The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes

by Raymond Benson

  “Michael!”

  Startled, he swiftly turned around. I could tell by his expression that not only was he surprised to see me, he was also displeased.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” I said. “What are you doing? Want to join me for some lunch?”

  He spoke nervously. “I was, uh, on my way to the pay phone to call you, Judy, but I didn’t know if you were at the gym or at the Democrat headquarters.” He pointed west. “It’s just over there on Park, right?”

  Liar. “Who was in the car?”

  “What?”

  “That black car just now. Who were you talking to?”

  “Oh, just friends of mine.”

  I’d swear he was not pleased that I’d seen him leaning in that car window, but chose not to say anything about it.

  “Yep. I took some days off since the convention is on.” I pointed to a diner. “I’m going to get some lunch. Care to join me?”

  He nodded and followed me inside. We sat in a booth and I tried to make small talk before the waitress took my order. He didn’t say a word except to ask for a glass of water. He was tense and angry, but was doing his best not to show it.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “You seem upset about something.”

  “Oh, I, uh, forgot my wallet. I left it at the apartment. Now I have to go back.”

  “Where’s your apartment?”

  He immediately changed the subject. “Your Kennedy got the nomination.”

  “Yeah, isn’t that great?”

  “I think of you when I see something in the news about him.”

  Michael glanced at the door and lit a cigarette. There was no question about it. He was on edge and distracted. I tried a different tactic. “I enjoyed Saturday night,” I said in my best coquettish voice, which, I have to admit, sounds goofy.

  “I did, too,” he replied.

  That’s all? I know some men tend to shy away from girls after they’ve gotten them into bed. It happened to me with that stupid Mack, the first guy I ever slept with. He didn’t want anything to do with me after he succeeded in getting in my pants. Was the same thing happening here?

  “Michael,” I said, “I like you, but I want you to know I don’t care for secrets. If you have something you need to tell me, please do.”

  “There are no secrets,” he answered.

  Liar.

  “No? I’m a big girl, you can tell me.”

  “Don’t you have secrets, too?” he asked, staring at me with those intense brown eyes. What the heck did he mean by that? For a moment I was speechless. Then, awkwardly, my food arrived and he stood. Right there in front of the waitress, he said, “Sorry, Judy, I can’t see you anymore. Goodbye.”

  He didn’t stay to see my reaction. Without another word, he left the diner! Can you believe it?

  The waitress, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, looked at me and said, “Honey, they ain’t worth the trouble.”

  I was a little in shock. Humiliated and angry, too. “Well, how do you like that,” I said. The waitress put my sandwich and fries on the table in front of me. “I’m tellin’ ya, he ain’t worth it. Coffee’s on the house if you want it, honey.”

  That was nice of her. But can you believe that, dear diary? What kind of a brush-off was that? That was downright mean.

  And besides being a total square, he’s definitely hiding something.

  23

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  JULY 14, 1960

  There must have been some wheeling and dealing in Los Angeles today, because Johnson accepted the vice presidential nomination after it was originally thought he would refuse it. Tomorrow Kennedy will assuredly accept his nomination and we’ll be backing a Kennedy/Johnson ticket come this November! Hooray! I’ve decided I’ll probably continue in my volunteer capacity and work for the Kennedy campaign. It’s not clear at this point if we’ll move to a different office.

  I’ve collapsed in my room after a long and busy day and decided to write a bit. The radio is playing the funniest song. It’s called “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” It’s pretty dumb but I kind of like it, although I liked “Alley Oop” at first but I can’t stand it now. I think I’ll turn it off and just play the new Elvis record. It’s called “It’s Now or Never,” and I love it. It’s such a pretty song. The flip side is “A Mess of Blues.” As soon as I heard it was out, I ran to the record store on Bleecker Street and bought it. The only word I can use to describe the feeling of getting a new Elvis record is—bliss.

  I’m still puzzled by Michael’s actions yesterday. I haven’t heard from him, of course. Today Alice asked me how it was going with him, and I told her I wasn’t sure about it. I didn’t outright say it was over, I don’t know why, but I asked her again if she or Mitch knew anything about him, and she replied that they first met Michael at the beatnik party, like me. She gave me Pam’s phone number, of Ron and Pam, who hosted the party. I might call her and ask how they know him. Would that be rude? Truthfully, I’d forget that jerk if I didn’t also think he’s up to something.

  I’ll sleep on it.

  JULY 16, 1960

  It’s a little after midnight and I’m just settling in for bed. I went out as the Stiletto tonight. It felt good to be stalking the streets again, but the outing was ultimately frustrating. I was looking for Michael, but, of course, that was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

  Today I called Pam from HQ—Kopinski is her last name—and explained who I was and that I was a guest of Mitch and Alice at her party. The conversation was strange. It went like this:

  Pam: “Oh, sure, I remember you. You’re real tall.”

  Me: “Yeah. I wanted to ask you about a guy that was there. Michael Sokowitz?”

  Pam: “Michael, was he the guy from Germany?”

  Me: “Austria.”

  Pam: “Oh, right. Yeah, I remember him. What about him?”

  Me: “How do you know him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Pam: “I beg your pardon?”

  Me: “How do you know Michael?”

  Pam: “I don’t understand.”

  Me: “How come he was at your party?”

  Pam: “I don’t know. I thought he was friend of yours.”

  Me: “No, I met him for the first time at the party.”

  Pam: “He didn’t come with Mitch and Alice? I was under the impression he was a friend of theirs.”

  Me: “No, Alice says that’s not the case. What about your husband? Does he know Michael?”

  Pam: “Who, Ron? He’s not my husband. We just live together.”

  Me: “Oh, sorry.”

  Pam: “That’s all right. I don’t think Ron knows him either, ‘cause I remember him asking me who the guy was.”

  Me: “So you don’t have any idea how he was invited to your party?”

  Pam: “I guess not, but that’s not so strange. Several people there were friends of friends. The party was open to anyone, really.”

  I thanked her and hung up, more baffled than ever. Where did Michael come from, if Mitch and Alice and Pam and Ron didn’t know him? He never gave me his address. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t have a phone number for him because I never thought to ask him for it. Michael always called me from a pay phone on the street, so it’s unclear whether or not he even has a phone.

  That’s when I decided that tonight I’d go out as the Black Stiletto and try to find him. Dumb idea, right? A city with a couple million people in it, and I’m looking for one man without a clue where he’d be?

  For the first hour or so, I was angry. Michael slept with me and then threw me away. Bastard. Was I some kind of American conquest for him? Does he do that to every girl he meets? I guess it’s taught me a lesson. I shouldn’t be so amenable with men I don’t know well. My reputation is worth more than that.

  So here I am, alone in my room. I suppose going out was good exercise for me anyway. The Stiletto ha
dn’t made an appearance since I got that kid off the building. It also felt good because Kennedy accepted the party’s nomination today in L.A. It was a cause to celebrate, and what better way to do that than to run across Manhattan rooftops, shimmy up and down telephone polls, and dart through pedestrians and traffic like some kind of Wonder Woman?

  JULY 22, 1960

  Gosh, I can’t believe a week’s gone by since I last wrote. My volunteer work has moved uptown to 48th and Park Avenue. It’s a building Kennedy once lived in or owns or something. Some rooms there will serve as the New York Kennedy/Johnson campaign headquarters. It’s a farther commute on the bus, but it’s exciting to be in Midtown for much of the day. I feel like a glamorous Madison Avenue secretary who works in an important firm! Who cares if I don’t get paid? I’m happy to do it. Freddie thinks I’m nuts, but he doesn’t mind as long as the gym isn’t neglected. Jimmy’s been a life saver in that regard.

  Mr. Patton told us today that they’re forming a “Citizens for Kennedy” group all over the country, and they’re looking for volunteers to be “Kennedy Girls.” He looked straight at me when he said it. Kennedy Girls will wear a uniform and appear with the senator when he’s in town. Mrs. Kennedy is supposed to be designing the uniform. There will be Kennedy Girls in every major city.

  Alice told me I should volunteer. I have to admit the chance of appearing with Kennedy is pretty tempting. I’d get to meet him!

  I’m going to give it some serious thought.

  JULY 28, 1960

  Holy cow, almost another week has flown by.

  I told Mr. Patton I wanted to be a Kennedy Girl, and he said I’m an “ideal choice.” I was flattered. He said he’d let me know for sure in August once they’ve talked to all the girls who want to do it. I’m sure they only want young, attractive girls. Chip said they’d turn away all the “fat and ugly ones.” I thought that was a mean thing to say and told him so, especially since he’s pretty fat himself! But I guess he’s right. It was funny, but terrible, when he teased Karen, telling her she should volunteer to be a Kennedy Girl. Karen turned red and snapped at him. We were all snickering behind her back, we couldn’t help it, but I stuck up for her and said seriously, “I think Karen would make a great Kennedy Girl.”

  “Thank you, Judy,” she said, and then left the room in a huff.

  Alice asked me today if I’d heard from Michael. Until she said his name I hadn’t really thought about him. I told her it was over weeks ago. She said, “Good riddance,” and that I should be glad to be rid of him.

  I have to agree.

  In other news, Richard Nixon accepted the Republican Party’s nomination today. Henry Cabot Lodge is his running mate.

  The race is on!

  24

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  Thanksgiving morning I got a call from the hospital. My mom regained consciousness. I can’t describe what a relief it was to hear that. Maggie was glad to hear it, too. We had a quick breakfast and jumped in the car.

  Once again I felt embarrassed about my behavior the night before. How many men cry in front of their girlfriends? No matter how often I told myself it wasn’t a sign of weakness, I couldn’t help but feel humiliated. Maggie was great, though. She didn’t mention it. What was palpable were the sparks we’d experienced afterward, when we’d made love. It went unsaid, but I knew she was pleased with how that worked out. It’s as if we finally found a rhythm that mutually suited us. Dare I say it? Something magical happened between us.

  I asked her why she’d never married. She answered that she’d had someone serious once, back in med school, and that he broke her heart. Since then she dated irregularly and focused entirely on her work.

  While driving, I came to the realization that Maggie was very, very good for me. I had to be careful and not blow it, but how could I continue the relationship without her knowing the truth about my mother? Whenever I thought about that obstacle, my chest tightened and my heart pounded. It took a concentrated effort to bring myself down from a full panic attack. I hated it that I had that problem. The medication wasn’t working. It hadn’t been a month, so it was probably too soon.

  When we reached the hospital, the nurse paged the doctor on duty. Dr. Kitanishi wasn’t there, of course. After a five minute wait, an Indian man in his forties appeared and introduced himself as Dr. Benji. He told us my mom woke up early, around six, but had not spoken. She was responsive to stimuli and drank water, but if asked a question she would ignore it. They had a catheter in her so they could manage her pee. She’s under sedation to keep her from becoming agitated. Dr. Benji said she’ll be going through more tests to see what kind of damage, if any, she’d sustained from the stroke. So far, though, she didn’t appear to have lost any movement on either side of her body.

  “How come she doesn’t talk?” I asked.

  The doctor held out his hands. “We don’t know yet. It could possibly be that she can talk, but she just doesn’t have anything to say.”

  Maggie and I were allowed to see her for a short visit. When Mom saw me, her eyes brightened a bit.

  “Hi, Mom, happy Thanksgiving!” I said with as much cheer as I could muster. “It’s turkey day, how about that?”

  She smiled. Good.

  “See, Judy, Martin, your son, is here,” Maggie said. “And you know me, Dr. McDaniel, remember? How are you feeling, today?”

  Mom smiled at her, too. Good.

  “Can you say hello, Mom?”

  When she didn’t make the effort, I took hold of her hand. She squeezed it. Good.

  “That’s okay, Mom. You talk when you’re ready. Maggie and I can only visit for a few minutes right now, but we’re coming back this afternoon with some turkey for you.” Dr. Benji had said she probably wouldn’t be on solid food for a while, but I figured she wouldn’t remember my promise.

  Even though it was too early for her, I tried phoning Gina in New York. Again, I got voice mail, but I expected it. I told Mom, “I just tried to call Gina, but she’s still asleep. It’s a holiday for her. No school this weekend.”

  There was a flash of brightness in Mom’s eyes. She knew who I meant, and I took that as a good sign. Gina really was the light of Mom’s life.

  All I could do was hope and pray my mother would be back at Woodlands soon.

  Maggie started talking to her about how everyone misses her there, and I zoned out for a moment. I don’t know why I thought of it then and there, but for some reason the conundrum of my mom’s finances popped into my head. The mystery of how she supported us when I was growing up rushed back, and I felt a layer of uneasiness spread over my heart. Whenever I was young and asked her if she had a job, Mom replied, “My job is to take care of you.” Once I was an adult, she told me we lived on an inheritance my father left us. At the time, I didn’t think it was odd that she wouldn’t discuss her money with me. I suppose that’s reasonable. Most parents probably don’t share financial matters with their children until, well, until they have to. Still, it was strange that I didn’t have to do much in the way of paying bills for my mother. Her lawyer—Uncle Thomas— took care of a trust that paid the medical and nursing home costs not covered by Medicare. We never worried about money all that time I was a kid and lived at home. The “inheritance” had paid for our house, my college tuition, and our living expenses since my birth.

  How much of a fucking inheritance did my father leave her? And where was it? Did Uncle Thomas know? Why the hell had I never pressed him—or my mom, when she was well—about all the Talbot family puzzles I stupidly ignored all my life? I’ve been a total idiot! If I’d taken a slightly more involved role in my mother’s day-to-day existence, I might have learned her secret a long time ago.

  “Who was my father, Mom?”

  My God, I swear I didn’t mean to say it aloud, but I did. I heard Maggie gasp beside me. My mom’s eyes jerked toward me, this time with a look of pain.

  “Martin,” Maggie said softly. “Jesus—”

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry,” I said to Maggie but loud enough for my mom to hear. “I don’t know why I said that, but it’s been on my mind. I’m sorry, Mom.” Suddenly I was choked up, so I left the room before I started crying again. I ran into Dr. Benji, who said our time with the patient was up. “We don’t want her to get too excited.”

  I’m afraid it was too late for that, doc.

  I felt terrible.

  Maggie told me Mom handled my out-of-left-field question well enough. The confusion from the disease played a big role in her not responding negatively. It was quite probable she didn’t remember who my father was. She wasn’t upset after all. The doctor had entered and distracted her as soon as I’d left. Maggie said goodbye and departed as well.

  On the way home in the car, Maggie commented, “I can’t believe you asked her that.”

  “I can’t believe it either,” I said. “I swear, Maggie, it just came out. The thought was going through my brain, and I unintentionally vocalized it.”

  “I believe you, Martin, I really do.” She laughed a little. “That was quite a faux pas.”

  That made me laugh, too. “I feel like one of the Three Stooges.”

  “Don’t worry about it. She was fine when I left her. That said, I’d like to know who your father was, too. There are a lot of things about you and your mother I’d like to know, Martin. You’re not wrong to wonder. I just can’t get over the fact that you never did anything about it before she became ill.”

  “I know, I know. I’m a moron.”

  “Stop, no you’re not. But sweetheart—if we’re going to take this to the next level, we can’t have secrets. Don’t you agree?”

  I looked at her, keeping one eye on the road. “I’m your sweetheart?”

  “I don’t cook Thanksgiving dinner for just anyone.”

  “Believe me, there’s so much about my mother I don’t know, and I’d like some answers.” I left it at that, even though I withheld a gigantic, earthshaking secret that would change everything if revealed.