The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  They didn’t. The car stopped right in front of the loading dock. They had seen me!

  Both police officers jumped out of the car, guns drawn. One of them moved the little spotlight attached to the car toward me and bathed me in bright illumination. I was trapped, simple as that. Nowhere to go.

  “Freeze!” one shouted.

  I raised my hands.

  “Walk out slowly. Keep your hands up.”

  I did. Once I was out in full view, one of them said, “Look here, we’ve got ourselves the Black Stiletto.”

  “Is it really her?” the other asked.

  The first cop had a flashlight in his other hand. He focused it on me and asked, “Are you her?”

  “You’re asking me?” I replied.

  The first officer ordered his partner to cuff me. As the guy started moving closer and unhooking the handcuffs from his belt, John came running around the corner from 13th Street.

  “FBI! Stop right there! FBI!” he shouted.

  The first officer swung his flashlight over to catch John, who was holding up his badge as he ran. The policemen obviously didn’t know what to do. When John caught up to us, he let them study the badge.

  “I’m FBI Special Agent John Richardson. This is a federal matter and the city police have no jurisdiction here. Let her go. I’m handling this.”

  The first cop said, “What are you talkin’ about? What’s a federal matter?”

  “The Black Stiletto and the FBI are involved in an undercover operation. I suggest you two officers leave the scene immediately. If the operation is compromised in any way, the Bureau will be very unhappy with the NYPD.” He leaned in to examine the cop’s badge. “Officer McCauley, I have your badge number. Are you going to cooperate?”

  The two policemen looked at each other.

  “He’s telling the truth,” I said.

  John added, “The clock is ticking. The Stiletto and I need to be in our positions in less than ten minutes. You’re impeding our operation. You must leave this instant!”

  Finally, the first cop said, “Let’s go, Pat.”

  “I shouldn’t cuff her?”

  “No. Let’s go. Get in the car.”

  McCauley switched off the flashlight and went around to the driver’s side of the patrol car. His partner eventually acquiesced and got in the passenger side. In a moment they were gone.

  John asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. You’d better get out of here.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m probably gonna catch hell for this if those cops talk.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t.”

  He nodded. “See you soon.” With that, he turned and walked back toward 13th and turned the corner.

  Now I’m back home and it’s nearly midnight. All I can think about is how John saved me from being arrested. I suppose I can trust him.

  Wow. I think I’m smitten.

  25

  John

  HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING

  Today is May 14, 1959.

  I thought the Stiletto would call me since our meeting the other night, but she hasn’t. I find her terribly intriguing. I wanna know what makes her tick. Why would a young woman who is obviously beautiful put on a costume and become a vigilante? What’s in it for her?

  The morning after our “date” I studied Tom’s photos from the diner again. I’m convinced the black-haired girl is her. She has the same eyes. If she’s indeed the Stiletto, then she’s one of the most attractive women I’ve ever seen. A knockout, really. Those brownish-green eyes are simply mesmerizing. Tom asked me if I thought any of the women in the diner that day was the Stiletto. I told him, “No,” and that the diner lead was a dead end. I don’t want him sniffing around.

  On my lunch hour yesterday, I went downtown again. It was my fourth trip to the diner since that day the Stiletto stood me up, but so far the black-haired girl hasn’t come in. However, in the photo she was sitting with a couple, a man and woman. The woman is blonde and also fairly attractive. On a couple of occasions when I showed up for lunch, the blonde was working as a waitress. She’s obviously friends with the Stiletto, so yesterday I made it a point to note that her name tag said, “Lucy.”

  It was just my luck that the man from the photo was in the diner at the same time. Lucy waited on him, and I could tell by their body language they are a couple. It’s apparent in the photograph, too. They’re either married or engaged, ’cause Lucy wears a big diamond ring on her left hand. He was well dressed in a suit, so I figure he’s a banker or a lawyer who works nearby. At one point, I overheard Lucy call the man “Peter.”

  After a while, Peter went to the men’s room. I got up, paid my bill, and then followed him inside. He had just finished his business at the urinal and was washing his hands. I stood at the urinal and asked, “Hey, Peter, how are you doing?”

  He turned and said, “Fine, thanks.” He didn’t know me, of course.

  “Say, who’s that gorgeous girl I’ve seen you and Lucy with—you know, the one with dark hair and brown eyes, tall, long legs—”

  Peter furrowed his brow. “Do I know you?”

  I zipped up and used the sink while he dried his hands. “Sure, we met a while back, gosh, last year sometime. I guess you don’t remember me, I’m Larry Turkin.” I told him I worked for one of the big law firms in the city. “We met at one of those soirees we always have to go to.” I dried my hands and shook his hand.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Was it one of the City Bar dinners?”

  “Yep, sure was. Say, I couldn’t help but notice you and Lucy are still together.” I nodded my head toward the door, indicating the diner.

  “Yeah, we’re going to get married, but we haven’t set a date yet.”

  “Congratulations!” I slapped him on the arm as if I was an old war buddy. “So you gonna help me out? Is that girl single? You know, the one with the dark hair? It’s almost black, you know who I mean?”

  “Judy? She’s the only girl I know with black hair.”

  “She’s one of Lucy’s good friends, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah. Judy Cooper. And yes, she’s single.”

  “You wouldn’t know her phone number, would you?”

  He pursed his lips. “Nope, sorry. But Lucy does. Should I ask her?”

  I didn’t want Lucy to tell the Stiletto a man was asking about her. Since I had her name, I could find out her number at the office. There was always the chance Peter would mention it to Lucy, but I’d be long gone.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. Hey, Peter, it’s good to see you. Maybe I’ll see you at another City Bar dinner.”

  “Sure, um, Larry,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”

  I left the men’s room ahead of him and went straight out to the street.

  So now I know her name. Judy Cooper.

  Haggerty continues to press me about catching her. I don’t understand why he has a bug up his rear about her. At any rate, in yesterday’s report, I revealed I’d met the Stiletto and pretty much told the truth about our rendezvous on 13th Street. Those two NYPD officers must’ve kept quiet, officially at least, for I haven’t heard anything about our encounter. I was almost certain Haggerty would find out that Special Agent Richardson had told two city cops the Stiletto was in an undercover operation with the Bureau. Hadn’t happened, though. So far, so good.

  This morning Haggerty was ecstatic about the report. He asked me all kinds of questions. What did she look like? What’s her name? What did she say? I told him if she agrees to meet me again, I’d find out a little more. He wants to set a trap and catch her next time, but I said she’s too careful. It would never work on that deserted street. She can smell it if someone else is there. I told Haggerty that the more confident she becomes, the easier it will be to lure her to a secluded spot from which she’d have no escape.

  Now I’m going to see what I can find out about Judy Coop
er.

  26

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  As expected, my mom was a difficult patient in the hospital. She had no idea where she was and couldn’t understand why she had to stay in bed. She belligerently and constantly challenged the nurses and doctors. I had to stay with her each day just to keep her somewhat calm. Despite the struggles, though, the tests went well, and she was released after the weekend.

  Mom had not suffered a stroke. The way it was explained to me was that she most likely went through a “vasovagal syncope,” which is the fancy term for simply fainting for no apparent reason. Actually, what caused her to lose consciousness momentarily was a sudden rush of adrenaline and her heart no longer having the strength to keep up with the demand for increased pumping action. Once again, I had to fudge the truth and tell the doctors I had no idea what had upset her.

  I guess that taught me not to bring up anything related to the Black Stiletto to my mom ever again. At least over the weekend I got to catch up on reading her diary during the infrequent times she fell asleep. I’m learning more and more about her every time I pick up one of those books.

  Because Mom was released on Monday, I had to call Konnors at Chicago Audit, my new employer, and say I couldn’t make it in. He understood and expressed his concern for my mother, but I detected a tad bit of annoyance in his voice. I knew he needed an auditor to start with his new client as soon as possible, but hopefully one more day wouldn’t make a difference.

  It took a little while, but Mom seemed happy to be back at Woodlands. At first, though, she was very confused. I’m not sure where she thought she was supposed to be, but the room wasn’t “home” to her. Perhaps she remembered our old house in Arlington Heights as being her home. Maybe it was Los Angeles. Or New York. I have no idea. But after an hour, she settled into her old routine. The nightmare visit to the hospital was completely forgotten. And the best part will come next. While insurance and Medicare usually takes care of Mom’s bills, I know I’ll be stuck with a portion of them. There’s no such thing as 100% coverage.

  It was only after I got home that I remembered I hadn’t heard from Gina. Usually she’s pretty good about calling her dad back. I removed my cell phone from my pocket and checked the “missed calls.” There wasn’t one from Gina, but there was another New York 212 area code number listed. Whoever had called had left a voice message. I don’t know why I didn’t hear it ring. Maybe I was in that no signal zone of the rural two-lane road through River-woods that stretched between Woodlands and the interstate entrance. Anyway, I dialed my voice mail and listened. It was the heavy New York accent of Johnny Munroe.

  “Talbot, have you thought over what we talked about? Give me a call. You have my number. If I don’t hear from you in forty-eight hours, World Entertainment Television’s gonna have a new segment to air.”

  Great. I had no idea what I was going to do about that. I hadn’t had any time to think about it over the weekend. Should I confide in Uncle Thomas, my mom’s lawyer? Perhaps he could give me some advice. We’d have a client confidentiality thing, wouldn’t we? Uncle Thomas couldn’t—and wouldn’t—reveal my mom’s secret. Still, it’s a tough decision. At least while she’s alive, I want to keep my mom safe from the firestorm that would explode if the world learned who the Black Stiletto really was.

  Before I could contemplate the problem further, my cell phone rang. Caller ID indicated it was my ex-wife.

  I answered and said, “Hi, Carol.”

  “Martin!” She was sobbing.

  “Carol? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s. . . it’s Gina! She’s hurt!”

  “What?”

  “She’s in the hospital!” She started going off in the middle of the story, not making any sense.

  “Wait! Slow down! Carol, please,” I pleaded. “Take a breath and start from the beginning.”

  I heard her sob again, but she did her best to collect herself. “I got a call from a New York police detective just a little while ago. Gina—she was attacked last night in a park. Martin, she was assaulted.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “She’s hurt pretty bad. I don’t have all the details. She’s in St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital.”

  “Carol, God, what do we do?”

  “I’ve got a flight booked in the morning. I’m going out there.”

  “I’m going, too. I’ll go online right now and book a flight. What airline are you on?”

  “United.” She told me the flight number and time.

  “Maybe I can get on the same flight. I’ll try. Jesus, what else do you know?”

  “Only that they weren’t sure who she was for the last twenty-four hours. Whoever did this stole her purse, which of course contained her driver’s license and IDs. She regained consciousness a few hours ago and told them to call me.”

  “And she was. . . she was raped?”

  “I don’t know! The detective said—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Uh, I wrote it down. Here it is. Detective Ken Jordan. I have his phone number, too.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “He said she was physically assaulted. I think he said ‘attempted rape,’ but I was so frazzled I can’t remember. She’s in stable condition, but her jaw is broken. It had to be wired shut.”

  “Jesus!” My heart was pounding. I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. “Did they catch who did it?”

  Carol sobbed again. “No. But a witness said he saw some black man running away from the scene.”

  That figured. New York City. Black man. Crime. Assault. Rape. I couldn’t help it. It’s how I always pictured New York. One of the first things I wanted to say was, “I told you not to let Gina go to Juilliard! New York’s a dangerous place!” But I didn’t. It wouldn’t help. Carol was upset enough.

  “Okay, I’m gonna try and get a flight,” I said. “Try not to worry.”

  “Martin, she’s our little girl!”

  “I know, honey. And we’ll be with her tomorrow. I’ll call you back and let you know what I find out.”

  I suppose it’s every father’s nightmare. Daughters will always remain our little girls, no matter how old they are. It’s our nature to protect them and love them. If anything bad happens to them, our instinct is to charge after the perpetrators and see that justice is done. I don’t know what I’d be able to do, but I wasn’t going to sit on my ass in Chicago.

  I booked a seat on Carol’s flight to LaGuardia.

  27

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  MAY 16, 1959

  I had another car date with John tonight. Mmm, it was more fun this time ’cause we were a lot more relaxed.

  I called him at home last night and suggested we meet again. He was all for it. Same time, same place. He said he’d bring food.

  After the usual long day at work, I had just a light dinner with Freddie since I knew I’d be eating later. I prepared to go out as the Stiletto, when suddenly it started pouring outside. Well, the Black Stiletto doesn’t travel with an umbrella, so I was gonna get wet. Luckily, my outfit’s leather repels water to a certain extent. In anticipation of being uncomfortable, I brought along a couple of towels in my backpack.

  Crossing over to the West Side was easy and difficult at the same time. The rain kept away people who didn’t have to be on the streets, but traffic was worse. Therefore, running along the sidewalks was a breeze, but darting across the avenues between moving cars almost got me killed!

  John’s Ford was parked in the same spot in front of Garibaldi’s. Just to be safe, I did a quick reconnaissance (another new word I learned and looked up in the dictionary so I could spell it!). The street was empty; we were alone. Hopefully no members of New York City’s finest would bother us this time. Finally, I approached the car’s passenger side and tapped on the window. He quickly opened the door and I got in.

  “My God, you’re soaked!” he said.

  “Sorry. I don’
t want to get your car all wet.” I pulled out the towels and laid them on the seat beneath me. “I came prepared, though.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll run the heater for a bit to warm you up.” He started the car and turned a knob on the dashboard. I know nothing about cars. I never got my driver’s license. One of these days I’m gonna have to do that. After a few minutes, the inside of the car got pretty toasty. The heat also helped unfog the inside of the windows. I guess it was our breath that was clouding ’em up.

  I smelled hot food. John opened a paper bag and removed some take-out cartons. “Hope you like Chinese,” he said.

  “Love it. That’s very nice of you.”

  “It’s from a place on the ground floor of my building. Of course, just about any Chinese place is good in New York City. It’s like the pizza joints. You usually can’t go wrong.”

  There was beef and broccoli, sweet and sour pork, and sautéed string beans. John also had a couple of bottles of Coke, which he opened with a thing on his key chain. “I would have brought beer or wine, but I didn’t know if you drink alcohol,” he said.

  “Sure I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Actually, I don’t. I might have a glass of wine every now and then with dinner, but I don’t normally drink socially. Hard liquor doesn’t agree with me, and I’ve never developed the taste for beer. I know, I’m an oddball.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, indicating the cigarette in his hand. “You make up for it with tobacco.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, is it too much smoke in here for you?”

  “A little.”

  He lowered his window a bit and threw the butt out. “I shouldn’t smoke and eat at the same time anyway.” He handed me a plastic fork and napkin. “You sure you’re not too wet?”

  “I’m fine, but I’m gonna take off this jacket.” I started to unzip it down the front and his eyes widened. I laughed and said, “Don’t get too excited, I have a T-shirt on underneath.” I laid the jacket on the floorboard and sat there in my leather pants and white T-shirt. What I didn’t anticipate was what happened to my nipples! Oh my gosh, dear diary, they perked right up and I’m sure he could see them poking through my T-shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra because my jacket is tight-fitting and supports my breasts quite well. As soon as I realized what was happening, I was really embarrassed, but I tried not to let it show. I considered putting the jacket back on, but I figured that would just call attention to the problem. So I just concentrated on the food and tried to forget about those vivacious nipples. Sheesh!