The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes

by Raymond Benson

  I removed it and held it in both hands. There were things in it, for they rattled when I shook the box, and it was heavy enough to indicate weighty items were inside. Unfortunately, it was locked. I thought breaking the lock would be crossing the line, not that I hadn’t already. Even so, I replaced the strongbox and closed the drawer.

  That foolish and selfish venture was a disappointing waste of time. I felt even guiltier once I had finished snooping. To ease my conscience a little, I found a notepad on Martin’s desk and wrote, “I miss your kisses,” and signed it. I tore off the page, went into the bedroom, and placed the note on the bed, where he’d find it when he got home.

  At least that was a sincere sentiment.

  30

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  SEPTEMBER 15, 1960

  It’s Thursday and I worked at the gym today. After the whirlwind with Kennedy yesterday, I’m exhausted. I was so worked up from all the excitement that I didn’t sleep well last night. John F. Kennedy spoke to me! And I met Harry Truman and Eleanor Roosevelt! Unbelievable. I wonder what my brothers back in Odessa would think of that. John is probably still in the army, making a career of it. I suppose Frank still works at that hardware store.

  Michael’s appearance at the rally still bothers me. Now I’m not so sure if it was really him, but I’m going on the assumption that it was. This evening after dinner I took a walk to Chinatown and Bayard Street.

  The black Packard was gone.

  The whole thing is more of a mystery than ever.

  SEPTEMBER 26, 1960

  Tonight was the first television debate between Kennedy and Nixon. We all think the debates will have a big influence on the election. I watched it with Alice and Mitch at their apartment. They’d turned their fire escape platform into a terrace by placing plants and stuff there. Some of us stood outside on the “terrace” to smoke cigarettes (not me!) and talk politics. Other folks from HQ were there, including Betty and Chip.

  The candidates were in a studio in Chicago and the debate was broadcast live. It was pretty exciting. Before it started, Mitch had the TV on the NBC channel so we could see a new campaign advertisement that Kennedy’s national headquarters created. We knew exactly when it would air. It was real cute. It had lots of pictures of the senator accompanied by a catchy song that went, “Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy, Ken-ne-dy for me—a man who’s old enough to know and young enough to do—”

  At debate time, Mitch changed the channel to CBS. I thought Kennedy looked great. Nixon, on the other hand, looked sick. None of us in the room thought he came off well at all. After the debate, Chip said, “Well, I think there’s no question who won that round.” We all agreed.

  OCTOBER 1, 1960

  Tonight the Black Stiletto caught a liquor store robber red-handed.

  Since I hadn’t seen any action in a while, I decided to put on the outfit and go out. I avoided Chinatown altogether and headed just a few blocks uptown. It was a little after 9:30 and there were still plenty of people outside. Within a half hour of hitting the street, I came upon a crime in progress at Brown’s Liquors at 2nd Avenue and 9th Street. There was a creepy-looking guy pacing the sidewalk in front of the store when I went past. He was mumbling to himself like some homeless New Yorkers tend to do. He didn’t notice me, which is strange because everyone turns to look at me when I dash by. I figured he was what he appeared to be—homeless and crazy—so I started to move on. But suddenly I heard a woman shriek, “He’s got a gun!” I turned around and saw that the guy had entered the shop and two old women had poured out the door. One of them shouted, “Someone call the police!” So I ran back and asked if they were hurt in any way. I’m afraid I may have frightened them more than the man with the gun. They gasped at me and moved down 2nd Avenue as fast as their little legs could take them.

  “I’m one of the good guys!” I yelled at them, but then I turned my attention to the liquor store. Sure enough, through the window I saw the creepy guy pointing a handgun at the man behind the counter. The shopkeeper’s hands were raised. That’s when I knew the gunman was off his rocker. No one in his right mind, not even a crook, would hold up someone in plain view of the storefront window at that time of night. Anyone could see him.

  I burst through the door, charged the robber, and tackled him. We both fell to the floor. The gun went off loudly and I heard a bottle shatter. I grabbed his gun arm and easily knocked the weapon out of his hand. The man started crying, “No, no, not the needle! Not the needle! Please, no!” I had no idea what he was going on about, but I subdued him and tied his hands behind his back with my rope. By then, the proprietor had called the cops.

  “Poor Eric,” the shopkeeper said. “I was waiting for the day he’d flip his lid. Thanks.”

  “You know this guy?” I asked.

  The man nodded as he started to clean up the mess of spilled booze. “That’s Eric. He’s a drunk. Comes in here every day for a bottle. I’ve noticed his behavior getting pretty screwy lately. Tonight he wanted a bottle of whiskey for free.”

  “You could have been killed.”

  The man shrugged. “I run a liquor store. It’s a hazard that comes with the job. That’s why I keep Esther.” He pulled a shotgun out from under the counter. “I just didn’t have the chance to grab old Esther here and show him my gun was bigger than his. I’m pretty sure Eric would’ve backed down.”

  I heard sirens approaching. Eric sat on the floor sobbing and muttering about the needle. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Hell if I know. You better go on. Thanks again. Now I can tell everyone I met the Black Stiletto.” He held out a hand, I shook it, and then scrammed out of there before the cops arrived. To tell the truth, I thought that storekeeper was almost as nutty as the robber. Who names their shotgun “Esther”?

  I figured that was enough excitement for one night, so I went home.

  OCTOBER 5, 1960

  I saw Michael today, dear diary.

  It happened at Nixon’s rally at Rockefeller Center. The candidate was in town today, and several of us from HQ got permission to leave the job and go over and hear him speak. After his poor performance on the TV debate, Nixon put out a statement that he was feeling ill and that CBS’s lighting in the studio unfairly favored Kennedy. CBS denied the charge.

  I was surprised to see such a large crowd. Nixon had as many supporters as Kennedy did when he was here in September. That shows you how naïve I can be. I honestly thought most everyone in New York was for Kennedy. That’s certainly not the case. At any rate, none of us were impressed with Nixon’s speech.

  After he finished and everyone was cheering and applauding, I saw Michael standing in the crowd. He was maybe thirty feet away from me and was in the middle of a sea of people, but my keen sense of sight zoomed right in on him. This time I was sure it was him. Once again, he wasn’t applauding or cheering. He just stood staring at the platform they’d set up for Nixon.

  Well, I decided to confront him. I excused myself from Alice and started moving through the throng. When I got closer, Michael turned and saw me. I swear a look of hatred passed over his eyes, and then he ran. He shot through the horde, rudely knocking people aside. I wanted to pursue him, but the assembly moved forward toward the stage in an attempt to shake hands with the candidate. Nixon had boldly stepped down from the stage and was personally greeting his supporters. There was no way I could get through the pack without hurting someone, so I gave up the chase. I lost sight of Michael and found myself unintentionally moving with the swarm. I didn’t particularly care to shake Nixon’s hand, so I struggled to go against the grain and force my way back to Alice and the others.

  “Where did you go?” she asked with concern.

  “I saw Michael. I was going to talk to him, but he ran when he saw me.”

  She made a face like she was disgusted. “Really?”

  “Why would he do that? There’s something very fishy about him,” I said.

  Alice shook her he
ad. “Forget about him, Judy. Seriously.” She seemed angrier about it than I was.

  “Why do you care?” I asked her as we walked back to HQ.

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”

  I told her I’m beyond being hurt by Michael. She didn’t say another word until we reached the office on Park Avenue. I asked if anything was wrong and she nearly snapped at me.

  Sheesh!

  OCTOBER 7, 1960

  Tonight was the second televised debate. This one was held in Washington, D.C. Once again there was a group gathered in Alice and Mitch’s wonderful apartment. Mitch wasn’t there at the beginning. He arrived a little late and looked harried. He greeted everyone and then took Alice into the kitchen so they could speak quietly together. When she returned, I asked her, “Everything all right?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Mitch got stuck in the subway for nearly an hour and he’s mad about it.” As soon as the words left her mouth, I knew they weren’t true. Alice had made it up. Obviously she didn’t want to tell me where Mitch had been, and I suppose it was none of my business. When he joined us, he had a drink and cigarette in hand, and was obviously in a foul mood.

  The debate seemed more evenly matched this time. Nixon looked better. Alice said he wasn’t wearing makeup during the first debate, but this time he was. We thought Kennedy held his own, but it felt like Nixon may have had the upper hand this time.

  OCTOBER 10, 1960

  I found out today that I’ll be a Kennedy Girl again on Wednesday. The senator arrived in the city today and is staying at the Biltmore Hotel. We got new outfits to wear for the cooler weather. They couldn’t be more different than the first ones—straight blue skirts with a slit in the back, and white wool jackets with blue piping. Louise said she thought we all looked like sailors, and I had to agree, but the red scarves we tie around our necks and the same phony white straw hats help to dispel that image. I don’t think it’s as cute as the first outfit, but we still look pretty sharp. Choo Choo taught us a couple of new songs: “Walking Down to Washington” and “Happy Days Are Here Again.” And of course we practiced “High Hopes” again and again.

  I’m tired and want to hit the sack. It’s going to be a busy couple of days.

  OCTOBER 12, 1960

  Michael Sokowitz is a Communist spy! I’m sure of it. I don’t have any proof, but I would bet every penny in my pocket—which isn’t a lot—that it’s true. And I don’t know what to do about it.

  Geez, what a day. It started with all the Kennedy Girls getting dressed at HQ and then going to the Waldorf-Astoria at 11:00 a.m. for a luncheon given by the National Council of Women. It was wonderful to see Kennedy again. He beamed when he saw us in the new outfits, and during his talk he said that Jackie had given her approval of our costumes’ design. We sang our songs, waved our hats as if we were in a chorus line, and were then hustled out of the building to the van.

  Next stop was the Park-Sheraton Hotel, where Kennedy would address the National Conference on Constitutional Rights. Where do they come up with all these organizations? While we were in transit, Betty said it was ironic that Kennedy and Khrushchev (it took a few tries learning how to spell that one!) were in town on the same day. That surprised me.

  “You didn’t know? He’s staying at the Waldorf!”

  I asked her if she’d seen him, and she said no.

  Our appearance at the Park-Sheraton was short and sweet. We sang “High Hopes” and then we were out of there. I don’t know how Kennedy had time to say anything to the conference attendees, but he did. We weren’t there for his speech; instead, we were already on our way to the Columbus Day Parade on 5th Avenue. At 12:30, HQ wanted us in place at Kennedy’s reviewing stand at 64th Street. The senator arrived just after we did. He looked a bit stressed, but he put on a big smile and we waved at the people as floats rolled by and high school marching bands performed patriotic songs.

  Our duties were done after that. We had the option to ride in the van back to HQ, but traffic was so bad that most of us just wanted to walk. After changing clothes, I walked alone over to the Waldorf to see what was going on. Someone at HQ said that Khrushchev was at the United Nations that morning and had pounded his shoe on the table! Later on there was a picture of him in the evening paper. He really did it! How uncouth can he be? But at the time I was curious and wandered over to the hotel. A lot of official-looking cars swarmed the front of the building. Police were out in droves keeping onlookers and reporters back. I stood on the other side of Park Avenue. Thanks to my excellent vision, I could clearly see the doors.

  My timing was perfect. A limousine pulled up and the cops made special arrangements for it to come through and park right in front. Then I saw him. Nikita Khrushchev, in the flesh, got out of the car and entered the hotel as reporters’ cameras flashed. Some people in the crowd booed him! The Russian ignored them and slipped inside without saying a word to anyone. In a way, I thought I was witnessing history being made.

  I waited a little while longer, and then the crowd started to disperse. I figured the show was over. Police remained, though, and checked out anyone who wanted to enter the hotel. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a regular guest on a day like today.

  Well, just as I made up my mind to catch the bus downtown, I saw Michael. He was walking on the hotel side of Park Avenue and heading from the south toward the police barricades. He flashed something at the cops—his ID?—and entered the hotel. That’s when it hit me. Michael was a Commie spy. He had to be. Why would he be going into the same hotel as Khrushchev and his entourage? Michael certainly wasn’t staying there, was he?

  Maybe that’s why Michael attended Kennedy’s and Nixon’s rallies. The Soviet Union believes that both candidates are strongly anti-Communist and will interfere with the USSR’s future plans for Cuba. That’s a big issue in the campaign—what is the U.S. going to do about Cuba, now that it’s a Communist country?

  Was Michael gathering intelligence for the Soviets? Was that why he stopped seeing me? Was that why he’s such a cold bastard who treated me like dirt?

  I could be imagining things, dear diary, but somehow my intuition on the matter felt exactly right.

  31

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  OCTOBER 13, 1960

  I have a lot to think about, dear diary. I learned some things about Michael today.

  I didn’t have to be at HQ until noon, so I went to Bayard Street this morning. The black Packard was parked on the street again, except in another spot. My heart started to race when I saw it because that car emanates something sinister. I’ve felt it from the first time I saw it.

  The convenience store across the street from the car was open and doing brisk business. I stepped over and the Chinese man behind the counter grinned and welcomed me in English. I bought a pastry and a small carton of milk and then stood and ate it in his vicinity.

  “Nice day, yes?” the man said.

  “Very nice,” I answered. “I like this neighborhood.” I really didn’t, but I wanted to break the ice with him.

  “You live in neighborhood?” he asked.

  “No, no. I have friends in the area.” I held out my hand. “I’m Sally.”

  The man grinned as if he’d never had a friend before. “Joe,” he said. He timidly shook my hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Joe. Is that a Chinese name?”

  The man actually got my joke and laughed. “Joe,” he said again, and then nodded furiously.

  I nodded at the sedan, which we could see through the window. “Say, Joe, do you know who owns that car?”

  “Black car?”

  “Yes.”

  Joe’s English was pretty good. I hadn’t encountered too many shop owners in Chinatown that spoke it particularly well. Nodding, he said, “He come in here sometime.”

  “He have a mustache and little beard?”

  “What?”

  I mimed painting my upper lip and chin. “Hair. Mustac
he.”

  “Oh, yes, yes.” Joe then looked past me out the window. “There he now.”

  I turned to see none other than Michael emerging from the steps leading to a basement apartment, walking over to the Packard, unlocking it, and getting in the driver’s seat.

  “Go catch,” Joe said. “There still time.”

  “No, I don’t need to see him. Old boyfriend.” I shook my head at the proprietor and made a yukky face. My new friend laughed and nodded as if he completely understood.

  Michael started the car, pulled out, and drove away.

  I finished my roll and milk, threw the remains in the trash, and waved at the Chinese man. “Bye, Joe. I’ll see you later.”

  “Thank you, good day, Sally!” Big grin.

  I crossed the street and slowly approached the basement apartment steps. It was broad daylight. People were everywhere. I had to look like I knew exactly what I was doing, so I purposefully went down the steps while I “searched” my purse for the keys to the door. At the bottom of the stairs, I was basically hidden from view. I knew basement apartments usually had a window in front that looked into a bedroom or living room, and this one was no different. The inside curtains were open. I slowly approached the window and peered inside.

  It was a bedroom, and I could see on the right side of the room. A man lay asleep, and I recognized him as the passenger of the Packard when I first saw it. Dark hair. Mustache. Resembled Michael in a way. Who was he? And who was the sedan’s driver that day, the one whose face I never saw?

  I got out of there quickly, once again bounding up the steps to the street and walking to the corner as if I lived there. As I rode the bus uptown, I thought about what I should do. Was this something for the Black Stiletto? Perhaps. Probably. But there was always the FBI. John would listen to me, but I didn’t really want to talk to him. I could call the public number and give an anonymous tip, but I’m sure no one would believe me. What would I tell them? I can just hear the response: “There’s a guy named Michael but maybe that’s not his real name and you think he’s a Communist spy? Why?” And I wouldn’t be able to answer. “My female intuition?” I’d say and they’d get a few laughs out of that. There was the license plate and the car. I could give them the number and say it was stolen or something. But would that really do any good?