The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  And then he turned toward the window. I ducked out of view, but he had seen me. I scrambled down the fire escape as he opened the window and looked out!

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  I kept going. By then I was at the bottom landing and started to descend the ladder.

  “I call police!”

  Great, Soichiro. You do that.

  I dropped to the sidewalk, landed on both feet, and shot out of there at a run. Once I got to 7th Avenue, I stopped to put on my coat and take off my mask. Then I hailed a taxi to take me back to the gym. On the way I pondered what I’d learned. Soichiro was once married, but not anymore. He has a daughter who no longer lives with him. He owes a lot of money to his landlord. He’s paying someone big bucks each month instead of using it for rent.

  Of course, I could be mistaken about all this. Those are big assumptions. I should probably investigate a little more before I do anything stupid. But one thing’s for sure—I have to help Soichiro.

  9

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  The job interview went really well, to say the least. I was hired on the spot! That’s a first. I start next week. I guess I was fortunate the firm acquired a client-in-crisis mode and they need someone with my experience immediately. Bob Konnors, the guy who’ll be my boss, checked my references then and there while I waited outside his office. Within the hour I was talking to Human Resources.

  That put me in a great mood, so I drove back from the city straight to Woodlands North. I was well aware my mother wouldn’t comprehend my news, but I wanted to tell her anyway. She’d pick up on my vibe and do that empathy thing she does. Perhaps she’d feel as happy as me.

  It was nearly dinnertime when I arrived. The common room was full of patients and orderlies running about with trays of food.

  Mom usually got sleepy after she ate so I wasn’t going to stay long. I found her in bed but awake. She must’ve sensed she was about to be fed. Her appetite, I think, is still pretty good, so I don’t know why she’s so thin, although I can’t imagine eating the stuff that’s placed in front of her. It’s always looked really, really horrible, but she seems to like it.

  “Mom, guess what? I got a new job and I start next week!”

  Her eyes brightened slightly and she smiled at me. “That’s wonderful,” she said sweetly.

  That felt good. She knew I was excited about something and had the right response, whether she understood what I was talking about or not. I feared the day when she was no longer able to draw upon her menu of appropriate reactions.

  Her food arrived a few seconds later. I watched her eat—she could still manage by herself—as I talked for a few more minutes. I said good night and kissed her on the forehead before she was finished with the cakelike dessert, the only thing on her tray that looked truly edible.

  As I was walking out, Dr. McDaniel was also leaving for the day. We simultaneously crossed the common room on our way toward the exit. The white lab coat was gone. Again, I was struck by her hotness, but now I was wary. There had been a hint of accusation in the doctor’s voice when she asked me about mom’s injuries, and I didn’t like it.

  “Oh, Mr. Talbot, hello,” she said, forcing us to stop.

  “Dr. McDaniel, leaving for the day?” I asked. I was in such a jubilant mood I damn near bounced.

  “I’m glad I ran into you. I’d like to ask you something if you don’t mind. Since our conversation earlier, another question arose and I found myself thinking about it.”

  “What is it?”

  She pulled me conspiratorially to the side of the room, where no one could listen.

  “Am I correct that your father has been gone a long time?” Her question surprised me. People rarely ask me about my father and, if they do, I always give the same answer.

  “He died in Vietnam. I never knew him.”

  This seemed to frustrate her and she shook her head. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Whether or not your father abused your mother.”

  I was stunned by her bluntness. “What?”

  Dr. McDaniel shrugged. “It was just a possibility. Mr. Talbot, I must tell you I am deeply concerned about the wounds on your mother’s body.”

  I didn’t see the relevance those ancient scars had on Mom’s current treatment and I said so. Perhaps too defensively.

  “There are some studies that suggest abuse occurred in some cases of Alzheimer’s. At any rate, I don’t believe a woman would sustain gunshot wounds in a case of family abuse. Mr. Talbot, I’m wondering if your mother might have been a victim of a crime during her younger years.”

  The response I gave was probably not a wise one. Half jokingly, I said, “What are you gonna do, call the police?”

  “I might have to.”

  Again, her answer was a slap in the face. “What?”

  “It may be my duty to report this.”

  I didn’t think she had the right to do that. Her idea was absurd, but I simply asked, “What for?”

  “It just concerns me, Mr. Talbot. We can talk another time. Your mother is doing fine; I looked in on her just a while ago.”

  This woman was strictly business, and for my money, somewhat presumptuous. I was a little angry.

  “Okay, thanks,” I said.

  She nodded and walked toward the exit.

  The nerve! I mean, really! Why was this good-looking woman such a bitch? Was I overreacting?

  I waited a few moments to let her find her car and drive away before I went out there, too; otherwise I might have strangled her in the parking lot.

  Back at my house, I began the evening ritual of making what served as my dinner. I’m no cook. Since the divorce, I’ve whipped up a lot of frozen dinners. Take-out and delivery are frequent options, but that gets expensive. I didn’t feel very energetic, so I heated up a Tombstone pizza. I’d been so ecstatic earlier, but now I was in a funk.

  The TV is usually on during dinner. I listen to the news if that’s still on; second choice is some dumb time waster that fills a gap. I don’t like too much silence in my home. If it gets too quiet, I’m reminded of the fact that I’m a man approaching fifty, living alone in a small house with no girlfriend. I used to add “and no job” to that list, so maybe I should add “with a cat.” Not that I want one. Dogs are more fun, but I don’t particularly need the burden of taking care of an animal right now. Maybe after Mom—but I don’t like to think about that.

  That tacky but addicting show World Entertainment Television came on while I ate my pizza and drank a Coors Light—I need to lose some weight and I think a lot of it was caused by indulging in chic European beers with funny names. I wasn’t really watching the program; from my little dining table near the kitchen, I can’t see around the corner into the living room. But I heard the usual celebrity gossip stories and behind-the-scenes looks at current movies. Then, just as I was stuffing the last bite of crust in my mouth, I heard the female newscaster say, “And now a story on the Black Stiletto. Remember her?”

  I nearly fell out of my seat getting up so quickly. I rushed to the TV and saw a cute, well-dressed Asian woman. A caption identified her as “Sandy Lee.” Behind her was one of those fake screens they use for pictures, videos, and text. It displayed a photo of my mother in costume. It was a familiar picture, one that’s been used by the press for decades.

  Sandy Lee continued. “You would have to have lived on the moon for the last fifty years not to have heard of the Black Stiletto. Although the costumed vigilante was active only for a few years in the late nineteen fifties and early sixties, her image—and legend—has been duly exploited by the media.”

  Other often-used vintage photographs appeared full frame on the TV.

  “The Black Stiletto tackled common crooks, the Mafia, and Communist spies, often resulting in the capture and arrest of these criminals,” Sandy said in a voice-over. “But, in fact, she was also wanted by the police and the FBI for taking th
e law into her own hands.”

  It was the same old stuff, but I was curious why they had a story on the Stiletto. This was all household knowledge.

  Then Sandy Lee said, “World Entertainment Television has obtained exclusive vintage film footage of the Black Stiletto, up close and personal. This material has never been seen before.”

  That got my attention. The visuals then changed to a heavy guy with gray, longish hair and nervous eyes. The man was probably in his sixties, but I couldn’t be sure. Fifties at least. He wore a white shirt unbuttoned too low, exposing a hairy chest and a ridiculous amount of gold necklaces.

  “Johnny Munroe of New York City discovered a reel of 8mm film in a safety deposit box owned by his father, Jerry Munroe, who once worked as a photographer in Manhattan during the fifties.”

  Sandy Lee continued, asking him questions in an interview setting.

  “Mr. Munroe, isn’t it true you found the small reel of film after your father’s death?”

  “That’s correct,” Munroe answered. He had a thick New York accent. To me he sounded like a wise guy, a fella trying to act tough even though he was edgy in front of a camera. He wouldn’t have been out of place on The Sopranos or in GoodFellas. “My father lived to the ripe old age of ninety-two. He passed away last year, may he rest in peace.”

  “And isn’t it also true he was an ex-convict for most of his later life?”

  “Yeah, that’s true. He got out of prison in nineteen eighty-three, having served nearly a twenty-five-year sentence. He was completely rehabilitated, I might add.”

  “Why was he in prison?”

  The guy rolled his eyes, as if he was a little embarrassed. “Uh, it was for distributing obscene materials. But, hey, what was considered obscene in the fifties looks tame by today’s standards.” He held up his right hand as if he was swearing an oath. “All of that stuff was destroyed when he was convicted, I can tell you that. The only thing I found in the safety deposit box was the Black Stiletto film. I believe my father shot it in the late fifties.”

  Then they cut to the film itself.

  My jaw dropped. I felt my heart start to race.

  It was the exact same footage I had found in Mom’s strongbox. Black-and-white. The cameraman’s studio. Fake fights with the mannequin. The climb up the fire escape at the end.

  Then I was struck by sheer terror. Was the additional scene in the dressing room going to be seen by millions of viewers? Was my mom about to remove her mask on national television?

  The show cut back to Sandy Lee. A still shot of the Stiletto adorned the screen behind the anchorwoman.

  “What was the Black Stiletto doing, posing and clowning around for Jerry Munroe? Was it some kind of promotional film? Even Mr. Munroe’s son, Johnny, doesn’t know. Tell me, Johnny, are you sure the film is the only Black Stiletto item your father left behind?”

  Back to Munroe, whose expression indicated he was uncomfortable with the question. He shrugged and answered with, “I may have some other material, but I need to verify that it’s authentic before I make it public, you know?”

  “What would you say to her if you met her today, Mr. Munroe?”

  “I don’t know. I just hope she’s still alive. Regardless of whether she is or isn’t, maybe somebody out there knows somethin’ about her.”

  Back to Sandy. “When we asked Mr. Munroe about this ‘other material,’ he remained coy. But he did offer this hint.”

  Munroe. “If it’s real, then it’ll blow the lid off the Black Stiletto legend for good.”

  And back to Sandy. “Thank you, Mr. Munroe. This is Sandy Lee for World Entertainment Television. We’ll be right back.”

  The segment ended and the show went to a commercial.

  I couldn’t believe it. It was only days since I had finally got hold of a projector and watched the film myself. And now, there it was on national television. Incredible.

  And what the hell was Johnny Munroe talking about? What “other material” did he have? Was it the extra footage of my mother unmasking herself? That had to be it. Why else would his father keep a copy of the film in his safety deposit box?

  I had to find Johnny Munroe and stop him from distributing that footage.

  10

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  FEBRUARY 21, 1959

  I’m in my bedroom and it’s almost midnight. I can’t seem to fall asleep, although I’m pretty tired. I worked out hard today and had double-training sessions with clients because Freddie wasn’t feeling well. The good thing about the double-training was that I got to work with Harry McBain and ask him about the Japanese writing on Soichiro’s photos.

  Harry’s a World War II veteran who got wounded in the war. His right leg took the brunt of a grenade on Guadalcanal and he’s gone through several surgeries. Miraculously, he didn’t lose the leg, but it’s all messed up inside. He’s forced to a life of rehabilitation, three times a week. The doctors told him he had to keep working the muscles in that leg or the circulation could go haywire. He’s got a sense of humor about it, though. He calls it his “Gumby Leg” because it wiggles and bends weirdly when he walks.

  Anyway, Harry lived in Japan for six years in the late forties and early fifties. He had some military desk job over there. So I showed him the scrap of paper I scribbled the Japanese characters on. My handwriting wasn’t the best, but he figured it out.

  On the back of the school photo was written “Isuzu, age 12,” and on the back of the family portrait was “Soichiro, Machiko, and Isuzu, Hiroshima, 1944.” The notation in the checkbook regarding the $5,000 monthly payments was to “Akuma.” I asked Harry what that meant, and he replied, “That’s the Japanese word for devil.”

  Oh my gosh, dear diary, the mystery thickens! Soichiro is paying $5,000 a month to a devil? And Hiroshima—that was the city we dropped the atom bomb on! Isuzu is obviously Soichiro’s daughter. I wonder what happened to Machiko, most assuredly the woman who was his wife and Isuzu’s mother.

  During my lunch break, I went upstairs to find Freddie at the kitchen table reading the paper. The radio was on, and I heard my dreamboat Elvis singing a song I hadn’t heard before.

  Thrilled, I asked, “What’s that?”

  Freddie didn’t care much for Elvis Presley. “I think they said it was the preview of a new song that’s gonna come out in a week or two.”

  “What’s the name of it?”

  “I don’t know!”

  It had a good beat and a typical Elvis melodic hook. When it was over, the DJ said it was called “I Need Your Love Tonight.” I can’t wait to buy the record! I think I might also have to buy a new copy of Elvis’ Golden Records, an album with a bunch of his hits on it. I’ve played it to death and there’s an awful scratch on side two. It skips right in the middle of “Love Me Tender.” He sings, “Love Me Ten—Love Me Ten—Love Me Ten” over and over. It drives Freddie nuts.

  Anyway, I had to grab a quick bite and get back downstairs. As I got some tuna fish salad out of the fridge, Freddie said, “Look at this.” He pointed to the Daily News.

  My mouth fell open. The article’s headline was BLACK STILETTO NOT ALL BAD?

  For once it was a positive article. An “anonymous source” in the New York City Police Department said the street cops “secretly admire the Black Stiletto and hope she’s never caught.” The chief of police, Patrick Bruen, commented that if he ever found out who said that, the officer would be put on unpaid leave. But John Richardson, Special Agent of the FBI, was quoted as saying, “The Black Stiletto does a great service for the city. People shouldn’t believe everything they read about her in the newspapers.” Oh, my gosh! He came through! John did what he said he would!

  I can’t tell you, dear diary, how excited I was—and still am.

  Well, after I read the article, I took a few minutes to run outside to a pay phone. I called John at his office. The exchange went like this:

  Him: “Special Agent Richardson.”

  Me
: “Public Menace Stiletto.”

  Him: “Well, hello there.”

  Me: “Hi. How are you?”

  Him: “I’m doing well.”

  Me: “Did you happen to see the Daily News today?”

  Him: (Laughs) “I sure did. Did you?”

  Me: “Yep. I’m guessing you had something to do with it since you’re quoted.”

  Him: “I have friends in high places. Unfortunately my boss wasn’t very pleased. He’d still like to get you in handcuffs.”

  Me: “I hope you didn’t get in too much trouble.”

  Him: “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  Me: “Listen, I can’t really talk. Can I call you at home? Wouldn’t that be more private? You know, you’re at the FBI and all that. You could be recording this.”

  Him: “I assure you I’m not. But it’s probably a good idea. I’ll give you my unlisted home phone number.”

  And he did! I had to memorize it ’cause I didn’t bring pen and paper with me.

  Him: “I want you to know I normally don’t give out my number to strange women.”

  Me: “I believe you, but just tell me one thing.”

  Him: “What?”

  Me: “Are you married?”

  Him: “No.”

  For some reason, dear diary, I felt a little tingle when he said that, ha ha. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I told him I’d call him this evening and hung up. I ran back to the gym all flustered and excited. I didn’t care if I had to do double-training; I was in such a good mood!

  And then Mike Washington showed up. He’s been coming to the gym twice a week since I met him. Once again, my invisible antennae went on high alert. It was as if an electrical current was switched on in my spine. This guy simply oozes danger and deception. For one thing, he’s very quiet. He barely says hello to anyone except Freddie. He stands apart from the other fellas and trains on his own. He never asks for someone to spot him. Another thing is he doesn’t look me in the eye, and I don’t trust anyone who won’t do that.

  At one point he was pounding the speed ball in a professional, steady rhythm. The look on his face was so intense, as if all his enemies were stuffed inside that punching bag. I wasn’t far away; I was spotting Jimmy on bench presses, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Mike.