The Black Stiletto

by Raymond Benson

  I’d spent Monday and Tuesday evenings drinking too much and trying to read the rest of Mom’s diary. I still have a ways to go. I’m still angry at her for keeping all this stuff a secret. Then there were those other things I found in the strong box—the roll of film, for example. I should get off my butt and find an 8-mm projector so I can see what’s on it. Those things aren’t so easy to come by these days. I want to view the film in private, so I’ll either have to find a place where I can rent a machine or buy one on e-Bay.

  It was mid-afternoon and I didn’t feel like working anymore. So I pulled out the diary and started to read—I didn’t give a damn if Brad walked in. But my cell phone rang—and I saw it was Carol. The ex.

  “Hi,” I answered.

  “How are you, Martin?”

  “Okay.”

  “I heard about your job. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. I’m not too worried, though. I’ll get another one.”

  “I know you will.”

  I could sense she wanted to tell me something. My mind reeled. What, she was getting married to that Ross guy?

  “Martin, Gina got some news yesterday and I thought maybe I’d warn you before you hear it from her.”

  “News about college?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Warn me?”

  “She’s afraid you’re not gonna like it.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “She got accepted into Juilliard and she wants to go.”

  I had to think a second. Juilliard was in New York. And it was an arts school. Performing arts.

  My blood started to boil. “Since when did she apply to go to Juilliard?”

  “She was afraid to tell you. It’s what her heart’s been set on all along. She got accepted in the School of Drama.”

  “Drama!”

  “Martin, she wants to study theatre and dance.”

  I felt a headache coming on. “She’s out of her mind! She’ll be a pauper for the rest of her life.”

  “So? Martin, it’s what she wants to do. You can’t expect her to be what you want her to be.”

  “Where is she? I want to talk to her.”

  “She’s at school.”

  “Oh, right.” I drummed the table. “What do you think about it?”

  “I think it’s great, Martin. She’s realizing a dream.”

  “Oh, give me a break. You tell her to call me when she comes home.”

  “You can call her yourself. Besides, I think she’s going over to visit your mother after school.”

  “She is?”

  “Yeah. She wants to tell Judy about her going to New York.”

  “My mom doesn’t remember much about New York.”

  “Well, maybe so, but Gina really likes her grandma.”

  We didn’t talk much longer. I hung up and decided I’d go to Woodlands after work and head off Gina. I had visions of a knockdown, drag-out in the nursing home parking lot.

  Damn. I was upset. Mad at my mom, mad at my daughter, mad at my boss, and mad at my ex-wife. Angry that I had to go job hunting.

  But wait.

  I was sitting on a gold mine.

  My mother was the Black Stiletto.

  That was news. BIG news.

  What would a major news organization pay for a story like that? Thousands? Millions? My God, it was possible I wouldn’t have to work again for the rest of my life!

  I immediately started thinking about whom I should call. The Chicago Tribune? Nah, I needed to go national. CNN? The Today Show? How does one even call The Today Show? I opened up my web browser and Googled. Found their website. On the Contact Us page, there were links to the show and other NBC news programs. Would have to send an e-mail. No calling.

  On an impulse, I clicked the link and a Compose Mail window popped up with The Today Show’s address in the TO: box. I typed in the Subject line, “Identity of the Black Stiletto Revealed!” Tabbing down to the body of the e-mail, I typed, “To Whom It May Concern,” and then I stopped.

  What the hell was I doing?

  I couldn’t do it.

  Not yet, anyway.

  It was too soon.

  I had to think about it more. Maybe even hire an attorney. Uncle Thomas wouldn’t be right. I’d have to get some big shot who’d know what to do with this information and how I could control it.

  Slow down, Martin. Take a deep breath.

  I closed the e-mail and browser and looked at the clock. A couple more hours of work to go. So I picked up the diary.

  33

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  DECEMBER 13, 1958

  It’s morning and I’m nursing a sore jaw and a few bruises here and there. Had an interesting evening last night, to say the least. I’m about to go out with Luis to pick up a paper and see if there’s a story about me. I was sleeping when the morning news was on television. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t something. I made a little noise, so to speak.

  When Luis brought me to the motel after the cemetery visit, I tried to decide if I was hungry or not. I wasn’t. All the crying had upset my stomach. I had too much tension and frustration to release, so I quickly dressed in my Stiletto disguise. West Texas was nippy in December, so I used the cold-weather one. Didn’t bother with outer clothing. Put the mask/hood in my handbag, grabbed the knapsack, and went back outside to Luis’s cab. The poor man had just lit his billionth cigarette of the day. He blinked and did a double take when he saw the outfit. My uniform did indeed accentuate my curves, no doubt about it. The stiletto on my thigh also provoked a bug-eye or two.

  I got in the backseat and said, “Luis, how would you like to make not only the money I promised you for each day and evening, but another hundred dollars as a tip? You don’t have to give any to your boss. It would have nothing to do with being a driver.”

  He didn’t really understand what I was saying, but the words “a hundred dollars” appealed to him. It was probably more money he saw in two or three weeks, so he nodded eagerly. “Okay, Luis,” I said, “what I’m paying you to do is to keep a secret. You know what that is?”

  “Secret, sí.” He made a gesture of zipping his mouth closed.

  “Good, sí, you must never tell anybody about what we’re about to do. All right?”

  “No tell. No, señorita, Luis keep secret.”

  “It would be very bad if you told anybody about me.” I dug into my handbag, found my money, and handed him fifty dollars in cash. Luis couldn’t believe his eyes. “That’s half. I’ll give you the rest when I leave town, on the way to the airport. Okay?”

  “Sí! Sí!”

  “Okay, let’s go to Goldsmith. Do you know Goldsmith?”

  “Sí.”

  And we were off. As the cab drove out of Odessa’s city limits, I was once again struck by the eerie flatness. The sky was pitch-black; the stars and half moon were so bright that the landscape around us seemed to glow with a soft, pale luminescence. No trees to speak of, just short mesquite bushes, stretches of desert-like prairie, and, of course, the oil wells. Mysterious, tall sentinels standing watch over the gold mine that West Texas had become. The rocking pumpjacks became exotic, other-worldly animals that dipped and grazed on the barren ground. Gave me the shivers.

  It took twenty minutes to reach Goldsmith. It was a little whistle-stop community with few buildings and a population made up mostly of oil worker families and ranchers with spreads outside the town limits. I think I saw two or three cafés, two gas stations, two liquor stores, three or four bars, a grocery store, maybe four small apartment complexes, a motel, and three churches—all within a square mile.

  I had Luis pull up in front of the bar that had the most cars in front of it.

  “Keep the car running,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Now, remember, you can’t talk about anything you might see tonight.”

  “Sí.”

  I put on my mask and hood.

  Luis’s cigarette dropped right out of his mouth. He’d ne
ver seen anything like me in all his days. I had to laugh. I knew the Black Stiletto was known in New York and maybe in some of the bigger cities in the country, but had anyone in West Texas heard of her? I was about to learn the answer.

  I got out of the car, walked up to the door, and opened it.

  Seventeen men in the place—believe me, I counted—not including the bartender. All white. Twenties through forties, maybe one guy in his fifties. Roughnecks and cowboys. Good old boys who, with a little liquor in their bellies, were probably not so good. The place itself was a dreary dive containing a pool table, a dart board, a couple of tables, but mostly one long bar and stools. That latest country and western hit, “It’s Only Make Believe” by Conway Twitty, was playing on the radio.

  I strutted in and stepped up to the bar. Unsurprisingly, everyone in the place stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said to the bartender. He was speechless. No “Yes, ma’am?” or “What can I do for you?” or “Would you like a drink?” Someone in the joint whispered, “Son of a bitch, will you look at that?”

  I turned away from the bartender and addressed everyone. “I’m looking for someone. Maybe one of you gentlemen can help me find him.”

  A whisper: “That’s the Black Stiletto!”

  Another: “No, it ain’t.”

  “Sure, she is.”

  “She’s an imposter, you damn fool. The Black Stiletto lives in New York.”

  My ears tuned toward the last comment. It had come from a dumb redneck sitting at the bar with a long-neck beer bottle in his hand. He was grinning like the village idiot and eyeing me lasciviously.

  “I’m no imposter,” I said. “I’m the real deal.” To prove a point, I quickly drew my stiletto and flung it at the dartboard on the wall.

  Bull’s-eye.

  I paused for effect. Probably a corny thing to do, but it worked. The men had turned to stone, with frozen facial expressions of awe, lust, disbelief, and shock. I winked at Village Idiot and then strode across the room to the dartboard, retrieved my knife, and sheathed it.

  “As I was saying, I’m looking for someone. Any of you know a roughneck by the name of Douglas Bates?”

  A few of the men looked at each other and mouthed something. They knew him. I gestured to them. “You. Do you know him?”

  One of them, a tall skinny guy with black teeth, said, “I know him. He used to work out here.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Don’t know. He don’t work here no more.”

  “That’s right,” his buddy said. “Moved back to Odessa.”

  I focused on the two men to see if I could detect untruths, but as far as I could tell, no one was lying.

  “Anybody else?” I asked the room. “Got any idea where I can find Douglas Bates?”

  “Come on, baby, take off your mask,” Village Idiot said. “You don’t fool us. You got lucky with the knife. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  Ignoring him, I moved back to the bar. “If anybody knows where I can find him, I’d appreciate it.”

  Village Idiot stood and took a step toward me. “Would you like a drink, honey? How about havin’ a seat and you and me get to know each other better?”

  “Some other time,” I replied, the irritation in my voice probably a little too obvious.

  “Oh, come on, you and me’s gonna have a little fun.” Then he reached out and tried to touch my mask. I slapped his hand away; not hard, but there couldn’t have been any doubt I meant business. The man recoiled and then laughed. He was probably the type of guy who, when he was young, used a magnifying glass on ants and enjoyed watching them burn in the sun. At any rate, I felt an immediate rise in tension in the place and it was very uncomfortable.

  “Aw, come on guys, she’s an imposter.” Village Idiot announced too loudly. He took another step closer. “Who the hell d’ya think y’are? Comin’ in here like this and askin’ questions? If you was a man, we’d beat the shit outta you and throw you outta here on your ass.” He turned back to a couple of buddies, one a big fellow who looked as if he ate steel for breakfast, and another guy with greasy hands and three days’ prickly growth on his face. “Ain’t that right, boys? That’s what we’d do, ain’t it!”

  The boys nodded. “Yeah.” “Sure would.” “Damn straight.”

  “Oh, but because I’m a woman you’re not going to do that?” I asked sweetly.

  “Hell, no,” Village Idiot answered. “For you I think we got somethin’ better. Better for us, that is.” He guffawed and his buddies joined him. Some of the other men in the place laughed, too. I didn’t.

  He got real close to me—too close—and I could smell the whiskey on his breath and the sweat and scent of petroleum on his clothes. It was disgusting. And it reminded me all too much of Douglas.

  This time he spoke with genuine menace. “Now why don’t you take off that mask of yours and let us see how pretty you are under there?”

  He made the mistake of reaching for my mask again. Reflexively, I knocked his arm away, a little harder this time. He didn’t like that.

  “Now, look, honey—” He grabbed my upper left arm and I punched him in the face with my right. The creep let go and retreated a few steps. He was more surprised than hurt, although I’m sure his pride was damaged more than anything.

  “Don’t touch me,” I said. “Back off. If you know what’s good for you.”

  “She hit me!” Idiot proclaimed as if it was news. “Bitch hit me!” He looked to his entourage for support. “We can’t let her come in here and do that!”

  Unfortunately, his buddies agreed with him. The three of them—Village Idiot, Steel Eater, and Needs-a-Shave came at me. I immediately assumed the hachiji-dachi stance—feet at shoulder width, toes open at forty-five degrees. Darn it, I didn’t mean to go looking for trouble, but it found me.

  Village Idiot made a move; I let loose with a mae geri, a front kick that struck him in the chest. By then Needs-a-Shave had invaded my space and wasn’t playing around. He swung hard enough to knock down a man, but I dodged it, pivoted my body around and delivered an ushiro geri, a back kick that struck the guy on his right knee. He hollered in pain and fell to the floor. I don’t think I meant to break it, but I might’ve. Then Village Idiot surprised me by grabbing me from behind in a bear hug, pinning both my arms to the sides. He was very strong and I couldn’t wiggle out of it. Steel Eater, the big guy, stepped in front of me and walloped me one on the side of the face. The guy hit me so hard that I thought he might have broken my jaw, which is why it’s still sore now.

  Someone in the room yelled, “Hey, don’t! She’s a woman, for Christ’s sake.”

  But another person rooted for their team, shouting, “Grab her legs so she can’t kick ya!”

  Steel Eater went for them but it was too late—for him, that is. I raised my knees with the speed of a snake and thrust the heels of my boots full force into the big man’s belly. He doubled over, stumbled to the side, and eventually fell, moaning in pain. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d dislodged some internal organs.

  I had only Village Idiot on my back—literally—when two more dumbasses decided to join the fray. They got up from their stools, rubbed their hands with glee, and ran at me. I had to dispose of the Idiot before I could deal with them. Judo training depends on breaking an attacker’s leverage, and this was how I broke the bear hug. I quickly squatted in what Soichiro called “sumo position”—Idiot’s arms were still tightly around mine with his hands locked against my chest—and then I bent my elbows, brought up my forearms, and placed my gloved hands over his. This posture allowed me to step around and behind him so that the front of my left thigh was against the back of his right thigh. At this point, he was slightly off balance, enabling me to grab his legs from behind his knees and pull them up, thereby toppling him backward over my leg! Once he’d hit the floor, I stomped him in the chest with the sole of my boot.

  Seeing this, the two new
comers hesitated.

  “Come on,” I taunted. “You want some, too?”

  One guy chickened out and retreated, but the other fool advanced. He put up his dukes, boxing-style, and proceeded to dance around me as if we were in a ring. I thought, okay, if that’s the way he wanted to play—so I did the same. He tried a jab and a cross that I blocked with ease, and then I let him maneuver around me some more. Another jab, an attempt at an uppercut, and a cross and then I pummeled him with three fast, short straight-punches right to his chin, as if he was a punching bag hanging from the ceiling. A right hook knocked him on top of a table, splitting it in two and sending bottles of beer crashing to the floor.

  “STOP!” the bartender shouted. “DON’T MOVE!” He had a shotgun trained at me.

  Four men were on the floor, rolling and writhing in pain. One table was busted, and a handful of glasses and bottles had shattered. Not too much damage, all things considered.

  “I’m leaving,” I said to the bartender. “You gotta admit, all I did was defend myself.”

  “Just get out of here,” the man said. “I’m gonna call the cops and they’ll be here in a minute. Leave now and you’ll have a sixty-second head start.”

  I nodded to him, held up my hands in capitulation, and walked away toward the door. Behind me, one fellow offered, “Try Schlumberger. I think Bates works for them now.” He pronounced it Shlum-ber-jay.

  Turning back to the speaker, I said, “Thanks,” and then I opened the door and stepped outside.

  Just before I closed it, someone else declared, “I guess it really was her!”

  34

  Judy’s Diary

  1958

  LATER ON DECEMBER 13

  The Black Stiletto is ready to confront Douglas Bates. Earlier today I came back to the motel for a quick rest and some preparation. Luis is due to pick me up in a half hour.

  After I wrote the previous entry, I ate at the motel’s adjoining eatery, the Texan Café, which was a far cry from the East Side Diner in New York. The eggs were good, but nothing else compared. Seeing the waitress made me miss Lucy, even though they were nothing alike. I saw the day’s Odessa-American newspaper. Sure enough, there was a piece about me buried in the middle. The headline was: BAR BRAWL WITH BLACK STILETTO? The paper took a dubious slant, reporting that a woman had “impersonated” the Black Stiletto and caused a fight in a bar in Goldsmith. Two patrons were sent to the hospital—one with a broken knee and another with unspecified injuries. Not much else to it. Big deal.