The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  “Do we have a deal?” I asked.

  He had no choice but to nod.

  “Where are the keys?”

  “Pants pocket.”

  I reached in and found them. There were a lot of keys on the ring. He explained that one opened the building door, and three were for locks on the studio door. Another key opened the steel window grates.

  “And where are the negatives and film?”

  He closed his eyes. He really, really didn’t want to reveal this. “In. . . my safe.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Under the desk in the office.”

  “Is it a combination safe?”

  He nodded.

  “Better give me the combination.” I wrote it down as he recited it. “Okay, Jerry.” I took the gag and tied it securely around his mouth. “Can you breathe all right? Comfy? Good. I’m gonna go over there now. Am I gonna run in to any of your gangster buddies?” He shook his head. “All right. You sit tight and I guess I’ll be back in about an hour. Then we’ll put this unfortunate business behind us, right?” He nodded. I patted his cheek, gathered my tools, and left his apartment. I was careful to lock the door on my way out.

  By now it was after midnight. The streets had cleared of most pedestrians, but you know New York—there’re always people out and about. Flitting from shadow to shadow, I made my way to Park Avenue South and 29th Street. I noticed the shoe box was no longer taped under the window sill. As nonchalantly as I could, I went to Munroe’s building, unlocked the ground-floor door, and went inside. I’m pretty sure no one saw me. I went up the stairs to the second floor, and then proceeded to unlock the fortress that was his studio. I was in.

  A single light was on near the desk, next to the phony dressing room.

  The big man—the bodyguard who had walked with Munroe back to his apartment the other night—was sitting there. So much for Munroe telling the truth about running in to any of his gangster buddies. The bastard. The big guy was wearing trousers and an undershirt, rolls of fat protruding out of it like blubber.

  The fella turned and his mouth dropped open. “What the—?” He must have thought I was Munroe coming in since I’d used the keys.

  He stood and went for a gun holstered behind his back. By that time, the stiletto was in my hand and in throwing position. I let it go before he’d raised the pistol. The blade caught him in his upper arm, a little more to the left than I’d planned. Still, it did the trick. He yelped and dropped the gun. I quickly moved in and let him have a front kick to the face, which dropped him back on the desk. He actually broke the thing, crashing through the top, sending papers and envelopes and office supplies all over the place. He slammed on top of Munroe’s safe, which, sure enough, was underneath. The fat guy rolled off and struggled to pull the stiletto out of his arm.

  I helped him do it. Now the creep was bleeding like a slaughtered pig. He’d need medical attention soon, but he wouldn’t die. It was a superficial wound.

  However, I’d let down my guard. The guy wasn’t a professional bodyguard for nothing. While on his back, he kicked my legs out from under me and I fell. The stiletto went flying and I didn’t know where. For a guy his size, he moved fast. He was on his feet in no time, and he let loose with a monstrous kick to my abdomen. It took the breath right out of me. I saw twinkle spots as he kicked me again, this time in the rib cage. The pain was so bad I couldn’t think. My reflexes must have gone on autopilot or whatever they call it, for I involuntarily rolled backward to avoid another blow.

  The guy was a rhinoceros! He moved in, reached down and picked me up by my jacket collar. He pulled back a fist and let me have it, right in the face. I swear I thought he knocked some teeth out, but afterward I found he’d only busted my lip. Still dazed, I managed to wiggle out of his grasp. His hands were so big and my body so wiry that it was difficult for him to keep hold. This gave me time to back up, catch my breath, and think.

  The animal rushed toward me, growling and huffing.

  This is where Soichiro’s training kicked in. I released an ushiro geri—a back kick—which struck the guy in the sternum. It would have disabled and possibly killed an ordinary man, but this fella was so fat and muscular that it barely fazed him. Still, he was surprised by my sudden rebound. I then performed a little hop to get in position for a powerful mae geri—front kick—which slammed him on the chin. This time he staggered. I kept going. One after another, I moved in with a series of serious karate moves—a roundhouse kick, a side kick, another front kick, and then got close enough to let him have three seiken fist attacks to the face. I broke his nose, demolished his front teeth, and darn near crushed his Adam’s apple.

  One final kick to the groin was the coup de grâce. It might be fighting a little dirty, but, hey, as Soichiro once said, in a real fight there are no rules.

  Big Man collapsed like an imploded building. He lay on the floor like a beached whale, covered in blood and sweat. Yuck.

  I tied his hands and legs and secured him to the sofa. If he woke up, he was probably strong enough to drag the sofa across the room, but there was no way he could walk with his legs hog-tied and arms behind his back. I did what I could to bandage the knife wound on his arm. He’d live. The parting touch was wrapping a gag around his mouth to keep him quiet. I found my stiletto way across the studio floor. I wiped the blood off on his trouser leg and then went to the bathroom to survey my own damage.

  Dear diary, my stomach and side really hurt. I really prayed the bastard hadn’t broken any ribs. I’d been through that before and it’s not an amusement park ride. I looked in the mirror and gasped. Blood ran down my chin and out my nose. I washed my face to get a better look at the abrasions. They actually weren’t too bad. My upper lip was split, but my teeth were intact and I’d have a beast of a bruise on my cheek. I found a washcloth and held it to my mouth for a few minutes to get the bleeding under control, and then I went back into the studio to focus on Munroe’s safe. It was a big one.

  At least he didn’t lie about the combination. The safe opened right up and it was full of stuff—envelopes, little brown packages, and small film cans. The first thing I did was pull out the film cans. Each one was marked with a woman’s name—“Mary,” “Joanne,” “Lisa,” “Debbie.” Curious, I opened one, took out the reel, and unthreaded a foot of film to look at the frames. They were 8mm, so it was tough to see what’s on there. But in the rubble of the smashed desk there was a light box and a flat magnifying glass you could lay on top of it. Miraculously, they weren’t broken. I switched on the light box, placed the film on it, and covered it with the magnifier.

  It was footage of a woman with no clothes on. Of course it was!

  I dug through the other cans until I finally found one marked, “B.S.” Black Stiletto? I opened it, and there it was. My film footage. I recognized the opening scene when I laid it on the light box. I stuck it in my backpack and then rummaged through another set of cans with each girl’s name and an additional “Neg.” written on the labels. The negatives. I found mine, confirmed it was the correct one, and buried it in my pack. Just to make sure, I started going through the large flat envelopes, because they all contained eight-by-ten photographs.

  Dear diary, I was shocked by what I found.

  They were dirty pictures. I mean, really dirty. I’d seen my share of Playboy centerfolds and girlie magazines, but I had never ever seen anything like this. This was pornography, plain and simple. These were pictures of women doing things to themselves, men and women doing things, and women doing things to men. In explicit detail. They left nothing to the imagination.

  I thought: wasn’t this stuff illegal? I didn’t know.

  There was a ledger in the safe, so I pulled that out and looked at it. Inside Munroe had written names and mailing addresses of men all over the country. There were little code symbols by the names, probably indicating what kinds of pictures Munroe sent to them. Dollar figures were notated in columns by each customer, which I figured was what each buye
r paid for Munroe’s “products.”

  And then I found the worst. Oh my gosh, my dear, dear, diary, my heart stopped and I wanted to cry when I saw the pictures contained in a group of envelopes held together with a rubber band.

  Children. Boys and girls, ages, I don’t know—five or six all the way up to teenage. Doing horrible stuff with each other and with grown-ups.

  This I knew was illegal. This was a crime against humanity. This was the lowest of the low.

  Shaken, I sat in the chair by the desk. It took me a moment to calm down. I knew what I had to do. First I checked on Fat Guy to make sure he was still out cold. He was snoring heavily, so that was all right. Then I called John Richardson at home. Apparently I woke him up.

  “Hello?”

  “John, it’s me.”

  He must have heard the tension in my voice. “Is. . . is something wrong?”

  “Yes.” I explained what I was doing, where I was, and what I’d found. When I told him about the ledger with the mailing addresses he said, “All right, that’s a federal crime. He’s mailing obscene material through the U.S. mail. The FBI can get involved in this.”

  “Are you gonna arrest Munroe?” I explained he was at his apartment, and that a bodyguard was tied up and unconscious on the floor of the studio.

  “Unfortunately, it was breaking and entering,” John said. “Everything you’ve found would be inadmissible in court.”

  “That’s not right, John. There are children involved. This man needs to be put away for life!”

  “I understand and I totally agree with you. But the law works the way it does. Let’s think a minute.”

  “Hurry, John. I want to be out of here before Sleeping Beauty wakes up.”

  “Okay, listen to me carefully. Leave everything just as it is. Leave all the stuff from the safe out in the open, right there where you found it. The pictures, the films, everything.”

  “All right.”

  “But I want you to take two or three of the really bad photos—one or two with children and one with the adults—and take them back with you to Munroe’s apartment.”

  “All right.”

  “When you leave the studio, just close the door and leave it unlocked. From a pay phone, I want you to call this number and report suspicion of transporting obscene materials through the mail, much of which involves exploitation of children.” He gave me a phone number. “Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then hurry back to Munroe. Leave the three photos you took from the studio somewhere visible near Munroe, out of his reach. Then, call the same number I told you and report that you’ve caught a pornographer who has been violating federal law by exploiting children and sending obscene material through the mail. He’s tied up and ready for arrest. See, that way the feds will simply find all the evidence when they come to rescue your boy. Be sure to leave Munroe’s apartment unlocked, too.”

  “I will. Can I tell ’em I’m the Black Stiletto?”

  “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

  “Might as well get a little credit for this, huh?”

  “Yeah. That’s quite a job you did.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Will I see you soon?”

  “You betcha.”

  I hung up and did what I had to do. I stuck three of those horrible photos in my backpack and left the studio, making sure to keep the door slightly ajar. From a pay phone I made the first call. The operator wanted my name and all that, so I told her I was the Black Stiletto and hung up. It was another short trek the few blocks back to 36th Street. I used Munroe’s key to get in downstairs, then ran up to the second-floor studio.

  Munroe was where I’d left him. His eyes were wide with fear. He noticed my face and I could tell he knew how I’d received the fat lip.

  “What’s the matter, Jerry, are you surprised to see me? Did you think your friend Henry the Rhinoceros was gonna take care of me and save the day? Sorry, fella. It didn’t work out that way. Okay, Jerry, I found the film and the negative. Are you sure this is all? These are the only copies?”

  He nodded his head furiously.

  “Good. Now I’m gonna make a phone call if you don’t mind.”

  I picked up the receiver by his bed and dialed the FBI again. I gave the operator the news and location of Munroe’s apartment. From the expression on Munroe’s face, I could see he was upset that I wasn’t keeping my end of our deal. After I hung up, I said, “Jerry, I’m not gonna let you go, not after seeing what I found in that safe of yours.” I pulled out the repulsive photos and showed them to him. He started crying. I laid them on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re a bad, bad man, Jerry Munroe,” I told him. “I trust I’ll never hear from you again.”

  And then I left. I was home in a half hour.

  Despite the fact that I found evidence of a truly vile crime, I feel good that I put an end to that vermin’s so-called business.

  Score another one for our side.

  33

  John

  HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING

  Today is July 8, 1959.

  It was in the news this morning how the Black Stiletto and the FBI busted a national mail-order pornography racket that included the exploitation of children. Very serious crimes. The pornographic photos and films of adults, well, we’ve seen all that before and it wouldn’t have been a federal crime if the perpetrators hadn’t sent it through the U.S. mail. It was the material with children that was disgusting. Jerry Munroe and his partner, “Big” Pete Romero, were arrested and held without bail. The pair has ties with the DeLuca crime family, and it’s becoming clear the mob was behind the mailorder business. The Bureau is just now starting to look into whether DeLuca was aware of the child exploitation part of it. If so, it’s possible we can bring down the entire house. The evidence is still coming in, but unfortunately it appears that Munroe and Romero were slipping in the child exploitation material with the other pornographic stuff of their own volition. In other words, they may have been using the mob’s distribution channels for “straight” pornography to sell their own brand of sickness. The Bureau is bringing DeLuca in for questioning tomorrow.

  Judy never told me how she got involved with Munroe. Perhaps she’ll tell me the next time she pays a visit to my apartment.

  Haggerty is angry that she’s getting credit for the bust. He says it’s the Bureau that made the arrests. He doesn’t know she called me to report the crimes. I tried to tell him it was the Stiletto who alerted the Bureau about Munroe, but Haggerty won’t hear of it. Once again, he asked me for a report on the progress of catching her. I’ll tell him I’ve narrowed down the approximate geographical area of Manhattan where I believe the Stiletto resides—the East Village.

  Judy still isn’t aware that I know her name. I’m not sure how to proceed. She trusts me more and more every day, which is exactly what I want. I plan on visiting the diner again this week. In the meantime, I hope she comes by the apartment again soon.

  34

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  JULY 13, 1959

  I’ve been sore for days. It turns out I didn’t have any broken ribs, thank goodness, but they were bruised like all get-out. Freddie made me wear one of those rib pad things you wrap around your torso. I’m still wearing it. I imagine it will take another week or so before the pain lessens. In the meantime I’ll just rest and won’t do anything too active, although supposedly exercise is good for it. As for my face, well, I’ve had busted lips before. That’s healing fine, but the bruise on my face is nasty. I got a lot of comments about it from the guys at the gym. Some of ’em said they wanted to know who did it so they could go out and “beat his ass.” Almost all the fellas at the gym love me. They know I’m pretty tough and can hold my own in the ring, but they still think of me as a helpless, defenseless girl. If they only knew, ha ha.

  Of course, Mike Washington looked at me and grinned. “What happened to you?” he asked. I think it was the first time he ever
smiled at me.

  I gave him the same answer he gave me when I asked him about his face a while back. “Got into a bar fight.”

  He chuckled. “Guess you and me gotta stop drinkin’.” Then he walked away.

  Was that an olive branch? Was that his attempt at being nice for a change? I don’t know. He still makes me uneasy.

  Freddie put up one of the new American flags in the gym today. He’s always had a flag on the wall, but they just made one with 49 stars on it—the new star is for Alaska. Now I hear they’re going to admit Hawaii as a state, so they’re just gonna have to turn around and make another flag with 50 stars. I guess that keeps all those Betsy Ross’s busy.

  Tonight Lucy and I are going to see The Nun’s Story with Audrey Hepburn. But as soon as my ribs feel better, I’m paying John a visit. I miss his hands. And lips. And shoulders. And gosh, listen to me! I’m making myself blush.

  JULY 19, 1959

  Dear diary, I’m all flustered and angry and confused.

  Today I went to the East Side Diner for lunch. Lucy was working, and I thought I’d just visit with her and have a sandwich or something. Well, when I got there, who do you think was sitting by himself in one of the booths?

  John Richardson.

  I froze in my tracks. Was this a coincidence? Or did he know?

  Our eyes met and he silently acknowledged my entrance.

  That answered my question. Well, I was furious. I turned around and walked out, not knowing what to think. I started back toward the gym with all sorts of thoughts running through my head. How did he find out who I was? He must know my name. Did he know where I live?

  Before I’d gone a complete block, I turned around and went back. I decided to have it out with him. If he was going to play FBI agent with me, then we had some serious talking to do.

  He was still sitting at the booth, calmly drinking a cup of coffee. A plate with the remains of his lunch sat in front of him. I sat across from him. “Sorry (I Ran All the Way Home)” by the Impalas was playing on the jukebox. I don’t know why I remember dumb stuff like that.