Then, as soon as he reached 6th, he raised his arm to hail a taxi. I stopped walking for fear that he’d see me. Lucky him—a cab pulled right up and he got inside. Darn! As soon as it pulled away, I ran to the avenue and raised my hand, too. I wasn’t as fortunate—several taxis went by that were already occupied. I stomped my foot and muttered, “Come on, come on!” But after a minute had passed, I knew it was too late to follow Soichiro’s cab. It was long gone, headed uptown.
I was very disappointed. All I could do was go home, so I did.
MARCH 2, 1959
This has been an action-packed day, and I never once put on my Black Stiletto disguise.
First, I worked until 3:00. Then I went to my karate lesson at Soichiro’s. Boy, that was tough. All during the lesson, Soichiro acted like he was mad at me but was doing his best to hold it in. He was particularly rough during the exercises and practice matches. At one point he actually hurt my forearm with a hard blow. I went, “Ow, Soichiro!” He stopped, stood rigid, and then bowed. “I am sorry,” he said.
“What’s got into you?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed and he whispered, “Why you follow me yesterday?”
Oh, dear diary, I felt a shiver run up my spine. You know that feeling when you get caught with your hand in the cookie jar?
“You … you saw me?”
“Of course I see you! I know when I am followed!”
He was very angry.
“Look, Soichiro-san, you’re my sensei and you’re my friend. I know you’re having some money troubles and I want to help you.”
As soon as I said that, his eyes grew livid. “You know nothing about it!”
“Soichiro-san, please, don’t be mad at me. Don’t you understand? You can trust me! You can tell me. You need to tell someone. You’re in some kind of trouble. You owe a lot of money, I know that.”
Cutting through his stoic façade, I could see he was conflicted. He wanted to tell me but his pride wouldn’t let him.
“You owe a lot of money and you will lose the studio if you don’t pay, isn’t that right?” I asked gently.
Finally, he nodded.
“Listen, don’t you worry. I know a way I can get some money for you. Big money. I will help you.”
Soichiro shook his head. “No. You must not do that. Stop interfering!”
I could tell he was actually afraid of something. So I bowed and said, “Soichiro-san, with all due respect, sometimes you must graciously accept the generosity of your friends. I need to go home and make a phone call. I’ll get back to you.”
So I hustled back to the gym, went straight to the kitchen, and took the Hollywood producer’s newspaper ad that was still stuck to the refrigerator. I then went back outside to a pay phone ’cause I don’t like to make calls as the Stiletto from my home phone. If the offer is really legitimate, then I can demand a lot of money to make this movie or whatever it was, right? Well, it would be my pleasure to give it all to Soichiro. So I phoned Albert Franz’s New York office and a female receptionist answered.
“Franz Productions, how may I help you?”
I was nervous! I started to talk and it came out in a croak, so I cleared my throat and spoke again. “Um, I know it’s been a few weeks since that ad was put in the paper, but the producer Albert Franz wants the Black Stiletto to contact him about a movie deal.”
“Yes?”
“Well, that’s me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m the Black Stiletto.”
I thought I heard her snicker. “Of course you are.”
“No, I really am the Black Stiletto. Is this a legitimate offer or not?”
“It’s a legitimate offer, ma’am, but you have to prove you’re the Black Stiletto. Since that ad ran, we’ve received hundreds of phone calls from women claiming to be the Black Stiletto.”
Oh geez.
“Well, how do I prove it? You want me to come to your office in my disguise?”
“Anyone can put on a silly costume, ma’am. We’ve had a few dozen of those come in, too.”
This woman was starting to tick me off. “Then what do you suggest I do?”
“We’re asking all applicants who want to be taken seriously to send us a screen test.”
“A what?”
“A screen test. Some film footage of you in action, so to speak.”
“How do I do that?”
“If you don’t have access to a professional studio, find yourself an amateur camera bug who shoots 8mm film. Get him to do it. That’s what other applicants are doing.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. “What’s supposed to be on it? How long should it be?”
“A few minutes are sufficient, but we need to see that there’s no question it’s really the Black Stiletto in the film. Do you have our office address? That’s where you would send it along with a head shot and résumé.”
Head shot and résumé?
“Uh, okay, thanks.” I hung up.
This was going to be more difficult than I thought.
I went back to the gym and found someone who might be able to advise me. “Hey, Freddie, if I wanted to find a camera bug who shoots 8mm film, where would I go?”
He looked at me funny. “What for?”
I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “Just wondering.”
“You mean someone who shoots movies?”
“Yeah, homemade movies.”
He rubbed his chin and thought about it. “There’s a place on 14th Street called Movie Star News. They have what you call camera clubs, where amateur and professional photographers go to find models and such. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He laughed. “Those camera clubs shoot a lot of cheesecake pictures, Judy.” I had no idea what that meant. Freddie saw my confusion and laughed again. “You know—pin-ups! Girls in bathing suits, nightgowns, or maybe even nothing at all.”
I must have turned a thousand shades of red. “Really?”
“You asked, Judy.”
We were in the gym and some of the guys were close by working out, so I lowered my voice to a whisper. “What if I wanted just some 8mm film shot of her?”
Now he was confused. He whispered back, “Who?”
“Freddie! The Black Stiletto!”
He furrowed his brow and looked at me sideways. “Why do you want to do that, Judy?”
“That’s my business, Freddie. Come on, help me out here.”
“Yeah, I suppose you could find someone there who’ll do it. I suggest you be careful, though. The guy who runs the place got in trouble with the government for sending pornography in the mail, or something like that. Could be some shady characters around there.”
I’m not sure what to think of that, but I don’t have any other options. Soichiro needs that money now.
Freddie told me exactly where on 14th Street the place is, so I went there. Movie Star News is a dusty and dank little place that specializes in selling photographs of movie stars to collectors. They also have movie posters and other memorabilia. I didn’t know there was a market for stuff like that. Anyway, there was a woman working there. When I told her what I was looking for, she pointed me to a bulletin board. “All the guys post notices up there if you’re looking for work.”
“Work? No, I’m not looking for work. I’m looking to hire someone to shoot some, um, custom film.”
She still nodded at the board. “Take your pick. Most of those guys’ll be glad to take your money.”
I went over and studied the bulletin board, which was covered in business cards and handwritten index cards. Most of them had a guy’s name, a phone number, and a comment like, “Looking for open-minded model,” or “Glamour photography.” Some offered to shoot bar mitzvahs and weddings. Some of the photographers indicated they were members of a camera club. Several notices had pull-off tabs with the phone numbers written on them. I took a few of the ones that sounded promising, and then I went back to the lad
y behind the counter.
“Can you recommend any of them?”
She shrugged as if she wasn’t much interested, but she glanced at the handful of names and numbers I’d taken. “All of those fellas are pretty talented. You can’t go wrong with any of ’em.”
“Are they nice men?”
Then she really looked at me like I was crazy. “Sure. They’re nice. We wouldn’t associate with them if they weren’t nice. Most of the guys who post on that board are professionals. Not all of ’em are amateurs.”
I thanked her and started to leave—but then I noticed a black-and-white photo of Elvis Presley on the wall.
“You have pictures of Elvis?” I realize now how dumb I sounded.
“Yes, we do.”
“Can I see them?”
She got up, opened a drawer in a filing cabinet, and pulled out three huge folders full of photos. “Take your pick,” she said as she slapped them down on the counter in front of me.
My gosh, I was in heaven looking at those pictures! Some were in color, too. I wanted all of them. I asked how much they were, and decided to splurge and get a couple. I stood there for ten minutes trying to decide which two to buy—there were so many good ones. I finally got one of him in his army uniform, and one of him on stage with a guitar.
Then I went home. At first I thought I should go out and use the pay phone to call these guys, but I finally figured there wouldn’t be any harm in using the home phone. These were photographers, not policemen. So I started calling them, one by one. I can’t believe it, but I told each fella I was the Black Stiletto and was looking for a cameraman to shoot three to four minutes of me in action. Most of them didn’t believe me. One guy said he’d do it for free if I’d pose for some seminude photographs. I hung up on that one. The nerve! Finally there was a guy named Jerry Munroe who sounded nice. When I told him who I was, he was thrilled. He started making suggestions of how we could go about it. He said he could set up a mannequin in his studio and I could use it as an “opponent,” you know, I could perform moves on it. He also said there’s a fire escape outside his studio if I wanted to use that for any outdoor stuff. I was impressed. I told him it would have to be done at night, and he replied that wouldn’t be a problem. All in all, he seemed to be professional and willing.
He wanted $300 for the work, which included a reel of finished, developed film. I told him that was fine, but we had to do it as soon as possible.
We made a date to shoot tomorrow night.
After I hung up, I put my pictures of Elvis on the wall. I feel like some teenaged fan, but now he looks at me from just about anywhere I stand in the room.
Gosh, I’m nervous! I’m gonna be in the movies!
13
Judy’s Diary
1959
MARCH 3, 1959
I can’t get my heart to slow down, dear diary. There was an “incident” tonight.
The mob tried to kill me again.
I should start at the beginning.
Jerry Munroe’s photography studio is at the corner of East 29th St. and Park Avenue South. There’s not a storefront or anything, it’s just a commercial building and he occupies the entire second floor in a loft space. I showed up for my film shoot at 8:00 p.m. as scheduled. It was a little strange standing at the front door in my disguise and ringing his buzzer. A few people were walking on Park Ave. South; they pointed and stared. I remember hoping none of them get the bright idea to call the police.
Jerry is a well-dressed little man about 5 feet, 5 inches tall, very thin, and he had dark, slicked-back hair, a tiny mustache, and a ruddy complexion. There was a cigarette permanently hanging from his mouth. At first I thought he might be Latin, but he had a thick Bronx accent. I figured he must have some Italian blood or something in him; he definitely had a Mediterranean look.
He was pleased to see me. “I can’t believe the Black Stiletto is in my studio! Man, oh, man, wait until the guys hear about this!” he said.
I told him, “Mr. Munroe, you can’t tell anyone. You have to keep it a secret. That’s part of the deal. This film is between you and me, and what I do with it is my business. Otherwise we can’t proceed.”
He looked a little disappointed, but he finally nodded and said, “Okay.” I studied his expressions and mannerisms to see if my instincts picked up anything fishy about him. So far he seemed okay. I didn’t get a sense that he was dishonest or anything, but I did pick up on something that wasn’t quite right. He carried himself confidently but somewhat abrasively, as if he was a “know-it-all.” I’ve heard of something that short men sometimes have called a “Napoleon complex,” in which they think more of themselves than they really are. Maybe that’s what was bothering me, but I really don’t know. For the time being, I tried to put any doubts out of my mind and get on with the shoot. That was the most important thing.
The studio was set up like you’d expect. Lighting equipment was situated all around a space in front of a dark background drop that hung down one wall. A male mannequin stood in the center. At one end of the studio was a small kitchen. Off to the side was a little dressing room and bathroom. I didn’t see a bedroom, so I figured Jerry lived somewhere else.
Oh, and the place reeked of tobacco smoke. There were several ashtrays in different areas of the space—all filled to the brim with cigarette butts and ashes.
Before we started, Jerry looked at me and asked, “You’re not wearing any makeup, are you?”
I shook my head. I didn’t think it was necessary since I had on a mask.
“You’ll want to put on makeup so your eyes will show up better. Some lipstick will define your mouth more. I have some stuff there in the dressing room you can use. Why don’t you take a few moments to make yourself beautiful?”
I thought—what the heck. Why not? I went into the dressing room and shut the door. There was a mirror with those lightbulbs around it like you see in the movies. A bag of makeup supplies was on the counter. I sat down in front of the mirror and studied my face beneath the mask. First I put on some lipstick. I wouldn’t be able to get to my eyes without removing the mask, so I looked back at the door to make sure it was closed. I took off the mask and let my hair fall to my shoulders. I then applied some eye shadow and mascara just like Lucy once showed me how to do. I then bundled up my hair with one hand, pulled on the mask with the other one, and stuffed my hair into the back of the hood. I’ve gotten to where I can do it quickly, like in two seconds! I have it down to a science, ha ha! After a quick adjustment of the mask/hood, I stood and left the dressing room.
A film camera sat on a tripod. Jerry told me to stand in front of the backdrop so he could check the lighting with some kind of meter. I felt pretty silly standing there while he waved that thing around me. It was also pretty warm under all those lights. When he was ready, he told me to attack the mannequin as if it was a bad guy. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I felt ridiculous. Jerry told me to relax and “put myself in the moment.” He started talking some mumbo jumbo about “method acting,” a technique used by Marlon Brando and James Dean where they rely on memories that might be relevant to the situation. So I tried to think of the mannequin as Douglas, my horrid stepfather. Even though Douglas is no longer with us (ha ha), I did my best to pretend that life-sized fake body was him.
I jumped and performed a tobi geri—a jump kick—and knocked the mannequin to the floor.
Jerry’s mouth would have dropped if he hadn’t been smoking a cigarette. I guess I just proved I was the real McCoy, for he said, “You really are her!”
“You had doubts?” I asked.
“Hey, some lady comes in here in a costume and says she’s the Black Stiletto, you gotta admit it’s a little out of the ordinary. I had to see it to believe it. No offense.”
“None taken.”
He set the mannequin back up.
And so it went. I tried all sorts of setups, different types of karate kicks and punches. At one point, the mannequin’s arm fell off! I start
ed laughing ’cause it was pretty funny. I told him I was sorry, I didn’t mean to break it. Jerry said not to worry about it; he snapped it back on the torso and kept shooting. After punishing that poor mannequin for fifteen minutes, Jerry told me to use my knife. I asked him if it was okay to stab the mannequin, and he said to go ahead. So I stood some feet away from it and threw the stiletto. It plunged directly into the mannequin’s neck. Bull’s-eye. Jerry captured a few more shots like that, and then he told me to stand in front of the mannequin and puncture it a few times. So I did.
Then he asked, “You want to go outside?”
I wasn’t too comfortable about appearing on the street, but it was night. He suggested that perhaps we’d look like a movie crew and no one would suspect I’m the real Black Stiletto. I shrugged and said, “Okay.”
We went out to the corner of 29th and Park Ave. South. The building’s fire escape was on the 29th Street side, so he set up the tripod there. He had a portable spotlight but most of the illumination came from a streetlight on the corner. It took him fifteen minutes to set up, and then we were ready. What was I going to do? I figured I could climb the fire escape to the roof of the building. Jerry said he’d probably lose me in the darkness as I got higher, but that was as good a suggestion as any.
So I used my hook and rope, repeating the trick I’d done at Soichiro’s apartment building. Amazingly, I caught the ladder’s bottom rung on the first try, pulled it down, and scampered to the second-floor landing. Then up the steps to the third floor. And so on, until I reached the roof. I swung a leg over the edge, pushed myself up, and I was there. I looked down at Jerry and waved.
The Black Stiletto: Black & White Page 8