The Black Stiletto

by Raymond Benson

  After fifteen minutes or so, Colonel Ward finally asked, “Can we get down to business?”

  Pulgarón replied, “Of course. I suggest we go up to my suite. Let me get this.”

  My heart sank. His suite? How was I going to eavesdrop?

  I, too, gestured for the waiter to bring me the bill. It was the most expensive drink I’d ever had, but it was worth it simply to sit in such a prestigious place. But now it was time to go to work, with a great deal of improvisation involved.

  The men got up and left the room. I followed closely behind, trying my best not to attract too much attention. When they got into the elevator, I slipped in at the last second. Besides Ward and Pulgarón, there were three other passengers. I was simply another guest of the hotel.

  “Floor, madam?” the operator asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your floor, madam?”

  Oh, no! I thought. I wanted to get off on the same one as my prey. To my relief, the other guests called out their floor numbers, and then Pulgarón said, “Three.”

  “I’m three as well,” I answered.

  When we got there, the men expected me to get off first, so I did. I turned toward the corridor lined with rooms and walked ahead, praying that Pulgarón’s room wasn’t all the way at the end. Thankfully, I heard the Cuban unlock a door behind me. I turned slightly and saw them entering a room not far from the elevator. Good. I slowed my purposeful gait, turned around, and quietly stepped back to Pulgarón’s suite. Then I stood there, my back to the wall, and my handbag in front of me to “dig through” in case someone appeared and wondered what I was doing all alone out in the hall.

  My ears pricked up, tuning in on the men’s voices, which I could hear through the door and wall. Pulgarón asked Ward to sit for a moment while he “retrieved” something from his bedroom. Probably the money.

  Finally, the Cuban joined the colonel and their conversation went something like this—

  Colonel: “Everything you requested is here. The documents are classified top secret, outlining the Pentagon’s plans for Cuba. Eisenhower signed off on them, as you can see. They’re copies, of course.”

  Pulgarón: “Very good, colonel.” The Cuban ruffled through the papers. “Si. Si. Oh, this is good. And what is this?”

  Colonel: “Oh, that’s our nuclear capability with regard to Cuba. In other words, it shows you what we have aimed at your country.” He laughed uncomfortably.

  Pulgarón: “I see. Señor Khrushchev will be very interested in this.”

  Colonel: “You really think Castro and Guevara are going to succeed?”

  Pulgarón: “There is no question. Batista and his regime will be on the run within months. But if Castro trades these documents to the Soviets for much-needed arms and equipment, Cuba will be in the hands of the revolutionaries a lot sooner. Maybe by October. This is very good indeed.”

  Colonel: “Fine. Now, what about my money?”

  Pulgarón: “It’s all here. You may count it if you wish.”

  Colonel: “Thanks. I think I will.”

  Pulgarón: “Take your time. I must make a phone call.”

  I heard the Cuban go into the bedroom; his voice became much fainter. It didn’t matter much, for he spoke Spanish into the phone—I couldn’t have understood him had he been right in front of me.

  Suddenly, the elevator bell dinged! I froze.

  An elderly couple came out and walked past me. I pretended to look through my handbag. “I know that key’s in here somewhere.” I muttered.

  The couple didn’t pay any attention to my “predicament.” The man simply said, “Good evening,” as they walked past. They unlocked and went through a door a little farther down the hall.

  Then I heard movement behind Pulgarón’s door. The two men were about to leave! I quickly skirted away from the door and went to the elevator. Next to it was a stairwell door, so I slipped through it just as I heard Ward and Pulgarón exit the suite.

  Pulgarón was saying, “One more drink, but then I must retire. It’s been a long day and I have another one tomorrow, getting back to Havana.”

  “I’m always up at the crack of dawn. Earlier, in fact,” the colonel said. “You get used to it in the army.”

  The elevator arrived and they got in.

  I emerged from the stairwell and pondered what to do next.

  24

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  Had to put down the diary and go to work on Monday morning. Mondays are hell as a matter of course, but I knew this one would be particularly crappy when I walked in the office and found one of the secretaries in tears.

  “What’s wrong, Nancy?” I asked.

  “Martin, Barbara just got laid off,” she answered. Barbara was another office assistant, Nancy’s best friend there.

  “Oh, no. Gee, I’m sorry. Where is she?”

  “Probably in the bathroom. I feel so bad for her.”

  So George had been right. Brad really was axing people. I went into my private office and saw the blinking red light on the phone. Picked it up, checked the voice mail, and learned that our fearless leader wanted to see me as soon as I got in. So I went.

  Brad looked harried and more frown-faced than I’d ever seen him. His balding head was moist from perspiration. I guess firing people wasn’t so easy for him.

  “What’s up, Brad?” I asked.

  “Sit down, Martin.” He indicated the empty chair in front of his desk.

  Suddenly, I got a sick feeling in my stomach.

  He wouldn’t dare.

  I sat. Brad opened a folder on his desk and studied some numbers. Kept me in suspense for a whole minute. Bastard.

  “Martin, as you know, the firm has lost a lot of business over the past year. Our profits are down and we’re not getting new clients at the rate we’d like.”

  “I’m aware of that. It’s the damned recession.”

  “Yeah. Well, I have no choice but to make some cuts in staff. I hate to do it, but it’s necessary.”

  I nodded. “I perfectly understand. Who are you letting go?”

  “Well, you, for one.”

  I’m pretty sure I blinked a few times and looked like an idiot. “What?”

  “We’ve talked about your performance, Martin. Your last two evaluations weren’t up to the standards I ask of my senior auditors. We’re giving you a month’s notice.”

  “Brad, I’ve been with the company for nearly twelve years.”

  “And you have one of the highest salaries. I’m sorry, Martin, but it’s the way it’s got to be. Now we’ll have Human Resources draw you up a nice severance package, and—”

  Everything else he said just faded out. I was stunned. I’d fucking lost my job. Unbelievable. I never saw it coming. Blindsided.

  Back in my office, I sat and stared at all my stuff—the computer, the filing cabinets, the knickknacks on the desk, and the two framed photos. One was Gina’s beautiful senior picture, and the other was one of me and my mom, taken about twenty years ago. We were in front of our house in Arlington Heights. I was twenty-eight, I think. Mom looked great; her hair hadn’t turned too gray yet. I forgot the occasion, but we had our next-door neighbor snap the picture.

  I was really pissed off!

  I thought, screw it, I wasn’t about to stay in the office that day and work. I had vacation and personal days left, so I got up and left. Told Nancy I wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

  As I drove home on Deerfield Road, I cursed and shouted and hit my fist on the steering wheel. I wanted to strangle Brad. Son of a bitch. I wasn’t a slacker. He expected way too much from his employees, always did.

  What was I going to do?

  Well, hell, there was always a need for accountants. I’d find another job. A better one. I’d look in the classifieds when I got home. I still had the Sunday paper. I could call a headhunter I knew.

  Yet, I was worried.

  The BMW passed Woodlands North and I had a sudden comp
ulsion to see my mom. So I parked the car and went in. She was sitting in the common area of the Alzheimer’s unit. Some kind of nature program was on the television. The residents sat and stared at it, my mom included. “Hi, mom!” I called cheerfully as I approached. She looked at me, again with that blank look, but I thought there might be a hint of recognition in her eyes.

  “Hello,” she answered dully.

  “How are you today?”

  “Okay.”

  “What you watching?”

  She turned back to the TV and nodded. Didn’t answer the question.

  “You feel like walking around a bit? I’ll walk with you and you can hold my arm?”

  She seemed to like that idea. I helped her stand and we took a few steps away from the chair. Her legs were like sticks now, but they seemed to be strong enough. As I’ve indicated before, her body was still fit—she’d just lost a lot of weight in the last few years. Walking back and forth in the unit was one of our pastimes when I came to visit. She seemed to enjoy it, and I also think she liked putting her arm through mine. We always strolled slowly, going down the hall toward her room. From there we turned around and went the other direction. After five or six repetitions, she’d indicate one way or another that she was tired and we’d stop. So much for the day’s entertainment. I had to appreciate what little time I had with her, in whatever way it came.

  As we walked, I dared to bring up the subject of her past again.

  “Do you remember living in New York City, Mom?”

  She was quiet for a moment, but then she answered, “Yes.”

  “I’ll bet that was an exciting place to be in the nineteen fifties, huh, Mom? What kind of things did you do? Did you have a job?”

  She stopped walking and gave me a funny look. As if she was asking why I wanted to know such a thing.

  “Never mind, Mom, let’s keep walking.”

  She put her hand through my arm again and we continued. After a pause I tried again.

  “Hey, Mom, did you ever see the Black Stiletto? A lot of people in New York saw her in person in those days. On the street. Did you ever have a sighting?”

  Suddenly, Mom pushed away from me. “Who are you?” she hissed.

  “Mom!”

  “What do you want? Go away!”

  Her eyes flared with anger, or fear, or something. I’d never seen that expression on her face before.

  “Mom, I’m your son! I’m Martin!”

  She started breathing in fast, shallow breaths, and I swear it looked as if she was about to hit me. Her body actually changed posture for a brief moment, assuming some kind of strange stance with her arms up and legs apart. Some kind of deeply rooted reflex, a mechanism of self-defense.

  I put up my hands, palm out. “Mom, calm down. It’s just me, your son.”

  It took several seconds, but she eventually relaxed and put her arms down. Her body language and facial expression transformed back to the sick, confused old woman who lived in a nursing home.

  “Shall we continue?” I asked, holding out my arm. She slowly put her hand on it and we continued our walk.

  I thought it best not to mention the Black Stiletto to her again.

  25

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  I used a lockpick to open Pulgarón’s door. Considering the exclusiveness of the hotel, I found it surprisingly easy to do. Once inside, I figured I had at least ten minutes to prepare. The suite was exquisite—it consisted of a sitting area and a view that looked over Fifth Avenue, a large bathroom, and a bedroom with a king-sized bed. I imagine it cost a fortune.

  This is going to sound sordid, but I had to admit I found Rafael Pulgarón very attractive. The blood surging through my body felt as if it were on fire. So I took off all my clothes, removed the stiletto from my handbag and hid it, and got into the bed. It seemed so illicit, feeling the soft linens against my skin. It was the most daring thing I’d ever done in my life. I was nearly dizzy from the thrill.

  It was a half hour before the Cuban returned to the room. I thought I’d die of anticipation. Finally, though, I heard his key in the door and he entered. He lingered in the sitting room for a moment, completely unaware I was in his bedroom. I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I lightly cleared my throat to get his attention.

  Rafael Pulgarón stepped through the door, and you should have seen the look of surprise on his face! There I was, naked under the sheets of his bed. He said something in Spanish I didn’t understand. Realizing his mistake, he said, “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

  “Hi,” I said. “I don’t speak Spanish. Is that all right?”

  “Answer my question, please.”

  “My name is Eloise.” It was the first name to pop into my mind. I’d been thinking about that children’s book earlier. I don’t think he knew the reference. “And I already know your name, Rafael.”

  He didn’t know whether to run, kill me, or get in bed with me. After all, he was in the country performing a dangerous and illegal task. And I knew his name. I attempted to put his mind at ease by saying, “I overheard you talking to that man earlier, in the bar downstairs. When I saw you, I knew I had to meet you. So here I am.”

  Pulgarón squinted at me and then smiled. He wagged a finger at me. “I remember seeing you there. You were at the table next to us. You kept glancing in my direction.”

  “I hope I didn’t distract you.”

  “You did distract me. You would distract any man, I think.”

  “Oh, is that a compliment?” I asked, fluttering my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was playing the role of a tramp so well!

  “It is.”

  “Well, I think you’re very handsome, Rafael. I couldn’t resist meeting you.”

  He stepped farther into the room. His eyes moved up and down the shape of my body beneath the sheets. “And this is how you meet men? How did you get in?”

  “Oh, I’ve never done this before, Rafael! That’s the truth, God be my witness. I bribed a bellboy to let me in. It cost me a dollar and a kiss on the cheek. The kiss came first; otherwise I doubt I would have gotten anywhere with my request.”

  He laughed and wagged his finger at me again. “You are a very naughty girl, Eloise!”

  “Why, did I do wrong?” I put on the sweetest Marilyn Monroe voice I could muster. In my mind I conjured up an image of the actress in The Seven Year Itch and tried to mimic her. “Señor Pulgarón, I don’t think it’s wrong to go after what you want, do you? When something is as irresistible as you are, a girl can’t help herself!”

  The flattery was working. He sat on the bed and placed a hand over the sheet on my leg. As he spoke, he gently caressed it. “Eloise, how do I know you’re telling the truth? You are not working for someone else, are you?”

  My intuition indicated he was indeed suspicious, but that he wouldn’t hurt me. Not yet, anyway. So I feigned confusion. “What do you mean? Working for someone else? I don’t understand.”

  Pulgarón shook his head. “Never mind.”

  I tried to act hurt. “You think I’m lying to you? You don’t like me?”

  “No, no, it’s not that,” he said. “I do like you. I like you very much.”

  I switched over to the Marilyn voice again. “Then what are you sitting there for? Why don’t you join me?”

  He did exactly as I hoped. Pulgarón stood and began to undress. I watched him with fascination. The spider had lured the fly into the trap, and I felt a surge of pleasure flow through my body. How far was I willing to let this go?

  As soon as he was completely vulnerable, I threw back the sheet. His eyes flared as he gazed upon me, and I knew I had him. He got into bed beside me. I let him kiss me, for I have to admit being curious about him. He tasted of the liquor he’d had earlier, but otherwise his musky scent was very appealing. And he was a good kisser. I almost hated to end it.

  I reached beneath my pillow and pulled out the stiletto. With a flash so quick that he didn’t have time to blink,
I held it to his neck and whispered, “All right, you Commie fink, don’t make a move. Don’t make a sound. You try anything and this blade will pierce your skin faster than you can say, ‘Olé!’”

  He froze with a priceless look of shock and dismay on his face. I rotated my body around and straddled him. With my free hand, I reached behind the headboard, where I’d stashed the rope. In three minutes, he was tied spread-eagle to the bed, exposed and helpless.

  I then got up and put on my clothes. He watched me with hatred in his eyes. An outpour of Spanish erupted from his mouth, but I ignored him. A quick search produced the documents Colonel Ward had given him, and I laid them on the bed between his legs. I found some stationery on the desk in the living room and scribbled a note—“Compliments of the Black Stiletto.” This I placed on top of the classified material. I made sure I had everything I came with, except the rope, of course, and then went to the in-room phone—another luxury the Plaza provided its guests. I dialed the operator. When she answered, I asked her to place a call to the FBI. When I was finally connected to an agent, I explained there was a Cuban spy in the Plaza Hotel who had stolen classified military documents from the Pentagon. That Colonel Ward was the man who had sold the material to Pulgarón, and they would find everything in the Cuban’s suite. Before the FBI agent could ask questions, I hung up and left the room. Avoiding the elevator, I took the stairs to the ground floor and quickly exited the hotel.

  I wasn’t too concerned that Pulgarón had seen my face—and that’s not all, ha ha. I didn’t think there was any way he’d be able to identify me.

  It was the most fun I ever had.

  26

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  AUGUST 18, 1958

  The next morning—yesterday—there was nothing in the papers about Pulgarón. I wondered what the heck had happened. Had he gotten away? Had I messed up somehow? It wasn’t until today that the front page of every New York newspaper displayed headlines about Pulgarón’s arrest and the interception of Colonel William Ward at Idlewild airport on his way back to Washington, D.C. COMMUNIST SPIES CAUGHT! proclaimed the Daily News. FBI FOIL ESPIONAGE PLOT screamed the New York Times.