The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes

by Raymond Benson

  Eventually, dear diary, I made it out of the park at 66th Street and Central Park West. I was about to move off the sidewalk and run across the avenue, when a police patrol car came rumbling up the road. There was no way I could jump for cover in time. The red-and-blue lights went on and the siren beeped. The car quickly pulled over to the curb, so I hightailed it back into the park. I had to hide after all.

  The spooky trees were my friends then. I dashed toward the blackest, bleakest hole and followed it to the core of the small forest. My intuition served me well, for it was difficult to see directly in front of my face. I figured that was about as good as I was going to get, so I stopped and crouched behind a tree.

  I waited. Heard voices in the distance. Saw no flashlights. I sat on the ground. It was a damp and cold.

  The wilderness around me was full of ungodly dark shapes. If you’d have told me there were bears in Central Park, I would’ve believed you.

  I stayed still and silent. Off in the distance, I pinpointed tiny moving beams of light after all. The cops were searching for me due east of my position. They moved along a path, which was a good sign. So far they hadn’t ventured into the thickness of the woodsy area. Maybe they were as scared of it as I was!

  My strategy had to change. It wasn’t a chase anymore. It was all about stealth, and moving slowly and deliberately. I figured if the cops came my way, I’d covertly sneak to another tree, and so on, until they gave up. My senses told me there were two clusters of policemen, but they didn’t consist of as many men as I’d feared. I listened carefully, following the passage of the closest group. Their voices were low, unintelligible murmurs.

  Dear diary, it seemed like I sat in that cold, dark spot forever. It was at least an hour before the policemen abandoned the search. I detected no more activity anywhere near me. I stood, brushed off my behind, and walked out of the trees. A deserted, gray path led west. I took it, moving slowly in case I heard anyone. At that point I probably would have rather run into a gang of criminals instead of the NYPD!

  I reached Central Park West, crossed the avenue, and went west on 64th Street until I hit Broadway. Although it was a busy thoroughfare, it was way after midnight. Not as many pedestrians, but it was still prudent to move quickly. I went back to the speedy, blink-and-you’ll-miss-her Black Stiletto, darting from building to building and dashing across street intersections. It was a long way home, but I made it.

  Remind me never to forget my street clothes again.

  16

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  MAY 21, 1960

  I’ve been feeling down since Lucy’s wedding. I probably made a big fool of myself by drinking too much, coming on to every male in sight, being ridiculous with Jimmy, and then experiencing that fiasco in Central Park as the Black Stiletto. That’s why I haven’t written much, dear diary.

  I’ve been sneaking glasses of Freddie’s bourbon. He’s not drinking it, so I figure why let it go to waste? Freddie commented that I seemed to be getting “looped” every night and should maybe cut down. He’s probably right, but I didn’t answer him. Right now, having a drink or two after dinner hits the spot.

  I saw Lucy when she and Peter returned from the Bahamas. She was tan and looked great. She’s very happy. She told me all about going snorkeling and seeing gorgeous colored coral and weird exotic fish. The food was spectacular and the hotel was splendid. I’m sure I’ll see all the pictures they took when she gets them developed. Lucy hated coming back to the real world. She’s moved in with Peter, so visiting her is more of a schlep. He lives in the West Village. They want to buy a larger apartment somewhere. I told her it had better be on the East Side!

  Peter got tickets for us to see that new musical playing Off-Broadway, The Fantasticks. It’s at the Sullivan Street Playhouse. Now I can’t get that song “Try to Remember” out of my head. I’d like to see more theatre. I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve been to a Broadway show. Sometimes famous stars appear. I’m silly not to take advantage of it.

  Mostly I’ve been working and training. I looked in the phone book for instructors who taught wushu. Although I’ve been practicing and developing my own techniques, it would be nice to learn the real thing. One studio I called said they don’t teach girls. The person who answered at the second place didn’t speak English, so I gave up. I once had an idea to open my own martial arts class for girls only. Maybe I should do that. Would anyone register? Are there other girls besides me who want to defend themselves? You’d think there would be.

  One day I went up to Park Avenue South to see the Democratic headquarters. A young man and woman sat behind a table on the pavement asking passersby if they were registered to vote. I realized I wasn’t, so I filled out the papers. I looked at some of the party literature and told them I hoped John Kennedy got the nomination. The woman said, “As long as we get a Democrat in the White House, that’s the important thing.” I’d read that President Eisenhower signed a new civil rights act this month that was supposed to help Negro voters in the south. I had asked Clark about it and he said the new law was a start but it didn’t do enough.

  Maybe I will volunteer. It would bring something positive to my life again.

  Meanwhile, the Black Stiletto hasn’t made an appearance since the Central Park incident. I haven’t felt like it lately, but tonight I do. It’s Sunday evening, the weather is nice, and the night is calling me. It’s been a while since I’ve been to Chinatown. I want to see if Billy and his mother are still in the apartment above the restaurant. I’m probably crazy for showing my mask there again, but I have nothing better to do.

  MAY 22, 1960

  Ugh, I have a hangover today. I guess I drank too much last night, but I was real blue. What’s wrong with me? I should have been happy after what I did, but I wasn’t.

  Around 10:00 I dressed as the Stiletto and slipped out. The sidewalks were crowded with people. New York City in late May, you can’t get much better than that. That meant I had to be extra careful dashing along the streets, dodging traffic, and not staying in one place too long. Sure, people saw me. Some of the reactions were pretty funny. Women screamed like they’d seen a mouse. A few men did, too! Others yelled at me, both positively and negatively. “Menace!” “Hurray for the Black Stiletto!” “Go get ‘em, Stiletto!” “Someone call the cops!” You get the picture.

  It’s pretty difficult traipsing through Chinatown without being noticed. My plan was to check on Billy and then get out of there. I didn’t want another gang of Flying Dragons to corner me. I’ve had my fill of getting beat up by mobs.

  Elizabeth Street was quiet. The restaurant was closed, of course, and the lettering “Lee Noodle Restaurant” was gone. Plywood covered the windows on the inside. A construction permit was taped to the door. Another note said “Open Soon New Manjment” in English and Chinese. I bet I knew who the new managers were, too.

  I also checked the mailboxes inside the building. The Lees were no longer listed. Gone. I hope Billy is all right. I suppose I’ll never see him again.

  Not wanting to tempt providence, I quickly got out of there. I moved up Elizabeth to Canal and was just starting to dash east when I heard shouts of distress in Chinese coming from a convenience store on the corner. A few people stopped to look, so I did, too.

  Two young men wearing plastic Halloween masks were in the process of holding up the place! The elderly Chinese man behind the counter had his hands up. One guy—his mask was Mickey Mouse—pointed a gun at the man. Another crook stood next to the manager with his hands in the cash register drawer. His mask was Popeye.

  Without hesitating, I opened the door, lunged at the gunman’s waist, and tackled him. The gun fell on the floor and rattled like a tin can. It was a toy made of plastic! The boy behind the counter dropped what money he had, leaped over, and ran out of the store before I could stop him. I let him go since I had one of them. It wasn’t difficult holding the kid down. I pulled off the Mickey Mouse mask, revealing
a young Chinese teenager not much older than Billy. Meanwhile, the manager jabbered in his language and picked up a phone. I assumed he was calling the police.

  “What’s your name?” I growled at the boy.

  “Chow!”

  “Chow? That’s your name?”

  He nodded furiously. He was so frightened he started to cry.

  “Are you in a Tong?”

  He wouldn’t answer. The boy just sobbed and said, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “Answer me! Are you in a Tong?”

  Then he shook his head. “I want . . . I try to join . . . this initiation!”

  “You had to rob this store to get in the Tong?”

  He nodded and cried some more.

  “What Tong? The Flying Dragons?”

  When I said that, his eyes grew wide. “No! No!” I thought he said, “On lung, on lung.” Was that Chinese?

  “What’s on lung mean?”

  “No, On Leong!” Then I remembered what Billy had told me. On Leong was the name of another Tong in Chinatown. In fact, they’re the main rivals of the Hip Sing Tong. That meant this kid wouldn’t like the Flying Dragons, since they’re associated with Hip Sing.

  I got off of him and let the boy stand, but I held on to the back of his neck. I addressed the manager. “He’s just a kid. He didn’t get anything. Should I let him go?”

  The old man didn’t understand me. He let loose a string of angry Chinese. I asked the boy what the manager said.

  “He says to let me go,” the boy whimpered.

  “Oh, really? That didn’t sound like what he said. I think he wants you locked away.”

  “Please! I won’t do it again! I promise! My parents, they kill me!”

  I suddenly felt sorry for the kid. He was trembling. I turned to the old man again. “I’m letting him go, okay?” The fellow continued his monologue, but it didn’t sound as angry. I squeezed the boy’s neck hard and said, “All right, this is a warning. You don’t need to join a Tong. Stay in school. Be a good kid.” I looked down at the plastic weapon and kicked it across the floor. “And don’t play with guns,” I added. “Now run along before the cops get here.”

  The boy was out of there faster than a Texas roadrunner. The store manager didn’t stop talking. He proceeded to berate me for letting the would-be robber go. I just shook my head at him and said, “He’s just a kid! Tell the cops he got away.” I was pretty sure the man had no idea what I said, so I left. A few pedestrians had gathered on the sidewalk outside, so I addressed them. “If any of you speak English, tell the police the two robbers were young boys and they got away.” My statement was met with blank stares. I guess they’d never seen a Black Stiletto before.

  That was it. I gave up and ran east on Canal. I never heard any police sirens. After making sure no one followed me, I made my way to the telephone pole, shimmied up, skirted across the roofs on 2nd Street, and climbed in my window above the gym.

  What’s weird is that I should have felt good. I hoped I’d scared that boy into not joining a Tong and that I’d done a worthwhile act. Instead, an overwhelming sense of frustration and failure took over. It was that Chinatown thing again, how foreign and alien it is. I had to admit I didn’t understand it. I was definitely a fish out of water there, more than any other place in New York.

  So after I removed my outfit and put on my pajamas and a robe, I got Freddie’s bottle of bourbon and poured a few glasses. I’m not sure what time I finally got in bed. Hence, the hangover today.

  Bah, humbug. Grumble, grumble, toil and trouble!

  17

  Maggie

  THE PRESENT

  I’m looking forward to the Thanksgiving break. Tomorrow’s the holiday and I’ll be spending it with Martin. It’s the first time in quite a while that I’ve spent Thanksgiving with a man. We’ll have dinner at my house. I’ve already bought a turkey and the ingredients to make stuffing. I just need to run out after work and buy some vegetables and cranberries.

  Woodlands is quiet today. The kitchen staff plans to prepare Thanksgiving dinner for the residents. Martin wants to come by and sit with his mother when they serve the food. I told him that shouldn’t be a problem with our schedule, and I’d be happy to join him.

  I went to check on Judy and found her standing by her dresser, studying herself in the mirror. Her right hand was lightly caressing her cheek.

  “Good afternoon, Judy, how are we doing today?”

  She slowly turned her head and smiled at me. “Fine,” she said, and then she focused on the mirror again. I went and stood beside her.

  “Who’s that pretty young lady in the mirror?” I asked.

  Judy smiled wider and shook her head. “I don’t know!”

  “That’s you, Judy.” I pointed to a photo on the dresser. “And that’s you a few years ago.” It must have been taken in the seventies. The photo had the kind of color saturation common in those days. It revealed a much younger Judy Talbot standing by a tree in front of the house in Arlington Heights. She was very beautiful then. She is still a striking woman. Unfortunately, Alzheimer’s steals so much of what makes a woman pretty. Judy now looks much older than her seventy-three years, and she has the mind of a four-year-old. It’s so tragic.

  She scanned the other framed pictures. “Where’s my son?”

  I pointed to a recent photo of Martin. “Right here. This is Martin.”

  Judy wrinkled her brow. “No, that’s not…” Then she spied an early black-and-white shot from the sixties in which Martin was less than ten. Judy picked up the frame and said, “This is her.” Alzheimer’s patients often mixed up gender usage.

  “Yes, that’s him. That’s Martin when he was little. He’s all grown up now.” I pointed to the recent pic. “This is Martin now. He comes to see you nearly every day.”

  “He does?”

  “Of course he does. He’ll come see you tomorrow around dinnertime. It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

  “Thanksgiving?”

  “Yep, and we’re having turkey and dressing. Won’t that be nice?”

  She actually licked her lips and nodded. I was pleased to see that the connection from her brain to her saliva glands wasn’t broken.

  “You want me to call one of the nurses so you can take your walk?”

  She replaced the photo and moved toward the rocking chair. “Not now.” She carefully lowered herself in the chair and started to rock.

  I thought Judy was actually fairly lucid today. She had answered my questions with appropriate responses. I decided to try something. “Judy, Martin showed me a button that used to belong to you. It was a presidential campaign button for John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson from 1960. Do you remember that?”

  Judy continued to rock but turned her head to me. “What?”

  “John F. Kennedy. Do you remember when he ran for president? You must have supported him.”

  She nodded and said, “I was a Kennedy Girl.”

  That threw me for a loop. A what? “What was that, Judy?”

  No answer, just a smile.

  “What’s a Kennedy Girl? Did you meet Kennedy?”

  She nodded. “He knew my name.”

  What? Was a “Kennedy Girl” one of JFK’s many alleged girlfriends?

  Oh. “So you did meet him?”

  Judy’s expression was dreamy. Apparently, she had latched on to a memory and relished it for a moment, but then her face abruptly changed. Her brow creased and the smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed and she whispered, “They tried to kill him.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed by the rocker. “You’re right, Judy. They did kill him. In Dallas. Do you remember that?”

  But she shook her head. “No, they didn’t. I saved him.”

  She continued to stare at me intently. Whatever fantasy was going through her head was very real to her. I decided not to pursue it.

  “I tell you what, Judy, I’m going to get Jane and see if she’s free to walk with you now. It’d be good for you to get so
me exercise. You’re looking pretty good. I noticed your blood pressure is getting better, too. That medication you’re taking is helping.”

  I’m sure she didn’t understand any of that, but I got up and told her I’d be right back. Jane was busy with another patient, so I tried Eric, one of the staff assistants. He couldn’t get away from his current task either, so I went back to Judy’s room—and found her slumped in the chair, unconscious. She was definitely not merely asleep.

  “Judy?”

  I rushed to her and immediately checked her vitals. They weren’t good, so I picked up the phone and called a code blue.

  There was no question about it. Judy had suffered a stroke.

  18

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  JUNE 10, 1960

  Today, on my day off, I went to the Democratic Party’s New York headquarters on Park Avenue South and volunteered. I decided to go for it. I figured there wasn’t much else in my life at the moment. All I had was my work at the gym. No boyfriend, no hobbies (well, not the kind of hobbies you normally think of as “hobbies,” ha ha), and no circle of friends with whom I could gossip and shop like other normal young women in the city. I’m a misfit, no question about it. My only real female friend is Lucy, and now she’s married and I don’t see her as often as I did. I still work out and practice my martial arts, but that’s it. As for the Black Stiletto, well, I haven’t put on the outfit since that last night in Chinatown. I’m not sure why. The weather is nice—hot, in fact—and very conducive for night prowling. I just haven’t had the urge lately.

  So I thought that immersing myself in a new activity would be a good thing. I’ve been following John Kennedy’s progress to win the candidacy—he just won the California primary—and I want to support him.

  The place was busy and noisy! People were outside on the sidewalk handing out literature and registering citizens to vote. Inside, young men and women in their twenties ran here and there carrying stacks of paper or boxes or whatever. I could feel a definite energy in the air that was invigorating and exciting.