At any rate, I’m happy they’re both alive.
Yesterday the newspapers had some pieces about my handiwork. One article reported that two Russian men dressed as Waldorf-Astoria bellhops had killed each other in a suite. One was stabbed and the other one shot himself. Apparently they had diplomatic ties to the Soviet Mission to the United Nations, so the FBI and CIA were looking into whether or not their presence had anything to do with the presidential candidates’ appearances at the Alfred E. Smith dinner elsewhere in the building. The mission denied any knowledge of the men, of course.
An unrelated article reported that a Cuban-American couple had also committed suicide in an eastside Midtown apartment. The woman, Alice Graves, was poisoned, while the man, Mitch Perry, jumped from his sixth-floor fire escape. Police were still looking into the possibility that Perry had murdered his wife before leaping to his death. Perry was described as a successful stockbroker, so the motivation was a mystery.
There was no mention of the Black Stiletto.
Police came to talk to Mr. Dudley and Mr. Patton at HQ today. Because Mitch and Alice were volunteers for the Kennedy campaign, the cops were covering all the bases. They didn’t talk to any of us. So far they hadn’t linked the couple to Michael or Ivan, and I doubt they will.
I think I’ve figured out what was supposed to happen at the Waldorf that night. Ivan had booked a suite on the 27th floor as a base of operations. Mitch probably brought the sniper rifle in its case to the hotel along with other luggage. The dinner tickets were actually for Mitch and Alice, not Ivan and Michael. Ivan and Michael dressed as hotel bellhops in order to get around the hotel with impunity. At the right time, Michael would have gone to the ballroom box, opened the case, assembled the rifle, shot Kennedy and Nixon, and then rushed to the stairwell with the case. He’d stash it in room 2730. He and Ivan, still dressed as bellhops, would have then innocently left the hotel amidst all the chaos, departed the city, and disappeared. Mitch and Alice would spend the night in the suite, check out in the morning, and leave with the rifle case among their luggage. Their attending the dinner was the perfect alibi.
Unless I’m wrong, the history books won’t contain any references to the attempt on John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon’s lives on October 19, 1960. No one has a clue it even occurred except the Commies, and they won’t be talking, ha ha.
Oh, and guess what, dear diary? There was $20,000 in that suitcase. I have no idea where the money came from, but it’s mine now! Ya-hoo!
39
Maggie
THE PRESENT
A couple of nights ago I got very upset with Martin. He walked out of the house for no reason. His behavior was totally bizarre—he put on a wet shirt I was cleaning for him and then he left. All right, he was distressed about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. Something on the television set him off, I think. I realize he got some bad news about his mother at the hospital, so that could be a big part of it. But if he doesn’t talk to me and be honest about what is bothering him, then how can we move forward?
Bill Ryan called me today at the office, so I returned the call during my lunch break.
“Judy’s and Martin’s Social Security numbers were registered in Odessa, Texas, in 1962,” he said.
“Martin was a newborn, so that’s understandable,” I thought out loud. “But why her?”
“Maybe she lost her card and had to reregister. Maybe she never had one. Or—”
“Or maybe she changed her identity?”
“That’s always a possibility. The new card was in her married name—Talbot—so that part of the equation is still a mystery.”
Indeed it was.
I’m afraid I believe Judy was some kind of criminal in Los Angeles. The evidence is too compelling. How could Martin not know about those gunshot wounds? It just doesn’t make sense.
I’ve decided I must confront Martin with my suspicion and tell him that if he doesn’t reveal what he’s hiding from me, then I’ll have to call off our relationship. I don’t want to go through that again. Lies and deceit destroyed the one other serious love affair I ever had. There’s a shadow that covers Martin and his mother, and I need to know what it is. It’s all I think about, because, well, I think I really do love him. I don’t want to push Martin away, but I know from experience that it’s what must happen if I don’t get some answers.
But first we have to go to his ex-wife’s wedding. Oh, boy.
40
Judy’s Diary
1960
NOVEMBER 5, 1960
Yesterday was my birthday. I’m twenty-three. My friends at HQ surprised me with a cake. Last night, Freddie took me to dinner at Gage & Tollner’s, down on Fulton Street. That was where I first met Fiorello, so it brought back poignant memories. The dinner was exquisite, though, and Freddie thanked me for “looking out for him” all year. He was very sweet. I got a little teary-eyed.
I didn’t hear from Lucy. Did she forget?
Oh, well, these birthdays are starting to get overrated.
My last Kennedy Girl assignment was today, Saturday, at the New York Coliseum at Columbus Circle. Kennedy held a rally there, and it was also his last big event in the city before the election on Tuesday. Nixon had a rally in the same location on Wednesday, but I didn’t go. I was too busy playing my new Elvis record, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” over and over. I had to stop when Freddie threatened to slit his wrists if he heard it one more time, ha ha.
Betty, Louise, and the rest of the Girls were all present today, and we sang “High Hopes,” “Marching Down to Washington,” and “Happy Days Are Here Again,” just like we always do. The rally was very crowded. I heard over a million people attended the senator’s rally in Chicago yesterday. There may very well have been that many supporters at the Coliseum today.
Kennedy thanked each girl personally for our help. Once again, he called me “Miss Cooper.” I’m amazed that he can remember my name. I wished him luck and I told him I know he will win.
“Do I have a guardian angel watching over me?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“More than you know,” I answered.
He shook my hand and went on to the next girl. Sigh.
I will miss being a Kennedy Girl. Luckily, we get to keep our uniforms. Betty joked that they’ll be worth money someday.
One thing bothers me about today, though. Billy was supposed to be there and he wasn’t. He and Lily had important volunteer jobs. I asked Lily where he was, and she averted her eyes and said, “He sick.” I asked, “Is he okay?” and she wouldn’t answer. In fact, she looked like she might cry! That’s when I knew she wasn’t telling me the truth. Something was very wrong.
I decided to pay a visit to Chinatown tomorrow.
NOVEMBER 6, 1960
Tonight I took the chance of dressing as the Stiletto and venturing back into dangerous waters. It had been a while since I’d shown my mask in Chinatown, and I didn’t know what to expect. I knew where Billy and his mother lived on Mott Street and unfortunately, that was in Flying Dragons and Hip Sing Tong territory. Hopefully I could get in and out as quickly as possible without attracting much attention.
I waited until 10:00, after businesses and restaurants were closed and less people populated the streets. The sidewalks were never completely empty, though. I’m sure I was seen by someone as I darted from one shadow to the next and made my way from Canal to Mott. The building where Billy lived seemed to be in more disrepair, and scaffolding now stood in front of it. That actually made my job easier; I didn’t have to bother with the fire escape and it concealed my presence outside their window. I climbed to the second-floor platform and peered inside.
It appeared to be a studio apartment—one room—that contained the bedroom, kitchen, and living area all in one space. I saw one bed and what I thought was an army cot. Billy lay in that one, and, Lord, his face was bruised and swollen. He had been badly beaten. His mother sat in a chair beside him with a book in her hands.
“Thank you,” I said to her, and then I knelt by Billy’s cot. Only then did I see bloody bandages around his torso. “Billy, what happened?”
Dear diary, he could barely talk and was in a tremendous amount of pain. From the way he was breathing, I guessed he had some broken ribs and maybe even a punctured lung, which could be quite serious.
Even so, he looked at me and smiled. “I’m glad . . . to see you.”
“Billy,” I repeated. “What happened? Who did this to you?”
“Flying Dragons. Who else?”
“What happened?”
He spoke slowly with great effort. “We owe them ten thousand dollars. They wanted me to join instead. I refused. How could I join the gang that killed my father? I stood up to them and they . . . they . . .”
I shushed him and examined his injuries. He had a knife wound in his chest, and his mother had tried to patch it up with a bunch of rags. His face was battered and he couldn’t move his right arm. When I touched it he winced, indicating it was broken.
“My God, Billy, you need to be in the hospital!”
He shook his head. “We don’t have moneyfor hospital.”
“I’ll give you money. They should treat you anyway, silly. They’re not going to turn you away.” I looked around the room. “Do you have a phone?”
Again, he shook his head.
“I’m going outside to call an ambulance.” I dug into my backpack and pulled out all the money I had on me—$35. But there was plenty more at home. I thrust it into his mother’s hands. “For hospital,” I told her, but she looked at it as if it was gold. I turned back to Billy and said, “I’ll bring back more money tomorrow night. Tell your mother to expect me around this same time. What’s the nearest hospital?”
Billy was fading fast. “Beekman Downtown.” he managed to murmur before passing out.
I left, found a pay phone on the corner, and called for the ambulance. I hid in the shadows and waited until it arrived, and then watched as the medics brought Billy down on a stretcher. I’m afraid I shed a few tears as they drove away.
Then I went home.
NOVEMBER 7, 1960
Beekman Downtown Hospital is located near City Hall. After work at the gym, I took the bus in my street clothes to check on Billy. When I asked to see him, the dumb nurse asked, “Are you a relative? Oh, of course you’re not.” I explained I was a friend, but she wouldn’t let me in the room. All she could tell me was that he was stable, whatever that meant. However, as I was leaving, I saw Lily in the hallway and managed to catch her.
“Oh, hi, Judy. You here to see Billy?”
“They won’t let me. How is he?”
“I can take you. They let me. But he asleep now. His mother here, too. She no like visitors.”
“I understand. Tell me, do you know what his injuries are?” She explained in her broken English that Billy had been stabbed, he had two broken ribs, a slightly punctured lung, a broken right arm, and numerous contusions on his face and body. The Flying Dragons had taken him close to death but purposefully left him alive so he would always remember what they perceived to be a snub.
That made me hate the Tongs more than ever.
Tonight at the appointed time, as the Stiletto, I brought Billy’s mother $5000 of the money from Mitch’s suitcase. This time she seemed eager to see me, ready for the handout. I didn’t mind. I’m sure she’d never seen that much money at once in her entire life. I told her, “For Billy. For Billy.” She nodded as if she understood, but then she immediately sat and started counting the bills. I didn’t wait to be asked to have a cup of tea, so I left the way I came in—through the window.
Gosh, tomorrow’s Election Day. All that hard work I did for Senator Kennedy is going to pay off.
At least I hope so!
NOVEMBER 9, 1960
It’s three in the morning, dear diary, and I just got home from a victory celebration at HQ! JOHN F. KENNEDY IS THE NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES! Holy cow, it was so close! I don’t think an Alfred Hitchcock movie would ever be as suspenseful as tonight was. Kennedy and Nixon were neck and neck throughout the day, and the senator eventually won by just a hair. I was surprised it was so close. That just shows how blinded I was by working on Kennedy’s campaign. I knew Nixon had a lot of supporters in the country, but I didn’t think he’d actually give Kennedy such a run for his money. Wow.
Well, we threw a party at HQ. We had champagne. A lot of champagne. Everyone was there—Mr. Dudley and Mr. Patton and Chip and Betty and Louise and Karen and Mrs. Bernstein and a lot of my other friends and the rest of the Kennedy Girls. Of course, Billy wasn’t there, and neither was Lily. A few people mentioned Mitch and Alice, but they remained a mystery to the rest of the team. There had been no more in the papers about them, nor about Michael and Ivan. That chapter of 1960 was closed.
I was very, very happy, but on the way home in the cab—it was so late that I splurged, and besides, I can afford it now—I did get a little sad. I couldn’t help thinking about how the year started with someone I care about in the hospital—Freddie—and now it looks like 1960 will end with another person I care about in the hospital.
I’m not much for prayer, but I did say one tonight for Billy.
41
Judy’s Diary
1960
NOVEMBER 10, 1960
The first thing I did tonight was pack a suitcase.
Then I went out as the Stiletto, with the suitcase, around 9:30. It was nippy and windy, so not many people were on the streets in Chinatown. The restaurants were shutting down and shop proprietors were locking up for the night. At my destination, I hoped to find the friendly Chinese convenience store owner who could speak English. I knew he’d still be open.
Joe was there, all right, and he sure didn’t grin at the Stiletto like he smiled at Judy Cooper! I must have scared him something awful. He held up his hands and almost started to cry; he thought I was going to rob him.
“No, no, Joe, Joe, I’m a friend. Calm down,” I kept saying over his protests. Finally it hit him that I was calling him by name.
“Joe?” he asked.
“Yes, Joe. How are you doing?” I held out my hand and waited. Joe couldn’t believe what was happening. He cautiously reached out, and I vigorously shook his hand. “I’m happy to meet you, I hear you have a great store here.”
That made him grin.
“Oh, thank you very much! Thank you very much!”
I bought a bottle of Coke, opened it, drank it right there in the store, and chatted with Joe. Customers came in and out, gasped and stared, but went about their business. Joe took their money and then eagerly rejoined the conversation. Finally, when we were alone and best of buddies, I said, “Say, Joe, do you know much about the Tongs?”
That spooked him a bit. He furiously shook his head. “No, no, don’t know Tongs, no, no.”
But I knew he was lying. It was as plain as his cute smile. I liked Joe. I have no idea how old he is, but he must be at least fifty.
“Oh, come on, Joe, I was told you have good information.” I slipped him a $20 bill. “I need to know where I can find the Flying Dragons.”
Oh, my gosh, his eyes grew really big when I said that. He held the twenty in his hands and stared at it as if he was trying to decide if the money was worth the risk of getting his throat cut by the Tong. It didn’t take long. Joe pocketed the bill, leaned over the counter, and then spoke very softly. I didn’t think Joe was capable of speaking softly, but he did. He told me of a bar on Pell Street that Tommy Cheng and his “friends” fr
equented. Their headquarters was probably a back room or adjoining space. That made sense to me, since I knew the Dragons were allied with the Hip Sing Tong, whose building and offices were on the same street in plain sight.
“Thank you, Joe.” I pinched his cheek with my gloved hand, and then left the store.
So with purpose I sprinted down Mott to Pell. There were fewer people out, but I still got double-takes and stares and pointing fingers. The word would travel fast. The Black Stiletto was back in Chinatown. This time, though, I reached the Flying Dragons before the news did.
The bar in question wasn’t marked. It was just a door with a number and a bunch of Chinese writing on it. It was the ground floor of a brick building that had seen better days, and there was a window, through which I could see the neon lettering of beer brands and more Chinese characters.
Butterflies flittered in my stomach. I knew I was taking a big risk. I could get hurt bad, or worse. I could hear Freddie yelling at me, saying I was crazy. I was walking into the lion’s den wearing a big sign that said “Fresh Meat,” ha ha. Fine, it was something truly dangerous. But something had to be done, dear diary. I was tired of those punks terrorizing my friends, and I was tired of feeling intimidated in Chinatown.
I walked into the bar. It wasn’t a large place; in fact, it was downright intimate. The joint was lit only by colored lights, neon and otherwise. All conversation stopped. I expected to hear weird Chinese music over the radio, but it was plain American rock ‘n’ roll. Chubby Checker screamed about doing “The Twist.” I figured that was what was about to happen.
Every face turned toward me. Chinese. Young and male. Cigarettes or toothpicks hanging out of their mouths. Cold hatred emanating from their eyes. No one moved. They were frozen in position—bent over a pool table, leaning against the bar, or sitting in booths with rotting, torn vinyl.
The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes Page 24