The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  “Judy, I was hoping you’d see reason.”

  I couldn’t tell if I was mad or if I wanted to cry. Part of me wanted to scratch out his eyes. The other part felt like splitting open my chest, removing my broken heart, and handing it to him. I attempted to take a deep breath and calm myself. Then I said, “I thought there was something special between us, but you’ve broken the trust. You invaded my privacy. You’ve put me at great risk. Every day I wonder if the cops or the FBI are going to knock on my door and take me away.”

  “You honestly couldn’t have expected us to have an honest relationship without me knowing your identity.”

  “That’s the thing, John. You see, I know when someone is being honest or not. And I started to detect—don’t ask me how, because I was born with this ability—I started to detect you weren’t being straightforward with me, that you had ulterior motives for romancing me.”

  Dear diary, I hadn’t realized that until I’d said it. It was true. I had felt John was hiding something from me when we were together. I’d refused to acknowledge it, but it’s why I became so angry and distrustful of him last summer. Now it’s all very clear to me.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.

  He lit a cigarette and offered me one. I shook my head. “I don’t smoke, remember?”

  “Right.” We stood there a moment in silence, and then he said, “I saw that the Japanese martial arts instructor, the father of that girl you rescued, was killed.”

  “His name was Soichiro Tachikawa. His daughter Isuzu is living with another Japanese family now.” That was true. I’d kept in touch with her after Soichiro’s passing. Apparently her foster family was related—Soichiro’s cousins or something like that.

  “That’s what I understand,” John said. “You did know him, didn’t you?”

  “He was my teacher. My friend. He taught me karate and judo, and even how to fight wearing a blindfold. He was like a father to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Carl Purdy did it.”

  “We know. Unfortunately, no one can prove it. But the FBI will get him, Judy. I promise.”

  I glared at him and said, “Not if I get him first!”

  “Judy—”

  I put a hand up to stop him. “John, please respect my wishes. Don’t come see me again. Leave me alone. I’m sorry. It’s over. Arrest me if that’s what you really want to do, but otherwise leave me be. I hope you’ll do the right thing.”

  I left him on the street and went back inside.

  OCTOBER 22, 1959

  Dear diary, I haven’t thought about John for almost two weeks! Until just now, of course. I’ve been spending time working, going to movies either alone or with Lucy, or reading. On Clark’s recommendation, I did pick up Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison and am reading that. I like it. So it’s good I haven’t thought about him, isn’t it?

  I want to write down my impressions of the new Guggenheim Museum that opened yesterday uptown on 5th Avenue. Lucy and I went today—and it was packed. Peter was able to get us special tickets through his law firm so we didn’t have to stand in line. What a marvelous building! The press has made such a big deal about it being designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, a famous architect who died last April. I wasn’t very familiar with his work, but Lucy was. Even though Lucy’s just a waitress and isn’t a ritzy and sophisticated Madison Avenue female New Yorker, she’s pretty smart. She likes art and we often visit the museums and stuff. Lucy explains things to me. Sometimes I’m interested and sometimes I’m not, but I enjoy the experience. Anyway, the Guggenheim is shaped like a top, sort of, with a descending spiral ramp on the inside. There’re other parts of the building, too, but that’s what you remember the most. The place also has a very peaceful atmosphere when you’re there walking downward, as if you’re in a kind of cathedral. I like the way voices echo.

  I wanted to shout, “Black Stiletto,” just to hear it go “Stiletto. . . Stiletto. . . Stiletto. . .”

  OCTOBER 23, 1959

  Oh my gosh, I saw Tony the Tank today!

  It seems I’ve been getting a lot of unexpected visitors at the gym lately. He dropped by and asked if I wanted to have lunch with him. So we went up the street to the diner. Lucy was working. She knows Tony, of course, but isn’t aware he’s connected to the mob. She thinks he’s in the fishery business, which I guess he is, but that’s a front.

  After giving us the menus, she asked me, “Judy, you coming over again Friday for The Twilight Zone?” That’s a new show on TV that we love. Well, I love it. It scares Lucy, but she watches it with me. It just started a couple of weeks ago; there’ve been two episodes so far. I’m already addicted. I think it’s gonna be better than Alfred Hitchcock Presents!

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

  The jukebox was playing Bobby Darin’s “Mack the Knife,” which is the big number-one hit these days. I got up, put some coins in the machine, and picked Santo and Johnny’s “Sleep Walk,” which I adore, and Ritchie Valens’ “La Bamba” for old times’ sake.

  Once we had our sandwiches in front of us, Tony surprised me by saying, “Judy, I’ve come to see you to ask a favor.”

  “A favor of me? What?”

  “Actually, it’s for the don. He wants to ask you for a favor.”

  I almost choked on my Reuben. “Don DeLuca?”

  “Yeah, he wants a meeting.”

  “With the Stiletto?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do they. . . do they know who I am?”

  “No, no, nothing like that! I swear. But he put out the word to all the capos, you know, the lieutenants—”

  “I know who they are, but how would he know how to find me?”

  “Jerry Munroe.”

  I gasped. Had that slimy pornographer somehow got an unmasked picture of me to the mob?

  “You see, Judy, Munroe was working for the family,” Tony said. “This, um, photo and film business he was doing through mail order, well, that was using our distribution system. But the don was aware only of what we call ‘straight’ dirty pictures. You know what I mean. The don had no idea Munroe was dealing the child garbage. That deeply offended him. Normally, DeLuca would help out guys like Munroe with legal defense funds and an attorney who works for the family. But not Munroe. He’s gonna let Munroe rot in prison for that filth.”

  “Good.”

  “But he found out how Munroe would contact you. You know, with the classified ad in the newspaper.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “DeLuca’s running a series of ads in the classifieds right now in order to get your attention. Have you seen them?”

  “No. I haven’t looked.”

  “Better get hold of one. DeLuca wants you to call a number and set up a meeting.”

  “Tony, what for? They’ll just kill me! Aren’t I number one on the family’s hit list?”

  “You did the don a favor by exposing Munroe. He wants to thank you personally.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. And he has a proposition to make.”

  “What kind of proposition?”

  “I’m not sure of the details, but it has to do with Carl Purdy.”

  You coulda knocked me down with a feather. “If I agree to this meeting, how can I be sure I’ll be safe?” I asked.

  “If the don guarantees nothing will happen to you, then nothing will.”

  I told Tony I’d look at the paper and think about it. That was good enough for him.

  Back home, I dug out the newspapers we hadn’t thrown out, and sure enough, there it was in the classifieds—“To Munroe’s Film Star for Urgent Meeting”—and a phone number to call.

  What did I have to lose? I called the number and set up the meeting for Halloween night.

  42

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  Gina was released from the hospital to her dorm room, where she would convalesce and heal. Juilliard graciously offered to refund the semester’s tu
ition, but Gina wanted to continue going to class. I was against it, but of course, I was outvoted. I’d just as soon she come back to Chicago and go to Northwestern or somewhere close to her parents. But like her grandmother, Gina is stubborn. Through her wired jaw, she told me in no uncertain terms that she was staying in New York and remaining at Juilliard. Gina’s roommates—both male and female, as I found out—were all very supportive. They agreed to help her out whenever they could.

  I must say, Gina was doing remarkably well. She’s still shaken and emotionally fragile, but her spirits were much more positive since that day we first saw her. The idea of getting back to her dorm room cheered her up immensely.

  I briefly spoke to Detective Jordan this morning on the phone. They were still processing the DNA scraped from underneath Gina’s fingernails. Hopefully they would get a match to someone who already had a police record. Otherwise, there wasn’t much progress in catching Gina’s attacker. That didn’t make me happy.

  Carol wanted to stick around another day. She asked me what my plans were and I told her I was “pursuing a job lead.” So, once again, I left my darling daughter in my ex-wife’s capable hands while I met with John Richardson to execute our plan.

  Johnny Munroe agreed to meet me at the East Side Diner. I was already sitting at a booth when he walked in. I immediately recognized him from the TV show, although he appeared even heavier in person. He stood at the door and scanned the room. I raised my hand and he spotted me, after which he swaggered to the table as if he owned the joint. As we shook hands, he almost crushed mine.

  “How ya doin’,” he said, not asking a question.

  I put Munroe to be in his early sixties. He was dressed in a suit but without a tie. The white shirt was unbuttoned to his breastbone, displaying a massive amount of gaudy gold chains around his neck. He reeked of cigarette smoke. Definitely an extra from The Sopranos.

  When the waitress came over, all he ordered was a cup of coffee. “I ain’t stayin’ long,” he said. I said I’d have the same. When she walked away, Munroe looked at me and asked, “You wired?”

  “What?”

  “Wired. You wearin’ a wire? You recordin’ this conversation?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You got a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hand it over.”

  “What for?”

  “You can record our conversation with it.”

  I rolled my eyes, pulled out the phone, and placed it on the table. He took it, turned it off, and set it down in front of us.

  “Okay, I’ll trust you,” he said. “You better not be recordin’ this.”

  “I’m not.”

  “All right then.”

  I couldn’t help but glance across the room where John Richardson was sitting at the counter, his back to us.

  “So, you thought about my proposal?” Munroe asked.

  “Yes, I have. I’ll agree to your terms, but I want your assurance that this is a one-time payment and all prints and the negative will be destroyed.”

  “There ain’t no negative.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! I’ll give you the only copy of the film. Even exchange.”

  “Tell me again what you’d do if I don’t pay you,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I want to hear you say it to my face.”

  “I’ll hand it over to World Entertainment Television. They’ll give me half a million for it.”

  “You realize this is blackmail, or extortion, or whatever. That’s a federal crime.”

  “Howzat?”

  “You’re saying if I don’t pay you, you’ll do something I don’t want you to do.”

  His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. With a menacing whisper, he asked, “You breakin’ my balls?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “No. I’m just saying—”

  “Look, that’s the deal, Talbot. It’s a business transaction. I’m givin’ you first refusal. Take it or leave it. Besides, you ain’t gonna go to the cops if you want to protect the Stiletto’s identity. You do that and everything comes out, whether you like it or not.” He leaned back just as the waitress brought our coffee. Munroe took a few sips and then asked me, “So what’s your angle, Talbot? How do you ‘represent’ the Stiletto’s interests?”

  I shrugged. “I just do.”

  “Is she alive?”

  I lied. “No.”

  “Then what do you care?”

  “Leave it, Munroe. I’ve agreed to your demands. With that comes no questions asked, all right?”

  He rudely pointed a finger at me. “You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.” He sipped his coffee with loud slurps and then asked, “You got the money or what?”

  “I have it, but not today. Not with me. We’ll have to meet again here tomorrow. You hand over the film. I’ll give you the money.”

  “Cash, right?”

  “Cash.”

  “Make it unmarked one hundred dollar bills. That way you won’t need a trunk to carry it all.” He chuckled. “A suitcase maybe, but not a trunk.”

  I sighed. Funny guy. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s the only way I’ll accept it.”

  “All right, then. We’ll meet here.”

  “Same time?”

  “If that’s good for you.”

  “Sure.” He swigged his coffee down and made as if to leave.

  “Wait a second.”

  “What? Ain’t we done here?”

  “I’m just curious. About your father and the Stiletto. What’s the story? How did he get the film? Why didn’t he do anything with it?”

  “My father was afraid of the Black Stiletto. He didn’t tell me why, but I knew he was. She came up in conversation at some point. He said he’d met her and made this film as some kind of a promotional thing for her to use. I didn’t know he had a copy until after he died. Like I told you, I found it in his safety deposit box. I think he left it for me to do with it whatever I wanted. As a legacy, sort of.”

  “I see.”

  “Now can I go? You done askin’ your questions?”

  “Yeah.”

  He got up and left without shaking hands or saying goodbye. What a prick.

  Richardson waited a full ten minutes before he got off the stool and joined me at the booth.

  “Did you get it?” I asked.

  He nodded as he placed a mechanical device the size of a deck of cards on the table. He pushed a button and I heard Munroe’s voice.

  “You wired?”

  And then mine. “What?”

  “Wired. You wearin’ a wire? You recordin’ this conversation?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You got a cell phone?”

  The first phase of Richardson’s plan had worked. He picked up my phone from the table, slipped off the back panel covering the battery, and carefully removed the bug he’d placed in it earlier. The thing recorded the conversation regardless of whether or not the phone was on. Its signal went directly to Richardson’s device in his pocket.

  “So far, so good,” he said. “Tomorrow will be the moment of truth.”

  43

  Judy’s Diary

  OCTOBER 31, 1959

  It’s a few minutes before midnight and I’ve just come back from trick-or-treating, dear diary!

  I met Don Franco DeLuca face-to-face a couple of hours ago. And believe it or not, it wasn’t as scary as I thought it’d be. In fact, the guy was downright amiable. He was much more pleasant to me as the Stiletto than his brother Don Giorgio was to me as Judy Cooper.

  Last week when I called the number in the classified ad, some guy with a heavy New York–Italian accent answered. I explained who I was and that I was calling about the ad. The guy sounded real surprised at first, but quickly got down to business. First he asked, “How do I know this is really the Stiletto?”

  I replied, “Who e
lse would know the meaning of that classified ad?” I didn’t want to give Tony away so I asked, “So what’s this all about and who am I speaking to?”

  “I’m Guido Rossi. Don DeLuca would like a sit-down with you.”

  I remembered Guido. I met him a few times at social events when I was with Fiorello. Fiorello sometimes called him “Sword-fish.” He’s pretty high up in the DeLuca family food chain.

  It was my turn to pretend surprise. “Well, Mr. Rossi, I find that hard to believe. I thought he wanted to kill me.”

  “He does. Well, not really. That’s what he wants to talk to you about.”

  “Why should I agree to meet him?”

  “It could be mutually beneficial.”

  “How do I know I’d be safe?”

  “The don guarantees it. Whenever the don guarantees—” Yeah, yeah, it was the same thing Tony said.

  “When and where?”

  He suggested a warehouse on the west side, on Horatio Street. That was close to the Meatpacking District, or maybe it was part of it, I didn’t know. We agreed to 10:00 on Halloween night. I figured there would be a lot of Black Stilettos running around, ha ha; if I was seen on the street people might think I was just going to a costume party.

  So tonight I went out in full regalia, zipped across town without an overcoat—it was unseasonably warm—and made it to the West Side without incident. I didn’t see one other Black Stiletto, either! I don’t know if I should be relieved or hurt!

  I approached the building in the shadows, as usual. It was a large place, but there was no sign identifying what kind of warehouse it was. Whatever the business, it appeared to be closed down. Nevertheless, there were several cars parked in front. I guess Don DeLuca and his henchmen don’t take the bus or walk. One goon stood outside the door, smoking a cigarette. I didn’t know him.

  Well, I was already on the edge of the frying pan, so I thought I might as well jump into the fire. I crept along the side of the building toward the back and found another entrance. It was locked, but my picks easily broke through that obstacle.

  I stepped inside to something like the interior of a small airplane hangar. Vast emptiness. Eight men stood in the center of the floor, thirty feet away from me, and one sat in a chair—Don Franco DeLuca. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in person. He was much younger than Don Giorgio, maybe in his fifties. He wasn’t fat like his brother and still had a lot of dark color in his graying hair. One vacant chair faced him. The men were speaking in Italian or Sicilian, watching the front door, and hadn’t noticed me at all. I stood there and listened for a moment, getting the lay of the land. There was a lot of space around them. Even if I got into a fight, I’d have lots of room. I felt comfortable with the situation. Then I saw that Tony was one of the eight standing men. That made me feel even better about it. So I said, “Hey.”