The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  After Mom had lunch, there was a knock at her door. A woman I’d never seen before stuck her head in. “Hello, am I interrupting?”

  “No, come on in.”

  She was younger than me, probably in her early forties, and she wore a white lab coat and a stethoscope around her neck. Brunette, my height, and the largest and brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. I swear. My first thought?—this was a very attractive woman.

  “I’m Dr. McDaniel. Margaret McDaniel.”

  “Martin Talbot.” Then I processed who she was and quickly stood. “Oh, you’re my mom’s new doctor.” I’d heard that Woodlands was bringing in someone new. She wasn’t my mom’s primary-care physician—just someone who made the rounds at the nursing home and made “recommendations.”

  “That’s right.” A nurse walked in behind her, obviously prepared to help the doctor do something. Dr. McDaniel shook my hand and then addressed my mom. “Hi, Judy! How are we doing today?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve just come to take your blood pressure and take a look at that bedsore.”

  I was surprised. “Bedsore?”

  Dr. McDaniel nodded. “They didn’t tell you? Your mom has a bedsore on her posterior. It’s nothing too serious. I discovered it during our last exam. It’s very minor, just the beginning of one, Mr. Talbot, nothing to worry about.”

  No one at the nursing home had said anything. I didn’t appreciate that. “Okay,” was all I could think of to say.

  “You’re her son, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to have a word with you after the examination. Do you have time to wait?”

  “I have an appointment in a little while, but I don’t have to leave for a half hour.”

  “This will only take five minutes. Could you wait outside? I’ll come find you when we’re done.”

  So I left and waited in the common room, where patients sat and vacantly watched television or stared into space. It wasn’t a pleasant place, and I tried to spend as little time as possible in areas other than my mother’s room. A soap opera was on TV, which made it all the more excruciating. Finally, though, Dr. McDaniel appeared.

  “Let’s go over here where we can talk,” she said, indicating a vacant round table in the corner. I followed her over and sat.

  “How’s the bedsore?” I asked.

  “Much improved. I caught it before it had developed into anything serious. I’ll send a report to her primary-care physician. It would help if she walked more, got some exercise. Was your mother once athletic?”

  I nodded. “I think so. Not in my lifetime, but she liked to work out in our basement. She had a punching bag she’d whale on.”

  The doctor smiled. “I believe it. Despite her thinness, she still has fabulous muscle tone. It would be nice if we could put some weight back on her.”

  “How’s she doing otherwise? I mean, mentally.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “Her condition is stable. The Alzheimer’s symptoms are no better and no worse. She seems to have hit a plateau. The onset of the illness was sudden, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Within two years she went from normalcy to what you see today. Her doctor said that was uncommon but not unusual. The disease hits people differently.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So you don’t know how long it will be before she gets worse?”

  “I’m afraid not. We’ll just have to keep her mind stimulated. I’m sure it helps that you visit her a lot.”

  I shrugged. “I do what I can. She’s my mom.”

  “Of course. Now, what I really wanted to talk to you about are all those scars she has on her body.”

  “Scars?”

  The doctor nodded. “She’s got several. They’re very old—fifty years or more—but for a woman, well, they’re very unusual. Was she in the armed services?”

  I never saw my mother naked, so I was unaware of this stuff. “No. She wasn’t.” Of course, I had a good idea how she got the scars, I just couldn’t say.

  “More disturbing are the two old gunshot wounds.”

  “What?”

  “Your mother was shot twice. I know, because I’m a former army doctor. I know gunshot wounds when I see them. She has one on the left shoulder and one on the left side of her abdomen. There’s also a long scar on her right shoulder that I suspect was done with a sharp blade, like a knife. How did she get them?”

  I did my best to feign surprise and shock. “My God, I have no idea!” I knew how she got the shoulder bullet wound—I read about that one in her first diary. Douglas Bates had shot her. The long scar on her right shoulder I had seen; and it was indeed caused by a knife injury that Freddie Barnes crudely stitched up. But I didn’t know about the shot to the abdomen. I suppose I’d learn its history in a future diary. “There’s a lot I don’t know about my mother’s life before I was born,” I said. “I knew she had the scar on her right shoulder. She always said it was from a car accident.”

  The doctor looked skeptical. “It was a poor suturing job, something a professional wouldn’t do.” She glanced sideways at me. “No other doctor has ever asked you about this?”

  “No. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  I don’t think she believed me. I’m not a very good liar. My mom always caught me when I fibbed to her. Come to think of it, Gina and my ex-wife Carol are good at seeing through me, too. My poker face sucks.

  “All right,” the doctor said. “I thought you might know something. I was certain she’d been in combat.”

  “Nope. Gosh, not that I know of.”

  “Very well.” She stood and held out her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Martin. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

  I shook her hand and thanked her.

  As I drove on the crowded expressway toward Chicago, I thought about what Dr. McDaniel had discovered. How did my mom get that second gunshot wound? Was it the reason she eventually abandoned the Black Stiletto?

  Once again I considered the big secret I was sitting on. How much would it be worth to sell my mother’s story to the media? I’d probably never have to work again.

  God, it’s tempting.

  6

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  FEBRUARY 5, 1959

  Oh, dear diary, I can’t believe Buddy Holly’s dead! And Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper, too. They were in a plane crash a couple of days ago. It’s horrible. The radio’s been playing Buddy’s music nonstop. I’ve had his tunes going through my head ever since it happened. What a tragedy.

  There were more stories about it in this morning’s paper. I was reading one of them when Freddie said, “Did you see the notice from the Hollywood movie producer?” I didn’t know what he was talking about, so he showed me. The headline was—HOLLYWOOD WANTS BLACK STILETTO.

  What?

  Apparently a movie producer named Albert Franz wants the Black Stiletto in his next movie. He paid for an ad to contact her and asked that she call his New York office. There was a number printed. The ad said, “There could be good money in it for her.”

  I told Freddie it was a load of bull. He laughed but said I should consider it. Money never hurts. I personally don’t see how the Black Stiletto can make a movie and keep her identity a secret. I told Freddie to forget it. Nevertheless, he tore out the ad and stuck it on the refrigerator with a piece of tape. He said, “You might change your mind.”

  “Fat chance,” I said.

  It’s time to go to work. Freddie has me training some of the men now. More and more of them want me to train them instead of Freddie. I wonder why? Surely it can’t be because I’m a young woman with a splendid figure (if I do say so myself, ha ha)?

  LATER

  I saw Tony the Tank today!

  Toward the end of the workday, he came into the gym. I last saw him at the New Year’s Eve party. He asked me if I had a chance to talk, and I told him I’d meet him at the East Side Diner at 5:15. When
I finished with work, I went up the street and sat with him at a booth. Lucy wasn’t working. “Sixteen Candles” by the Crests was playing on the jukebox.

  After some small talk, he said, “I bet you know why I wanted to see you.”

  I replied, “Because I broke one of your guys’ legs?”

  He nodded. “Don DeLuca—Franco—he’s pretty upset about it. The family is really out to get you.”

  I acknowledged the guy told me about the contract on my head. “What can I do about it, Tony? I had to defend myself. He was shooting at me.”

  He said the don has offered some kind of reward to anyone who kills me. What that means in Mafia terms, I don’t know.

  “Tony,” I asked, “does anyone besides you know I’m the Black Stiletto?”

  He shook his head. “If the don or anyone in the family knew I was talking to you, I’d be a dead man.”

  “Well, then, I can take care of myself as long as you keep it a secret. How are they going to find me unless someone gets lucky on the street, like that guy last month.”

  Tony shrugged and said, “I’m just warning you. Maybe it’s not such a good idea for the Black Stiletto to show her face anymore. Er, I mean, her mask.”

  “Let me worry about that. I appreciate you telling me.”

  He had a piece of pie while I drank some coffee. The record on the jukebox switched to “My Happiness” by Connie Francis. Tony started talking about how difficult it was for the family these days. He said the mob was thrown out of Cuba by the new regime, so all the Italian “businesses” were hurting. They had invested in casinos and hotels in Havana, just like they had in Las Vegas, and Castro shut them out. The federal government was also cracking down on organized crime. Ever since the Senate hearings earlier in the decade, the heat on the mob has been intense. He said there are new crime organizations coming in and vying for territory. The narcotics business is especially a sore spot. The heroin comes in from France and Southeast Asia, and there are different groups importing and distributing it. Tony’s family works with one of these groups, but he didn’t tell me who they were. He said Negro gangsters in Harlem are trying to take it over and it’s getting ugly. There’s a war going on between them, and Tony doesn’t like it. He named a couple of guys I’d met who were killed recently. Gunned down on the street.

  “A lot of the old-timers in the family were completely against getting in on drug trafficking,” Tony said. “Don Giorgio didn’t like it, but Franco does. He says all the big money from now on will be in narcotics.”

  When I was dating Fiorello, I was really naïve about the Mafia. Or maybe I was in denial. I knew what they were doing was illegal, but I ignored it. Love is blind. I was so crazy about Fiorello that I didn’t want to know about all the bad things with which he was involved. But ever since he died, I’ve come to realize how evil those people really are. I thought they ran only stuff like gambling and bookmaking, but now I know they operate prostitution houses, protection rackets, blackmail schemes, drug trafficking, and they murder people. At first I was sucked in by their loyalty to each other and the familial atmosphere around them. Now it makes me sick to think I was going to their parties and fraternizing with Fiorello and his friends. Tony is the same way, and I wonder if I’m being a hypocrite for staying friends with him. But he’s so lovable and nice that I just don’t think of Tony as a killer. I trust him.

  “So you’re going along with it, Tony?” I asked. “Drugs are bad. They ruin lives.”

  He shrugged again. “What can I do? I follow orders.”

  “Why don’t you get out? Just leave.”

  He laughed wryly. “You can’t get out. Once you’re in, they don’t let you leave. Not alive, anyway.”

  FEBRUARY 14, 1959

  It’s Valentine’s Day and I don’t have a valentine. I suppose there’s Freddie and there’s Soichiro, but they’re not really boyfriends. I thought about calling John Richardson just to flirt but decided I’d better not. Besides, I didn’t have time because I was late for my lesson with Soichiro. Anyway now it’s after 5:00 and I’m sure John’s gone from the office. Oh well.

  In karate class I’m working on the higher levels of Black Belt. I’m already at the first level, which is called 1st dan, or Shodan. Soichiro explained to me that I won’t be able to reach the higher levels until I’m older because the ranks have minimum age and time requirements. For example, I won’t be able to attain 2nd dan, or Nidan, until two years after I get my Black Belt (1st dan). The minimum age to be a 2nd dan is 20, so that part’s not a problem. But you have to be 25 and wait 3 years since getting 2nd dan to get a 3rd dan. You have to be 35 years old to get a 5th dan! Additionally, the levels above 5th dan are reserved only for extremely special sensei who become great teachers, start important martial arts schools, and such. Soichiro says he’s never met an 8th dan or higher, as they’re only in Japan. Soichiro himself is only a 4th dan. Another important factor in obtaining higher ranks is competing in tournaments. I really don’t want to do that. I want to keep my ability in karate and judo private. I never want anyone to see me compete and put two and two together and think, maybe she’s the Black Stiletto! So if I only reach 2nd dan, I’ll be happy. Most students never obtain a Black Belt, so I’ve already hit a major milestone.

  Since then, I no longer train with a class full of students. It’s just me and Soichiro, one-on-one. I like it that way. Lately he’s been having me practice moves while wearing a blindfold. I asked him what the purpose was, and he said it’s to develop my other senses other than sight. He said I should hear and feel an attack coming. I can already do that, but Soichiro doesn’t know about my heightened sensory abilities. I figure it’s still good training, though, so I put on the blindfold and we had a match. At first Soichiro was very gentle. He moved slowly and telegraphed his strikes so I could ward off his blows easily. I stopped and told him to do it for real.

  Ouch.

  I heard his arm and seiken—karate fist—whishing through the air at me. I felt it coming, but I was still too late to block the blow. He hit me right on the sternum—not hard enough to do serious damage, but it hurt like the dickens. He could see I was in distress, so he asked me if I was all right. I told him, “Yes,” and to keep going. Then I concentrated harder. Everything was pitch-black with the blindfold on, but I sensed him moving around me. I could faintly hear his bare feet on the mat, something I’m sure no one else could do. He came at me—and I swear I heard one foot leave the mat, so I knew he was going to kick me. I immediately blocked it and reciprocated with a mae geri, a front kick, to his stomach. It surprised him. This time it was my turn to ask if he was all right!

  This went on for ten minutes. Back and forth, give and take. Sometimes he’d trick me and get a strike in. Most of the time I was able to block him and deliver a tsuki te—hand attack—or kick back at him. At the end, he instructed me to remove the blindfold. We bowed and then he said, “Good.” I was pleased.

  He went into his little office while I went to the ladies’ room to splash some water on my face and wipe some of the sweat off my body. I usually take a shower back at the gym, although if I wanted to I could do it there at Studio Tokyo.

  When I went back in to say goodbye, I saw Soichiro sitting in his chair and holding a framed photograph. He had the most curious expression on his face, like something was deeply troubling him. In fact, as I think about it now, after the fact, I’ve noticed that in the past couple of weeks, Soichiro has seemed distracted. That’s not like him. From what I know of Japanese people, they don’t get distracted easily.

  I said, “Goodbye, Soichiro-san.”

  This startled him. He quickly slammed the photo facedown on his desk and composed himself. He bowed his head slightly, the usual nonexpression on his face, and said, “Until next time.”

  There was an awkward moment that passed between us, as if I’d caught him doing something private. I asked, “Is anything wrong, Soichiro-san?”

  Ever the stoic Japanese, he simply sai
d, “No. Nothing wrong. Until next time.”

  Well, dear diary, you know me. I knew he was lying. I could tell, like I can always discern when people lie to me. Something was bothering him. But I also knew he was too proud to ever display emotion or reveal any personal problems to me. It was his nature.

  There was nothing else to do but leave. I’m a little concerned about him, but I suppose he can take care of whatever it is that’s worrying him.

  But I was determined to find out whose picture he was looking at.

  FEBRUARY 18, 1959

  Something happened at the gym today. I was busy cleaning the wall pulleys and rowing machines, a task I do once a week, when a Negro man came in and greeted Freddie like a long-lost friend. They shook hands, smiled, and laughed. The man looked to be around Freddie’s age, somewhere in his mid-40s. He was tall and built, as if he worked out a lot. Had grayish curly short hair.

  Curious, I went over to them on the pretense of grabbing a dry rag from the front counter, and Freddie said, “Judy, I want to introduce you to someone.”

  The man’s name is Mike Washington. Freddie said they’d known each other since they were teenagers. They were boxers together in the ’30s. Apparently Mike will start coming to the gym on a regular basis.

  Dear diary, you know I have what they call a sixth sense about people. I can usually tell within a few minutes of meeting someone whether they’re a good person or a bad person. Everyone releases a “vibration” that I pick up on. That’s the only way I can describe it. Ever since I went through puberty, I was able to do it, you know that. If someone doesn’t have a kind heart, then I feel it. I realize it’s some kind of gift I have, ’cause I’ve found no one else who can do it.

  Anyway, Mike Washington immediately made me feel uncomfortable. He barely looked at me, but he was friendly enough and shook my hand—it was a strong, firm grip, too!—but I knew this man had secrets. He looked like he could be a mean, scary guy if he wanted. Maybe that comes with the territory of being a boxer, which it does, but I don’t know. It was weird.