The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  After a while it got too warm in the car with the heater on, so he shut it off and we rolled down the windows a bit more. “We have heaters in the company cars, but no air conditioners,” John said. “J. Edgar Hoover has ’em taken out. He thinks it costs too much money to run the air conditioner in a car. One of these days I hope he’ll learn it costs more to take out the A/C than it does to run them!”

  The rain lessened, and it became quite pleasant sitting there. We finished the meal and he tucked away the garbage in the backseat. Then we talked for a while, just like last time. On this occasion I revealed that I’d run away from home and ended up in New York when I was 14. I didn’t want to give him too much information, but I said I’d met some people who took me under their wings and helped me get on my feet. John told me he was in the army for two years after he graduated from high school. He was finished his service just before the Korean War started, thank goodness, and then he went to college at Cornell in Ithaca, where he got a degree in government.

  “At first I thought I wanted to be a politician,” John said, “but then I got the idea to join the FBI. I applied, got accepted, went through the training, and here I am.”

  He told me a little how the FBI works and what his duties are. Apparently he doesn’t like his boss very much.

  After spending about forty-five minutes in the car, I figured it was time for me to go. I thanked him for the food and his company.

  “This is like a drive-in movie,” I said, “only without the movie!”

  “I suppose we could do that sometime,” he said. “We’d have to leave Manhattan, though. I know a wonderful drive-in theater that has the biggest screen you can imagine, and in the summertime you can sit on the grass outside your car to watch the movie and have a picnic if you want.”

  “That sounds fun! Where is it?”

  “Poughkeepsie. You ever been there?”

  “Nope. Isn’t that where you said you’re from?”

  “That’s right. The Overlook Drive-In opened in, gosh, was it nineteen forty-eight or forty-nine? I was just out of high school. When I’d come home from college for the summers, my friends and I would take dates to the Overlook. We’d pile as many people in the car as possible—sometimes in the trunk!”

  “And the drive-in is still there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Gosh, let’s do it! Is it a long drive?”

  “A little over two hours.”

  I laughed. “Maybe we should find one closer.”

  And then he did something that took me completely by surprise. Even though I was wearing my mask, he leaned over, put a hand behind my neck, pulled me closer, and kissed me on the mouth. It was just a little, light kiss, nothing too fiery, just enough to be sweet and tender. Oh my gosh, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Then he stayed where he was, our faces just a few inches from each other. It was a little weird, me having the mask on and all, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked deeply into my eyes, and I could tell he wanted to kiss me again. So I let him.

  This time we opened our mouths and really kissed.

  Wow. He’s a good kisser, dear diary.

  We moved back to our respective places in the front seat. No one said anything for a few moments. It was a whole lot warmer in the car, let me tell you!

  Then I put my jacket back on, took my towels off the seat, and said, “Okay, John, I gotta go. I’ll call you!” I got out of there fast. I felt awkward. I’d never kissed anyone while wearing the Stiletto mask. It was strange.

  Happily, the rain had stopped. I waved goodbye and took off into the night.

  MAY 18, 1959

  I spent last night stalking the city looking for some action. After the winter and my illness in April, I was fed up with being indoors. Going out to meet John those two times got me yearning to do some real Black Stiletto work. You know—catch some crooks in the act of committing crimes or help some little old ladies cross the street, ha ha. Well, I didn’t find one crook or one little old lady. A few pedestrians spotted me, though. One group cheered as I ran by, but I heard at least one boo. I guess you can’t please everyone.

  Just to be daring, I scouted Little Italy to see if any of Franco DeLuca’s goons might try to kill me again. Many of his soldiers operated out of there. All I saw were tourists eating at tables outside the Italian restaurants. Made me hungry. I was tempted to stop, sit at a table in full costume, and order some pasta and wine. Maybe that would have brought out the hit men. Then I could have had a rumble right there on Mulberry Street. Oh, well.

  Today I worked at the gym, as usual. Clark continues to improve in his lessons. He’s such a sweet kid. When we’re not in the ring, we talk about books. He recently read Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. I hadn’t read it but had heard about it. It sounded interesting, and seeing that it was about how the Negro is alienated in America, I thought it would be something I’d enjoy. We also talked about the movie The Defiant Ones, and how much Clark admires the actor Sidney Poitier. Poitier was nominated for an Oscar this past year for his part, along with Tony Curtis, but neither won. I wonder if Poitier or any other colored actor will ever win an Oscar? Wait, that woman in Gone with the Wind won one, but I think she’s the only Negro to ever achieve it. Clark says his father keeps telling him that people should stop referring to Negroes as “Negroes,” and instead just call them black men and women or “African Americans.” I wonder if that’ll ever catch on.

  Mike Washington showed up and I got bad tinglings from him, as usual. After my lesson with Clark, he said something to me I sure didn’t like.

  “You gonna get that boy in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I seen a black man lynched and burned alive for just lookin’ funny at a white girl. And there you is being his friend. Some crack-er’ll find out and won’t like it. That boy be dead meat.”

  I was too appalled to respond. I just walked away, shaking my head. What an angry, unhappy man. Freddie buddies up to him all the time. I want to like the guy, but it’s obvious he doesn’t like me or something. I don’t trust him. You know what it really is? I think I finally figured it out. Washington reminds me of those gangsters up in Harlem. I get the same sense of danger from him as I did from them. Could he be involved with those guys? After all, he does live in Harlem.

  This afternoon I went for my karate lesson. Soichiro has been in a much better mood lately. Apparently Isuzu is back, living with him in their apartment on Charles Street. She was in a rehabilitation facility for two months, but Soichiro didn’t say where it was located. From what I understand, she had a very difficult time going through the heroin withdrawal. I hear it makes people crazy for a while. It’s supposed to be very painful, both physically and mentally. I can’t imagine it. I’ll never do any of those narcotics. I don’t need them and have no desire to try them. There’s been a lot of talk about marijuana lately. The “beatniks” who go to the coffee shops these days—guys like that author Jack Kerouac and the poet Allen Ginsburg, and some musicians—apparently they all smoke marijuana. Supposedly it’s not as bad as doing heroin, but I still don’t want to know what it does.

  That reminds me. Lucy, Peter, and I were at a poetry reading at a place called Café Wha? on Macdougal Street last week. Some guy played bongos while a few people stood and read original poetry, one at a time. I smelled something strange and Lucy told me it was marijuana. Several folks in the audience had been smoking it outside and they reeked of it. The poetry was really weird, too. I didn’t understand it. Peter said it was “avant-garde” (once again, I had to look that up to spell it right). That means it was experimental. If you ask me, they need to stop experimenting and write something that makes sense. After the poetry, though, a folk singer named Pete Seeger performed. I enjoyed that a lot.

  Back to Soichiro—we haven’t talked about what happened in February. I thought perhaps he’d bring up the Black Stiletto at some point, but he never has. He must respect my privacy and sensitivity about keeping my identit
y secret. I know he still thinks about Carl Purdy, though. Soichiro has been talking to a lawyer and they filed a civil suit against Purdy that has yet to go to court. One day he mentioned offhandedly that he’d heard Purdy sometimes goes after and gets revenge on people who have done him wrong. I told Soichiro that he didn’t do Purdy wrong, the Black Stiletto did. At any rate, I think Soichiro worries Purdy might come looking for Isuzu again.

  MAY 31, 1959

  It’s 3:00 in the morning and I just got home from a date with John! And oh my gosh, this one was something else! It didn’t end as well as I would have liked, but for the most part it was quite the adventure.

  As this is Memorial Day weekend, I called John and asked if he wanted to get together again. He said he was hoping I’d call because he wanted to see me. John really wants a phone number where he can call me. But in order to give him a phone number, I’d have to reveal my name. Then everything would be spoiled. I think. I’m not sure anymore, dear diary! I really like him, and I think he likes me, too. The way he was acting in the car tonight, I know he sure likes kissing me, ha ha! Maybe I will divulge my identity to him. If only he wasn’t an FBI agent!

  Anyway, our date was tonight—well, now it’s early Sunday morning—our date was Saturday night. He wanted me to meet him earlier, before nightfall, because he “had plans.” So I crossed town without my mask and a light jacket covering my disguise. When I saw his car parked in the usual spot, I donned the mask before he could see me, and then I got in the car. He said, “We’re going for a drive, Stiletto.” That made me nervous and I told him so. He asked me to trust him and that we’d have a lot of fun. So I went with it. For all I knew, he could’ve driven me into an FBI trap and I’d be arrested, but he didn’t.

  John drove north through Manhattan and up into the Bronx. Before long, we were out of New York City altogether.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  He got on U.S. Route 9 and then I knew what was going on. We talked about it the last time. He was taking me to Poughkeepsie, but I pretended I didn’t know. I wanted to let him have his surprise.

  Along the way we continued our small talks, getting to know each other better. One of the topics of conversation was the astronaut monkeys. NASA sent two monkeys up into space and they came back alive and well. Their names are Able and Miss Baker. The pictures in the papers were real cute. It was funny to see monkeys wearing space suits. We also listened to the radio. John isn’t too much of a rock-and-roll fan, but he was tolerant of my excitement when they played an Elvis song. John rolled his eyes when they played “The Battle of New Orleans” by Johnny Horton. It’s on its way to be number one and you hear it everywhere. John likes Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, Perry Como, and—oh my gosh!—Doris Day.

  It’s very easy to talk to John. I have to be very careful what I say. Too much information might give him clues as to my identity. But seeing that he’s an FBI agent, he could very well already have me pegged. I hope not. Not yet, anyway.

  The drive took over two hours, just like he said. Before long, we were at the Overlook Drive-In Theater, which was just as impressive as John described. The screen was huge. We parked and put the speaker inside the window, and then he went to the snack bar to get us some food. He came back with hot dogs, sodas, and popcorn. I felt funny sitting there with my mask and outfit on. Once it got completely dark outside no one could see in.

  It was a double feature. The first movie was a western called Rio Bravo, starring John Wayne and Dean Martin. It was great! I don’t normally like westerns, but it was funny and exciting at the same time. The second feature was Some Like It Hot, which I’d already seen, but I was happy to watch it again. However, we didn’t do much watching. By the time that movie started, we’d finished all our snacks and were ready to snuggle just like all the teenagers and other couples we saw in cars around us.

  We started kissing and I swear we didn’t stop for thirty minutes! Talk about “some like it hot!” After the first ten minutes, he casually pushed me back on the seat until I was lying down. Since my legs are so long, it was kinda clumsy. He got on top of me and we continued to kiss like that. Dear diary, I really wished I wasn’t wearing that darn disguise! I yearned for a man’s touch on my body again. Alas, the leather insulated me, so even when his hand moved up to my breast, I didn’t feel it like I was supposed to. I knew his hand was there, and it was exciting and all that, but I guess it was like taking a shower with a raincoat on.

  Then at one point he reached up to my mask and touched the bottom edges. “May I?” he asked.

  He wanted to unmask me!

  “No, John,” I said. “Please. No.” And that ruined the moment. I pushed him off of me and we sat up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

  Then he said, “You know how bizarre it is to kiss you with that mask on? Is it always going to be Halloween with us?”

  That hurt my feelings. In any other circumstances it would have made me angry, but I was really starting to like him. Making out with him was wonderful, and I’d lost myself in his kisses.

  “Maybe we should go back to the city,” I said.

  He nodded and started the car. We left before the movie was over. The drive back was kinda tense, but after an hour he finally said, “Look, I’m sorry. It wasn’t a nice thing to say.”

  “It’s all right. I understand what you mean.” And I did. “It’s weird for me, too. Maybe I’ll take off my mask for you in the near future.”

  When we got to Manhattan, he asked if he should drive back to the Meatpacking District or if it would be more convenient if he dropped me somewhere else. I asked if he could let me off in the Village. He drove to Washington Square and pulled over to the curb.

  “John, where’s your apartment?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I should visit you there next time.”

  He gave me the address. It was a seven-floor building on East 21st Street, just east of 3rd Avenue. I asked if there was a fire escape that was easily accessible. He told me it was in the front of the building and that his apartment was on the 5th floor.

  I said that was good to know. Before I got out of the car, I thanked him for the wonderful evening, leaned over, and kissed him.

  I hope I didn’t put him off with the mask thing. Gee whiz—most girls try to keep their panties on; I keep guys from taking off a stupid mask!

  28

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  JUNE 7, 1959

  Dear diary, do I have something to tell you!

  Last night I went to see John at his apartment. I didn’t leave until around 2:00 a.m.

  I suppose you can guess what happened.

  Since it was Saturday, I called him at home. There was no answer in the afternoon, but I tried a little later. Still no answer. After dinner I decided the Stiletto would pay him a surprise visit. I had no idea if he’d be home, but I figured I could get the lay of the land around his apartment building. It was just where he said, on East 21st between 2nd and 3rd. The fire escape was on the front. I suppose there was one in the back, too. The building was much bigger than Soichiro’s brownstone in the West Village, and there was a doorman at a desk just inside the front door. That was going to make access a little tricky. I estimated it was approximately fifteen feet between the door and the fire escape. As long as the rung ladder wasn’t squeaky when I pulled it down, I’d probably be okay.

  It was nearly 10:00, so it was plenty dark. New York is the city that never sleeps, though, and there were many pedestrians around, even on 21st. I crouched in a dark alcove at the edge of the building, waited until there was little foot traffic nearby, and went for it. Once again using my homemade grappling hook at the end of a rope, I pulled down the ladder, made sure it was secured in place, and shimmied up to the fire escape’s first landing. So as not to attract attention, I pulled the ladder up after me. I waited there for a moment to make sure the do
orman didn’t hear me and no one walking on the other side of the street saw me. As long as I stayed away from lit windows, I was okay. My outfit acted as camouflage against the night. I moved on up the steps to the second landing, and so on, until I reached the fifth.

  The light was on inside John’s apartment. Peering inside, I saw a bedroom. There wasn’t much to speak of, just a double bed, chest of drawers, and a mirror. There was a closet on the far side of the room, where I imagined John kept his clothes. A door led off into a hallway. I assumed there’d be a bathroom and a living room/kitchen area and that was it. A modest one-bedroom bachelor apartment in Manhattan.

  I tried to open the window but it was locked. So I tapped on it. Nothing happened. I tried again, a little louder. Finally I knocked as if it was the front door. Finally, John appeared. He was wearing trousers and an undershirt, was barefoot, and boy, did he look surprised! I laughed, and then a smile as big as the horizon spread across his face. He moved to the window, unlatched it, and pulled it up.

  “What are you doing out there, you crazy girl?” he asked.

  “Hello, sir, I’m selling Girl Scout cookies. Would you like to buy some?”

  “Sure, but get inside before someone sees you!”

  I crawled in over a radiator and stood next to him. “I don’t think anyone spotted me. I was real careful. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Are you busy? You want company?”