scared all of a sudden. “What are you talking about?” I asked him, trying to keep my cool.

  “Judy, I know it’s you. No one else does, though. At least, I don’t think so.”

  I was real quiet for a long time.

  “Judy, say somethin’.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I just put two and two together. I know you train at that gym and take those weird Jap fightin’ lessons. Fiorello taught you how to use a knife—yeah, I know that, too, he told me. And I realized—I’m the one who told you Don DeLuca gave the order to clip Fiorello and the Ranelli boys did the job. I sure didn’t tell anyone else. Just you. I figured it out.”

  In a way it made me a little angry that someone else besides Freddie knew the truth about me. But I couldn’t blame Tony. It was my own dumb fault.

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  “Nothin’. You just gotta be careful. I don’t think the Black Stiletto should show her face, er, mask, er, you know what I mean. There are standin’ orders to kill you on sight.”

  “Great. The Mafia wants to kill me, the NYPD wants to kill me. I’m quite the popular girl in town, aren’t I?”

  Tony shrugged with his hands. “Hey, you don’t have to keep doin’ all that stuff. You could make it go away by makin’ her go away.”

  “Look, Tony, you’re gonna keep this a secret, right?”

  He looked at me like I was nuts. “Of course! Judy, I ain’t no rat. I’d never tell ‘em. I’d never tell anybody.”

  “Promise?”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave, bless her heart.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, did she pass on? She lived in Italy, right?”

  “She still does. She ain’t dead yet. But you know what I mean.”

  “Tony.”

  “I swear, Judy. I’ll never tell a soul. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Okay, Tony. I’m countin’ on you,” I said.

  Still, I was uncomfortable with the fact that two people—Freddie and Tony—knew I was the Black Stiletto. I remembered something my brother John once told me when I was little—once a secret is known by more than one person, it’s no longer a secret.

  21

  Roberto

  THE PRESENT

  I found out for a fact our thing don’t exist anymore. Not like it was, anyway.

  The only guy from the old crew who was still around and easy to locate was Guido Rossi. He was a little younger than me, maybe by two years. I didn’t know him all that well in the old days, but he knew who I was. I remembered him, though, as soon as I saw his beady eyes and long nose. His nickname was “Swordfish” because of the nose. Some of the guys would laugh at him and bring up the old Marx Brothers routine where “swordfish” was a password to get into a speakeasy durin’ Prohibition. That’s all I remembered about Guido. I never knew what he did for the family.

  Guido was in a retirement home, one of those places they call “assisted living.” I hope I never have to be in one of them fuckin’ places. Not as bad as nursin’ homes, but still pretty awful. Might as well be in Sing Sing.

  You shoulda seen his face when he saw me. Well, at first he didn’t recognize me. I went into the place and asked to see Guido Rossi, and the lady at the desk pointed to a room where some people were playin’ cards and board games. My eyes landed right on him, and that’s when I remembered who he was. Guido was in the middle of gin rummy with some other old geezer. I walked over to the table and said, “How’s it goin’, Swordfish?” Man, he nearly dropped his hand. Guido peered up at me and adjusted his glasses.

  “It’s Roberto Ranelli,” I said.

  His jaw dropped. I thought he’d lose his false teeth. When he realized I was tellin’ the truth, he got up and gave me a big hug. I let him, although he smelled like piss. That’s the trouble with those places. Everything smells like piss. Sing Sing smelled like a lot of things, not just piss, so at least there was variety.

  We went over to a bench and talked. He treated me with respect, just as he shoulda. I asked him who was still around, that kind of thing. Guido said just about everyone was dead. He didn’t know I was still alive. None of the family existed as a unit anymore. He told me he served a little time in the sixties, three years for racketeerin’. Got out on parole and good behavior. Three years is nothin’. I told him to try fifty.

  I asked him where I should go if I wanted to work. He didn’t have a clue. Told me the Russians and Eastern Europeans butted in and moved all the Italians out of organized crime. I said I could try joinin’ their crew. He said, “With respect, Roberto, you’re too old. They’d just laugh at ya.”

  He was probably right.

  “You’re retired,” he said. “Enjoy your freedom.”

  I planned on it. As long as my money held out. Before I left, I asked him about Tony the Tank. Imagine how good it felt when I heard the guy was still alive—and livin’ in Queens.

  “Is that so? Tony and I, he was my compare,” I said, even though I couldn’t stand him back in the day.

  “Oh, he’ll be happy to see you then,” Guido said.

  He gave me what I’d been after all along: Tony’s address and phone number.

  22

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  AUGUST 12, 1958

  Had a nightmare last night that really shook me up. It was about Douglas Bates and what happened to me back in Texas. The entire episode replayed in all its perverse glory, only this time I wasn’t a little girl of thirteen. I was myself, grown, at age twenty. But I didn’t know any of my self-defense moves. I mean, I knew them, but I couldn’t remember how to do them or I was simply unable to perform. It’s like the dream you have sometimes when you’re running from someone or something and it feels like you’re in quicksand and can’t budge your legs. That’s what it was like.

  It was horrible.

  This morning I started thinking again about taking a trip back to Odessa. For a solitary moment I missed my mother and brothers. I never did send that postcard. Mostly, though, the journey would be to visit Douglas. He and I have unfinished business.

  AUGUST 14, 1958

  I’m about to go out as the Black Stiletto, only without my disguise. It will be a first. What do I mean? you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m gonna spy on some spies. That’s right! I overheard some Communist spies today and I’m gonna see what they’re up to. But the only way I can do that is by appearing in public. So Judy Cooper is gonna do a little freelance work for the government this evening.

  It started this afternoon at the gym. There was the usual crowd of men, training, exercising, and taking boxing lessons. I was busy repairing one of the sets of wall pulleys ‘cause one of the springs had come loose. Freddie had shown me how to maintain all the equipment in the gym, so that was just another part of my job. Anyway, I was standing there with my screwdriver and pliers, when I overheard two men nearby. Actually, they weren’t very close at all—maybe fifteen feet away—but my heightened hearing picked up on a few words that I thought were a little suspicious, so I intentionally eavesdropped.

  One of the men was Eric Draper, a regular. The other guy was his guest, visiting the gym for the first time. I didn’t know Draper except by sight. He was i
n his forties, balding, a bit of a paunch. He came to the gym twice a week to work feebly with some of the exercise equipment. The other man was maybe a little younger. I speculated he was probably in the military, for he had a crew cut and was in fine shape. He carried himself like an officer. Draper’s body language indicated his guest was superior both in social and professional standings.

  The words my ears picked up were: “documents,” “State Department,” “the revolution,” “Cuba,” “Castro,” and “Khrushchev.” Okay, they could’ve been diplomats or something like that, and they were simply discussing current events. We’d all been hearing about Cuba lately, how a revolution was brewing there, and that the Communists were supporting it. Khrushchev was the new guy in Russia. President Eisenhower was concerned, but so far the Cuban government seemed stable enough. I normally didn’t pay much attention to world affairs; I most likely never would’ve paid any attention to the two guys had that stuff not been prominently in the news lately.

  Additionally, it wasn’t just the words I heard that were shady—it was their demeanor. They talked in whispers, and I could see that Draper in particular was nervous. His eyes darted around the room and he kept turning his head to make sure no one was listening as they talked. Finally, I heard Draper say, “Let’s go in the locker room, it’ll be more private. We can talk there.”

  My God, these guys are Commies! The thought was alternately scary and exciting. Well, my curiosity got the better of me, so I had to listen in on the rest of their conversation. And I knew a way I could do it, too. Of course, I couldn’t just go in the men’s locker room. There was a limit to me being “one of the boys.” But there was an adjoining closet where Freddie and I kept cleaning supplies, like mops. It was accessible from a hallway that shared a wall with the locker room. The employees’ washroom—the one I used—and the office were along that same corridor. Gym patrons entered the locker room directly from the gym through a separate door. I was certain that with my acute hearing ability, I’d be able to follow the conversation with ease. So I put down my tools, left the wall pulley hanging there, went through the Employees Only door, and stepped into the hallway. I made sure no one was around, and then entered the closet. I turned an empty mop bucket upside down to use as a seat and then shut the door. Pitch-black. I could’ve turned on the light but I didn’t want Freddie or anyone else to notice it and spoil the fun.

  With my ear to the wall, I heard a shower running. After a moment, Draper and his friend entered the room. There were clangs of locker doors and small talk. The shower stopped. Wet footsteps and then greetings from Draper to the fellow who came out of the shower—Louis, one of our regulars. Draper introduced his friend as “Colonel Ward, visiting from D.C.” More small talk, and then, “Colonel, why don’t you go ahead and shower?” I figured Draper wanted Louis to leave before they finished their conversation. So I waited while Colonel Ward—I was right about him being in the military—showered. Draper and Louis shared more small talk and then Draper hit the showers. Finally, Louis left the locker room. After a couple of minutes, the colonel and Draper returned and sat on benches. Even though they spoke quietly, I could hear every word.

  “What time is your flight back to Washington?” Draper asked.

  “Nine a.m. tomorrow. I told you that.”

  “I guess the Pentagon can’t function without you for more than forty-eight hours?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Just want to make sure we’ll have time for breakfast before you head out.”

  “No, you just want to make sure you get your cut. Come on, give me the details. When’s this Pulgarón fellow arriving?” The colonel sounded testy.

  “He should already be in town. He’ll meet you tonight at the Plaza Hotel, in the Oak Bar. You know where it is?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “His flight from Cuba got in an hour ago if it was on time. He wanted you to meet him at nine tonight. I hope that’s all right.”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I? Why so late if he’s getting in now?”

  “I don’t know. It’s what Rafael requested.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “Pulgarón is about thirty two, I’d say. Dark, tan. Looks like a movie star, I guess. Hell, he’s from Cuba. Think Ricky Ricardo, only thinner.”

  “Fine,” Ward said. “What do I do in the meantime? I don’t like carrying around this stuff.”

  “What are you worried about? It’s just a briefcase like everyone else has. Go out to dinner someplace nice off Fifth Avenue. There are a lot of good restaurants in the area. Or you could go to the Plaza for dinner. I’d go with you, but I have to get back to the office. There’s a report due tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like you’re the one who’s worried, Draper. Afraid of being seen with us, is that it?”

  “N-n-no, that’s not it at all. I have responsibilities. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Sure. Pulgarón better have the money, that’s all I can say.”

  “He will. Just don’t forget my, um, percentage?”

  “We’re meeting at six o’clock at my hotel, tomorrow morning, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Let’s get out of here. This place makes me sweat.”

  “Colonel, I think that’s the idea.”

  A locker door slammed shut. I heard footsteps and then silence. They’d left the locker room. I quietly stood and opened the closet door. All clear.

  Back in the gym, I watched Draper and Colonel Ward go out the front door together. I went over to Freddie, who was working on the broken wall pulley.

  “I was gonna finish that,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t have anything else to do. Where were you?”

  “Ladies’ business.”

  Freddie nodded and made a silent “Oh” with his mouth.

  “Hey, Freddie, you know that guy Draper that comes in here?”

  “Yeah. What about him?”

  “What kind of work does he do? Do you know?”

  “He works at the United Nations. I’m not sure what he does there.”

  It’s all I needed to know. From what I gathered, Draper was the liaison between Colonel Ward—who worked at the Pentagon—and some Cuban named Rafael Pulgarón. Something was being exchanged for money and it was all a big secret. Couldn’t be good.

  So in a few minutes I’m off to the Plaza Hotel to find out more.

  23

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  AUGUST 16, 1958

  Continuing where I left off two days ago—

  I dressed in one of the nice cocktail dresses I’d bought during a shopping trip with Lucy, put on stockings and heels, and applied makeup. I placed my stiletto and other items in a handbag and took that with me. Freddie saw me strutting out of the apartment and he whistled. That made me smile.

  “You must have a hot date,” he said.

  “Maybe I do,” I replied, winking at him. Then I went downstairs and out the door. Walked up a few blocks and over to Third to catch the bus going uptown, got off at 59th Street, walked west to Fifth, and then stood in front of the magnificent Plaza Hotel. I couldn’t imagine staying in a room there; it was so fancy and expensive. I’d never even been inside. The hotel had been in the news a lot lately because of the success of a recent children’s book featuring a little girl character named Eloise, who supposedly lived on one of the top floors. I hadn’t read it. Not my thing.

  I stood in front of the main entrance on 59th Street and watched the uniformed doormen. Like little soldiers, they helped people in and out of taxis and stood at attention. Very exquisite.

  This was a new way of doing things for me, so I was a little nervous. A drink would help, so I went on inside. A doorman greeted me warmly and called me “madam.”

  The interior took my breath away. I felt as if I were in some sort of palace. The center of the lobby was an elegant sitting area surrounded by palm trees. Apparently this was the famous Palm Court I’d heard so muc
h about. Again, a concierge called me “madam” and asked if he could help. I told him I was looking for the Oak Bar, and he pointed the way.

  This room, too, was very stylish. It lived up to its name, for the walls were indeed made of oak paneling. Central Park was some sort of decorative theme, for not only did the bar’s windows overlook it, but colorful murals depicting the park in different seasons of the year hung all around. A man played soft standards on a grand piano. The atmosphere was somewhat masculine but very pleasant. I took a seat at a vacant table near one of the windows. Before long, a waiter took my order for a gin and tonic.

  At exactly nine o’clock, Colonel Ward entered. He was dressed in a suit and tie, and he carried a briefcase. The man scanned the room, frowned, and took a seat, coincidentally, at a table a few feet from mine. Eavesdropping was going to be easy. Although the bar was full of people and there was live music, it was a relatively quiet and relaxing place.

  Five minutes later, Rafael Pulgarón came through the archway. Oh my Lord, he was handsome! I’ve always heard about “Latin lovers” being dreamy, and this man did not disappoint. He was probably my height, had black slick-backed hair, dark eyes, a mustache, and thin, cruel lips. The first thing he did was light a cigarette, as if he needed it for a prop. Then he, too, surveyed the room, and his eyes fell on Colonel Ward. The Pentagon man made a slight gesture with his hand and Pulgarón nodded. The Cuban joined Ward at the table.

  “Señor Ward?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Rafael Pulgarón.” The men shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. May I?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I listened as the men ordered drinks and engaged in small talk. Nothing interesting, but I did enjoy Pulgarón’s accent. I couldn’t help stealing glances at him. He was so good looking. I hated the fact that he was a Communist spy. When you have images in your head of such men, they’re usually ugly and sinister looking. It just goes to show you that anyone can be a bad guy.