BS01 - The Black Stiletto by Raymond Benson

Author:Raymond Benson [Benson, Raymond]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller
Publisher: Midpoint Trade Books
Published: 2011-09-04T14:00:00+00:00

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.

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