Nope. It looked like it was going to be a job for the Black Stiletto after all.
When I got to HQ, something happened that was a gift from providence. Pure luck. Coincidence. I was in Mr. Dudley’s office delivering a bunch of paperwork, and I noticed the top page of the stack in my arms was a report concerning Kennedy’s use of government vehicles in New York. It listed a bunch of cars and their license plates, and it struck me that all of the numbers ended with the letter X. 337 24X. 594 65X. All like that. And they reminded me of the Packard’s license number: 358 22X. So I asked Mr. Dudley, “What is the significance of the X on these license plate numbers?”
He looked up from his desk and said, “That means it’s registered to the government, or an embassy, or individual diplomats. Why?”
“Just curious. There’s a car that parks on my block with one of those.”
Before I left the room, I memorized the phone number listed for the company that provided the cars to Kennedy. When I got to a spot where I could talk quietly on the phone, I called the number. When a nice man answered, I told him I was with the Kennedy campaign and wanted to find out about a car with a specific license plate that the senator may have used before and left something behind in it. The guy on the phone bought it, so I gave him Michael’s license plate number. After a moment, my new friend came back and said that it was impossible for Kennedy to have had the car. It’s been registered to the Soviet Embassy for three years.
I went back into the workroom. Alice did a double take at me and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“What?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think Michael is a Communist spy,” I blurted. I don’t know why I said that, but it came out. It didn’t matter—I trusted Alice.
She looked at me like I was nuts, but at first I think the idea scared her. She jumped a little when I said it. “How do you know that, Judy?” she asked me skeptically.
“I don’t know,” I stupidly answered. “Just a feeling.”
“I thought you were going to forget about him.”
“I have.”
“That’s not what it sounds like.”
After work I went home and watched the third debate on TV with Freddie. The two candidates were in New York, broadcasting from ABC Studios over on W. 66th Street. I think it went well. Freddie said he thought Nixon won it, but I disagreed. But then again, I’d probably say Kennedy won even if he hadn’t.
But I know this time he did!
32
Judy’s Diary
1960
OCTOBER 14, 1960
I put on the Stiletto outfit tonight and went to Chinatown to spy on Michael’s apartment. It was a little after 10:00, so shops and restaurants were closing and the number of people on the street had somewhat diminished. When I got there, I crouched in the shadows of the convenience store doorway across the street and watched the building. The lights were on in the apartment, but the Packard was gone.
Nothing was going to happen if I stayed where I was, so I crossed the street and slinked down the steps to the basement level. I started to peep through the window but had to jerk my head back—both Michael and the other man were in the room. I moved back into the darkness so I could take in the scene without being noticed. The other man was on the phone. Michael sat on the bed watching him. Through the window I could faintly hear the guy’s voice. It sounded to me like he was speaking Russian. Michael slowly flexed his fingers in and out, making fists and relaxing them. Maybe he was cracking his knuckles. The other man appeared to me that he was more of an intense fellow than Michael; in fact, just by looking at him I could discern he was a very dangerous man. There was a blunt coldness about him, as if he had no emotions whatsoever. He also had very cruel eyes. I’ve always thought that one’s eyes can tell a lot about a person. Was he related to Michael? It was possible, for they did have similar features.
The man hung up and the two men conversed, although the other man did most of the talking. Michael listened without looking at his roommate and continued to crack his knuckles. It went on like that for about five minutes, and then the Russian left the room. Michael grabbed a jacket and put it on. Uh-oh, they were leaving.
I had to hide. They’d be opening the door any second. I scampered up the steps and looked both ways down the street. Luckily, the nearest pedestrians had their backs to me, but others were heading toward me from the opposite direction. The only way I could go was up, so I swung my rope with the pulley hook and caught the fire escape railing. I climbed the rope hand over hand until I was on the second floor platform, safely hidden in the shadows.
Dear diary, after a moment the black Packard pulled up and stopped in front of the building. I heard the apartment door below open and a few seconds later slam shut. Michael and the other man appeared on the sidewalk and walked toward the car. I was directly above them. Because of the angle, I couldn’t see the driver, again! However, I did see that this time a woman rode in the passenger seat. A decidedly feminine arm and hand with painted fingernails rested over the open window, but I was behind the car and couldn’t see the woman’s face. Michael and his roommate got in the backseat and the sedan drove away.
That was my chance. I jumped down from the fire escape and landed lightly on my feet. A quick look around, confirming that no one saw me. I snaked below to the apartment door and retrieved my lockpicks from the pouch on my belt. Getting inside wasn’t difficult. I had the door open in less than a minute. A hall led to the living room and kitchen, and a door to the left went to the front bedroom by the window.
It was obvious two bachelors lived there. The place was a mess. Newspapers were strewn all over the living room, along with empty coffee cups and dirty dishes. Some of the papers were New York dailies, but most of what I saw appeared to be written in Russian. The kitchen was a pigsty. Yuck. I figured the bedroom would be where I’d find anything interesting, so that’s where I concentrated my efforts.
There were two twin beds and a desk. Clothes were scattered about. Michael was usually well dressed and well groomed, so it was surprising to see how he lived. I went to the desk and rifled through papers and folders on the top. I found a lot of presidential campaign literature from both parties. Kennedy and Nixon. Inside the top drawer were some documents written in Russian and a checkbook. The checks were from a New York bank. The register was blank, so there was no way to know how much money was in their account.
Stuck inside the checkbook was an opened but unaddressed envelope from the Waldorf-Astoria. The hotel’s name was embossed on the top left corner. Inside were two tickets for the Alfred E. Smith dinner set for October 19, five days from now. I knew all about that. Kennedy and Nixon were both attending the event. I wasn’t sure yet if the Kennedy Girls would be on duty that night, but I had things to do for the campaign during the day. How did Michael get two tickets to this prestigious dinner?
There was nothing else in the desk, so I moved to the closet. Among the clothes hanging there were two Waldorf-Astoria bellhop uniforms. I recognized them from the few times I’ve been to the hotel.
Three brown attaché-like cases sat on a top shelf; two were small and one was large and long. I took down a small one, opened it, and gasped.
A handgun sat inside. “Smith & Wesson” was engraved on the side of the barrel. I don’t know anything about guns, but I’m pretty sure it was what they call a semi-automatic because it had one of those clip things—a magazine—to hold the bullets. I carefully put back the case and checked out the other small one, which held an identical weapon. The longer case contained a rifle with a high-powered scope. I’d swear it was a sniper rifle. Don’t all sniper rifles have those telescopic sights on them?
Before I could register what I’d found, I heard footsteps on the steps outside the window. Two pairs of shoes. The men were back!
I frantically threw the case back on the shelf, stepped inside the closet, and shut the door. At the same time, I heard the front d
oor of the apartment unlock and open. Voices. I recognized Michael’s. They were speaking Russian.
Please don’t come in the bedroom! I screamed in my head.
Yes, I was scared. If they caught me, it could blow everything. They’d know someone was onto their plans, whatever they were. They’d kill me and then disappear. No one would ever know they existed. On the other hand, if they didn’t kill me and I managed to subdue them, we might never know what they intended to do.
The men went straight to the living room. I heard someone turn on the tap in the kitchen. I cautiously opened the closet door just enough for me peer out. All clear. I stepped out of the closet and quietly moved to the bedroom door. I stole a glance into the hall. The other man stood in the living room with his back to me. I couldn’t see Michael, but I knew he was in the kitchen. Now or never. I swiftly moved to the front door, but something in the closet where I’d hidden fell and made a loud noise. I figured it was one of those gun cases—I must not have placed it on the shelf securely.
“Hey!”
I heard the other man running toward me as I fumbled with the lock on the door. Just as I was able to swing it open, a pair of strong arms wrapped around my torso, pulled me away, and slammed me against the wall. He shouted in Russian, grabbed me again, this time with my arms pinned inside his, and then he turned me to face Michael, who had just appeared in the hall. I struggled, but the guy held me like a vice. Michael drew a knife and came at me. Luckily, the Russian didn’t have control of my legs, so I delivered a Mae- geri—a front kick—and knocked the weapon out of Michael’s hand. Then the judo training came in handy. I squatted, pulling the Russian’s weight down and over my back, and threw him clumsily over my shoulder. He landed hard but he managed to grab my leg as I attempted to regain my balance. I tumbled down on top of him. Michael then rushed in and kicked my head, causing a lightning bolt of pain behind my eyes, so I rolled off the Russian just to avoid another blow. Luckily, my back was to the wall; I used it for leverage to kick with both legs. I repeatedly slammed my boots into the Russian’s side, forcing him to move and get up.
There wasn’t a lot of room in that narrow hallway. By the time I’d sprung to my feet, Michael was on me, swinging his fists. I blocked him easily and successfully slipped a hard right hook through his defenses. Frankly, I was more afraid of the Russian. He was the better fighter, and he weighed more. The man started swinging powerfully strong punches at me, which I barely managed to block. There wasn’t enough space for me to perform karate kicks, so I reverted to the Praying Mantis wushu improvisations I had created. My arms and fists flew at the men, taking them by surprise. As my blows connected to their faces and chests, they retreated toward the living room. I advanced, keeping the rhythm and force of my attack constant. Finally, they stepped far enough back that there was a wide gap between us.
I drew the stiletto and jabbed the air in front of me. They looked at me in shock. The men didn’t know what I had just done. Michael rubbed his chin. The Russian’s nose was bleeding.
“Stay back. I’m leaving,” I announced.
They didn’t move. I stepped backward to the front door, got it open, and ran outside—up the steps to the street, and whoosh, I sprinted off toward Bowery and home.
Once I was safely in my room and had removed my outfit, I examined my face and head. The side of my skull hurt where Michael had kicked me, but I didn’t have any visible damage.
We couldn’t have a Kennedy Girl with ugly bruises or marks on her face, now could we?
OCTOBER 15, 1960
I didn’t work at HQ today and stayed at the gym. During my lunch hour, I walked over to Bayard Street—in street clothes, of course— and checked out Michael’s apartment again.
The black Packard wasn’t there. Taking a big chance, I moved a little down the steps to the apartment door so I could see in the window. No one was inside. The bedroom was completely clean. All the clothes I’d seen littering the place had disappeared. The closet door was open, and the space was empty.
Michael and the Russian had moved out.
I figured they did it because the Black Stiletto had discovered them. But then the big question now was where did they go?
Frustrated, I went back to the gym and tried to forget about them. But of course, I couldn’t.
OCTOBER 17, 1960
Yesterday I made another trip to Bayard Street, but the basement apartment was still vacant. I had to admit I’d lost Michael and his Russian roommate. They could be anywhere in the city, plotting who knows what. My only consolation was that they probably didn’t know I’d found their tickets to the dinner on the 19th.
That’s where I’d find them.
Something happened today at HQ that shook me a little. I was stuffing envelopes in the back room with Billy and Lily. They spoke Chinese to each other, but I distinctly heard Billy say “Black Stiletto” in English. That startled me, so I asked, “Did you just mention the Black Stiletto?”
He grinned and said, “Sorry, Judy, it’s rude for us to speak Chinese. We will try to speak English.”
“No, that’s all right, I don’t mind that. But I thought I heard—”
“I was telling Lily that some people said they saw the Black Stiletto in Chinatown a couple of nights ago.”
I pretended to be interested. “Is that so? Did you see her?”
“No, but I’ve seen her before.”
“You have?”
“She’s been to Chinatown a few times. I met her and talked to her.”
I put on my best I-don’t-believe-it face. “Oh, get out of town,” I said. “You have not.”
“I have. I really have.”
“He has,” Lily said. “Billy tell me all about it.”
I continued to stuff envelopes. “Hmpf,” I muttered as if I took the story with a grain of salt. “So what’s she like?”
“Well,” Billy said, “Miss Cooper, she’s a lot like you.”
My blood froze, but I recovered quickly and continued stuffing. “And how is that?” I asked.
“She’s as tall as you,” he said. “And her voice—I don’t know, you remind me of her, that’s all.” He blushed and looked back at his work.
“Well,” I answered, “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” and then I found an excuse to leave the room!
33
Martin
THE PRESENT
I can’t believe I’m back in New York City again, not even two months since the last time I was here. And, by golly, I’m here again with Carol and we’re trying to act like parents to our reckless and very troubled daughter. At least, that’s the way I see it. And no matter what I say, Carol disagrees with me, and then Gina disagrees with both of us. It’s been nothing but a fun-filled fight-fest since Carol and I got here.
It started off badly and went downhill from there. I admit I was angry with Gina even before I found out what she’d done. All we knew was that she’d been arrested for harassing a man. No details. So I didn’t start off in the right frame of mind. Carol and I had visions of Gina sitting in a cell with the general population of gang-bangers, drunks, and drug addicts, so the flight to New York was tense and unpleasant. Our cab ride to the hotel was completely silent. And then I made the mistake of saying, “I wish she would have listened to me when I told her she should take the semester off and come home.”
Carol blew up at me. She accused me of assuming Gina was guilty without knowing any of the facts. Then out of left field she let me have it because—and this was a surprise to me—I allegedly “make her feel guilty” when she sees me because she thinks I’m upset she’s marrying Ross.
The rest of our stay in Manhattan was a lovely nightmare.
My old friend Detective Ken Jordan met us at the 20th Precinct station on W. 82nd Street. I think Jordan was surprised to see us again so soon, too. It turned out Gina was seen following a man on the Upper West Side near Juilliard on several occasions. Finally, the man, an artist living in the area, confronted he
r. Apparently Gina acted like she was going to physically attack him and they had harsh words. The artist complained. Since there are pretty strict stalking laws these days, the cops picked Gina up. It didn’t help that the man she was “harassing” was one of the cleared suspects in her assault case.
Gina was fine, they’d put her in a single cell and made sure she was comfortable for the night. They fed her well and, according to my daughter, were very nice to her. So she was none the worse for wear, other than she got to sleep overnight in a sparsely decorated hotel room. However, we had to pay $5,000 in bail and hire an expensive lawyer. It pissed me off that Ross was the one who put up the money, although I could have done some maneuvering and come up with most of the sum. It would have hurt the pocketbook, though. The bail-bond route would have been the way to go, but Ross had the money, so he paid cash and Carol brought it with her on the plane. Then, after we’d gone through all that hassle, the artist— whose name is Gilbert Trejano—dropped the charges as long as a restraining order was put in place against Gina. She’s not allowed to go near Trejano’s residence. Another piece of fallout was the possibility Juilliard could suspend her.
A consolation to all this was that Jordan was privately taking Gina’s accusation against Trejano seriously. “We’ll be looking a lot more closely at Mr. Trejano,” Jordan told us. “Just keep her away from him. Her class is in his neighborhood, but that’s the only place on the block she’s allowed to go.”
The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes Page 20