The Black Stiletto by Raymond Benson

been independent and solitary, so having a man like Fiorello in charge was a welcome novelty.
    Everything was all decked out in New Year’s decorations and the place was full of Italians. There was a Guido and a Rafael and a Tito and a Carmine and a Federico and a Vito amongst the men; the women were called Theresa and Francesca and Giulietta and Aurora and Mariangela. I thought I stuck out like a sore thumb with my southern ways and Texas accent, but everyone was really nice. Fiorello obviously commanded respect. He was a big shot in this crowd. It was very exciting.
    The food was out of this world. All kinds of pasta dishes, salads, veal chops, incredible desserts that rivaled Ferrara’s, and wine, wine, wine. And the best champagne I’ve ever had. Fiorello called it Dom Perignon, “a French concoction,” he said with displeasure; but he admitted it was very good.
    There was a dance band situated in what was normally the lobby’s cocktail lounge. They mostly played songs from the forties, but there were a few from recent years. Fiorello and I danced—something else that was fairly new to me. Lucy and I had danced a little at the Copacabana, but nothing as intense as this was. Fiorello was a terrific dancer—his lead was all I needed to follow along and not make a fool of myself. I was hoping the band would maybe play some rock and roll music, but they didn’t. They did, however, play Elvis’s song, “Love Me Tender,” and Fiorello held me really close when we danced to that. I was in heaven.
    At one point, a man around Fiorello’s age came up to us and the two men greeted each other like long lost brothers. The guy was heavy, with the largest nose I’d ever seen on a person. He had the sweetest eyes, though. My intuition liked him immediately.
    Fiorello introduced us. “Judy, this is my fellow paesano, my compare, Tony the Tank. Tony, this is the lovely Miss Cooper.”
    Tony the Tank bowed, took my hand, and kissed it. “A pleasure,madam, a pleasure. Any friend of Fiorello’s is a friend of mine.”
    “ Grazie ,” I said. Fiorello had taught me the Italian word for “thank you.” “Please call me Judy.”
    Tony immediately attempted a Cary Grant imitation that failed miserably. “Judee, Judee, Judee, how lovely you are this evening! Happy New Year to you.”
    After he moved away, Fiorello said, “Tony is my best friend in the whole world. We grew up together.”
    “Why do you call him Tony the Tank?”
    Fiorello patted his tummy. “Isn’t it obvious? Tony doesn’t mind. We all have our little nicknames.”
    “Oh? And what’s yours?”
    “Sometimes they call me Flash.”
    “Flash?”
    “ Si .”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m flashy?” He winked at me and I laughed. It was truly a novel experience having a man around who made me laugh.
    At that moment, I felt something change in the room. Everyone seemed to direct their attention to one end, where a large man had just entered with a small entourage. He was in his sixties, I guessed, also heavily built, with grey hair and a dour expression. He had his arm looped through the arm of an elderly woman who, in contrast to her escort, was beaming with delight. Obviously the man’s wife. Behind them were two men who were the same person—well, they were identical twins. Their faces were oh-so-serious, as if they were angry at being there.
    “That is the don,” Fiorello whispered.
    “The don?”
    “Don Giorgio DeLuca. The boss. He is the head of the family. A very important man. The reason why we are here tonight. He is our host.”
    “Is that his wife?”
    “ Si . We call her Mrs. DeLuca.”
    “And who are the other two guys? Are they twins?”
    “Can’t tell them apart, can you? I understand even Don DeLuca has trouble identifying them. They are his bodyguards, a couple of the family’s enforcers.”
    “They look scary.”
    “They are scary. Very tough men.”
    “Have they killed people?”
    Fiorello just raised