THE BLACK STILETTO’S AUTOGRAPH
By
Raymond Benson
All rights reserved.
THE BLACK STILETTO’S AUTOGRAPH
“Grandpa, I see you still have the Black Stiletto’s autograph.”
I looked up from the morning paper to see my fifteen-year-old granddaughter standing in our living room and gazing at the frame on the wall.
“What do you think, Nicole?” I asked. “That I’d sell it?”
She shrugged. “It’s probably worth a lot of money. Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. Maybe you’ll inherit it someday. Or it could pay for your college tuition.”
She cocked her head at it. “It’s signed to ‘Joey.’ I didn’t know you went by that name.”
“I went by that when I was younger. My name is Joseph, you know, and friends called me Joey. But that was then.”
Nicole read the inscription aloud. “‘To Joey, lots of love, the Black Stiletto.’ Aw, that’s sweet.” She studied it for a few seconds. The autograph was written in ink on a square white napkin. I’d had it matted with one of the famous photographs that were taken that night by Max, the newspaper man.
“Come and sit beside me,” I said, patting the comfy chair next to mine. She turned, smiled, and joined me, allowing me to give her a hug. As you can imagine, my granddaughter is one of the greatest pleasures of my life. My wife and I were happy she’d chosen to visit us at our retirement home in Florida during her summer vacation.
“It’s still hard to believe you actually met her. The real Black Stiletto; that’s pretty cool.”
“I sure did. I was one of the lucky ones. I spent nearly an hour talking to her. With several other people. It was in a bar in New York City.”
“I know. You’ve told me the story before. Several times. But I never get tired of hearing it.”
“Do you still have that Black Stiletto ‘action figure’ I gave you?”
Nicole’s bright blue eyes wrinkled as she laughed. “I do!”
“How old were you when I gave you that?”
“Eight. I really wasn’t into dolls or anything like that, but I liked the Black Stiletto. It’s somewhere in my closet back home. I guess it’ll be worth something someday, too.”
“Sure it will.” Like all kids these days, she had developed a vivacious fascination for the legendary crime fighter at a young age.
“Grandpa, tell me about that night again.”
“What?”
“When you met the Stiletto.”
“Nicole, I’ve told it to you a hundred times.”
She shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s a cool story. I tell my friends at school about it and they’re pretty impressed. I get a lot of mileage out of that story!”
“I did, too. In fact…” I hesitated, gathering my thoughts. There was an aspect to the story I’d never told her. It was something I kept to myself.
“In fact what?”
“I don’t know… you sure you want to hear the story again?”
“Sure, that is, if you feel like telling it grandpa.”
“All right, all right.” I rubbed my chin and pretended to search the ceiling for inspiration. “Gee, it was such a long time ago, I’m not sure I can remember anymore.”
“Grandpa!” Nicole lightly slapped my shoulder.
“I’m gonna be eighty-years-old next month, darling. My memory isn’t as good as it once was.”
“You told me the story just fine the last time I was here!”
That made me laugh again. There was no fooling her. She was growing up to be as smart and perceptive as her mother. And her grandmother. “Okay, you win. Do you remember how it starts out?”
“You were in New York, living as a bachelor. You were how old?”
“I was twenty-five at the time. But there’s a part of it you don’t know, Nicole.”
“What’s that?”
“I was a hopeless alcoholic.”
“What?”
“It’s true, and I’m not proud to admit it. That’s the part I always left out when I told you the story in the past. But the events of that night changed my life.”
Nicole shifted her body to face me and then she adopted a serious expression. “Tell me about it grandpa. This interests me. You know I’m thinking of going into psychology. I might want to be a therapist.”
“I know that. That’s why I’m going to tell you. Okay. Well, let’s see. It was the summer of 1958. As you said, I was living in New York City and I was twenty-five years old. I hadn’t married your grandma yet, so I was a bachelor. I lived in an apartment on East 22nd Street between First and Second Avenues. There was an Irish pub I liked to frequent at night. It was called O’Malley’s, around the corner from my building, right on First Avenue. Not too upscale. Mostly a working-class clientele. Neighborhood folks. I went there every evening for, well, too long. That night it was raining. Raining hard. And that’s why the Black Stiletto came in, unannounced and in her costume. It was quite a surprise.”
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