The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  “Well, it’s supposed to be true, isn’t it? Why would the newspaper lie?”

  “Come on, the Black Stiletto caught your ex-boyfriend, remember? The guy who beat you and left you for dead. She brought him to justice. How can you say that about her?”

  “Maybe she was just after publicity.”

  I was shocked. I couldn’t believe Lucy was talking that way about the woman who avenged her. Me. But I couldn’t say that.

  “I’m surprised at you, Lucy. I thought you liked the Black Stiletto. You once told me you admired her. How can you be so ungrateful?”

  She looked at me funny. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you defending her?”

  “’Cause I think she’s brave and she’s doing the city a service. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing! I’m just saying maybe she’s not as good as I thought.”

  I knew I was getting hot under the collar and had to calm down. I certainly didn’t want her to get suspicious.

  “I have to go,” I said. I started gathering up my purse and stuff.

  “Judy, what’s wrong? What are you mad about?”

  “I’m not mad. I just realized I need to do something back at the gym.”

  “You’re ticked off about something. Wait, the show’s not over yet.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll talk to you later.”

  So without much discussion, I left. Yes, I was mad at her. She was bad-mouthing me right in front of my face, but I know she didn’t realize that. I’ll apologize the next time I see her, but at that moment I wanted to shake her. It’s like she’s in denial about what happened to her. If the Stiletto hadn’t nabbed Sam, there’s no telling who else he might have hurt. He probably would’ve come back to finish the job on her so she wouldn’t talk.

  Once again I stewed in my room, unable to sleep well. All kinds of things were going through my head and I couldn’t settle down. I felt blue. After the other night, when that gangster tried to kill me and I found out Franco DeLuca wants me dead, and then reading that article in the paper about how I’m as bad as the common criminals, I started questioning what I was doing. Does the Black Stiletto really do any good? Why don’t I get more support from the public? It didn’t make any sense. You’d think the police would want someone like me helping them catch the bad guys. Gosh, Superman sure doesn’t have that problem in the comic books! The people love Superman and Batman! But they don’t exist. I guess people can’t accept a crime fighter who wears a disguise but has no “super powers.” Sure, I can hear, smell, and see better than most people, and I know how to fight, but I’m normal. I’m a person. But according to the Daily News, I’m no better than a common thief.

  So I’m wondering—if everyone really does hate me, why should I bother? Should the Black Stiletto hang up her disguise and disappear?

  I have to go to work. Freddie’s calling me.

  LATER

  I still have that FBI guy’s phone number. Richardson. I still don’t know his first name. Ever since we had those few short conversations on the phone, I’ve thought about him sometimes. He sounded like a nice guy. He also seemed to indicate he didn’t think what I was doing was such a bad thing. But he’s an FBI agent, so what do I know? He probably wants to catch me, too.

  After work, I went out to a pay phone and called him. I never make calls from the gym as the Stiletto, you know. They have ways of tracing phone calls. I don’t know how it works, but I’ve read about it. Anyway, since I have the direct phone number to his office, I figured I’d wish him Happy New Year.

  It wasn’t 5:00 yet, so I hoped he’d still be at work. He was.

  “Special Agent Richardson,” he answered.

  “Happy New Year, Special Agent Richardson,” I said sweetly. “I didn’t know you were a Special Agent. What makes you so special?”

  It took him a moment. “Stiletto? Is that you?”

  “It’s me. How are you? Did you have a nice holiday?”

  I heard him chuckle. “I’m surprised to hear from you. It’s been a while.”

  “I haven’t talked to you in a year, Mr. Richardson! It was 1958 when we last spoke.”

  “That it was.”

  “What’s your first name, anyway?”

  “John.”

  “John Richardson.” I said it a couple of times. “That’s a nice name, John Richardson.”

  “Are you going to tell me your name?”

  “Ha ha, nice try, John. I tell you what, you can call me Eloise.”

  “Eloise? You’ve used that alias before.”

  “You FBI fellas know everything, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t believe I was flirting with a federal agent. I didn’t even know him. I tried to picture what he looked like and envisioned a handsome, clean-cut man in a suit. Probably physically fit and in his thirties. I could go for a man like that. I really could. If only he wasn’t working for the law.

  “Can I help you with something, Eloise?” he asked. There was playfulness in his voice now too.

  “Oh, no, not really. I just wanted to say hello and wish you a Happy New Year and all. You keeping out of trouble, John?”

  “I am. I can see you’re not, though. I just read about you in the paper.”

  “Yeah, and it’s all lies, John. You know that. Don’t you? I’m no criminal.”

  “But you are, Eloise. Vigilantism is against the law. The police are after you. So is the FBI, I’m afraid.”

  I laughed. “I’m more worried about Franco DeLuca’s goons taking me out before any of you nice fellas do.”

  “Franco DeLuca? Why? What do you know about Don DeLuca?”

  “He has a contract out on me. Blames me for the death of his brother. You know, Don Giorgio.”

  “And were you responsible?”

  “No.”

  “Those are very dangerous people, Eloise. They’re involved in some serious criminal activities. I hope you’ll stay away from them.”

  “It’s not like I’m gonna ring their doorbell and try to sell ’em Girl Scout cookies.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “John, you know I’m not a bad person. Why do I get all this bad press? Why do they make up lies about me? I’ve never robbed anyone in my life. I don’t attack innocent people on the street. I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. I’m not a murderer.”

  As soon as I said it, I felt funny. It was a lie and I knew it. I had killed. Two men who definitely had it coming. A Mafia hit man who probably murdered dozens of people, and my evil stepfather who abused me when I was younger and drove my mother to her grave.

  “You didn’t kill Vittorio Ranelli?” John asked.

  I played dumb. “You mean that mobster who was an enforcer for the DeLuca Family? Had a twin brother who went to prison?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Weren’t those two on your Most Wanted list? For murder, extortion, racketeering, and other crimes?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  John paused and then said, “The media paints you out to be just as bad as the criminals for a reason, Eloise. You’re breaking the law. It’s that simple.”

  “I don’t understand why they don’t report the good things I do.”

  “They have in the past. You’ve received credit for some of it. But you have to understand, what you do makes the police look bad.”

  “How?”

  “When they can’t catch some criminal, but you can, then of course they’re not going to like you. I imagine they have connections with all the papers, so they want to perpetuate their side of the story.”

  I thought about that a second. “Does the FBI also have those kinds of connections?”

  “Sure.”

  “So what would it take for you to use your connections with the papers to get a positive story about me printed?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know, Eloise. How about let’s meet and talk about it.”

  “That’s
what you said before. You know I can’t meet you in person. You’d arrest me, unmask me, and then I’d really get some bad press.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “Maybe I just really want to meet you. I like—I like your voice.”

  That surprised me. Now he was flirting with me.

  “Well, what’s that expression? Quid pro quo? If you do something about all this bad press, then maybe I’ll consider meeting you. As long as you promise not to arrest me.”

  He was silent a moment and then he said, “I’ll see what I can do, Eloise.”

  I thanked him and told him it was nice talking to him. He asked me when I would call him again, and I just told him, “Soon.”

  I had butterflies in my stomach as I walked back to the gym.

  4

  John

  HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING

  Today is January 11, 1959.

  This and subsequent recordings are personal supplements to my submitted written reports to Special Agent in Charge Don Haggerty. I’m making the recordings at home on the new Dictaphone I got for Christmas.

  I was surprised to receive another phone call from the Black Stiletto this afternoon. I haven’t spoken to her since last fall.

  She’s an interesting case. The woman sounds so normal over the phone, just an ordinary girl with a Southern accent. She’s definitely not a native New Yorker. I place her from somewhere like Oklahoma or Texas. When I asked her for her real name, she coyly told me it was Eloise, which I know isn’t true. She’s used that name before in dealing with the police and FBI. Yeah, the more I think about it, the more she sounds like a Texas girl.

  I’ll have to report this to Haggerty tomorrow. He’d already left the office when I got off the phone with her. Ever since he learned she gives me a call every now and then, he’s been hounding me to catch her. I told him all she does is call and chat. Haggerty wants me to lure her in. When I asked him what he meant by that, he winked and laughed in that vulgar way he does. I told him I didn’t think the FBI had any reason to arrest her. It’s a New York City Police matter. Haggerty snapped at me. He said the fact that she was involved with the capture of a Cuban spy made her the Bureau’s business. He also said she’s obviously mixed up with the mob, too, and that’s the Bureau’s business, too. I couldn’t argue with him. He wants the usual written reports on my progress. I just typed a scathing report about her that I’ll give to him, and keep a copy for my files, of course.

  I suggested to Haggerty that we should be concentrating more on the narcotics traffic in New York instead of chasing after a female vigilante who so far has done nothing but help the police—and us. He asked me if I could chew gum and walk at the same time. In other words, I’m supposed to handle multiple tasks at once. Work the narcotics cases and catch the Black Stiletto.

  Still, I think she’s right about something she said on the phone. The Black Stiletto doesn’t get the credit she deserves.

  Special Agent in Charge Don Haggerty. What a piece of work. Between you and me and the four walls of my apartment, I think the man is a bag of hot air. I don’t know how he got to be one of the SACs in New York. Frankly, I think I could do the job. That said, I don’t believe I’d want to be Assistant Director, the top dog in the field office. Haggerty reports to him. But Haggerty’s always playing politics instead of doing his job. He’s always “out to lunch” with NYPD Chief Bruen in Manhattan—they’re bosom buddies—or he’s with the mayor, or the governor, or this judge or that judge. Seems like he delegates all the administrative work and hands out cases to me and the other Special Agents. That means we’re doing the overtime.

  A lot of the other SAs in the New York office are working on Communist cases, looking into the civil rights unrest, or the racketeering pestilence. I keep saying in the weekly meetings that narcotics trafficking is about to explode and be bigger than anything. They don’t listen, which is why I’m on the lower priority cases.

  Speaking of my own cases, there was another heroin bust in Harlem. The police raided a convenience store that’s a front for Purdy’s operation. Allegedly a front, I should say. The city police may have bungled the arrests. The three men they took into custody were later released. Carl Purdy has his fingers in a lot of pockets in this city. He’s as bad as the Italian mobsters. But, hey, if the Negroes want to be hopped up on narcotics, then they will be. Purdy will meet that demand. It’s a scourge. I’m convinced he’s the man in charge in Harlem, although I have no hard evidence yet. Added to that are more and more mobland killings. The Negro gangsters are battling the Italian gangsters for control of the narcotics business. Every other week there’s another body or two on both sides. I think this is going to become a much bigger problem, not only in New York City, but all over the country. We’ve always had illegal narcotics, but nothing like we’re seeing now. It’s only going to get worse.

  [Long pause on the Dictabelt.] I wonder when she’ll call me again.

  5

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  I went to see Mom at the nursing home today. Since I’ve been unemployed, I try to spend more time with her. I do have a job interview later today, though, and I must say it’s about time. I was out of work over the summer and what money I had in reserve is quickly depleting. Eric, my headhunter, has sent out my CV to a number of firms that are looking for a corporate accountant and auditor of my caliber. Unfortunately, all the good nibbles have been outside the Chicago area. I can’t move while my mother is in a nursing home, so that severely limits the job possibilities.

  You’d never think the Judy Talbot of today was the Black Stiletto. She is rail thin, has white hair, and no longer has that spark of life I once knew so well. Alzheimer’s is such a cruel, horrible disease. It’s taken her very soul away and left a living, frail shell that’s slowly dying. I try to be upbeat when I see her, but it’s terribly depressing. Nursing homes are depressing anyway, but when it’s your own mother who’s in one, then it’s a hell of a lot worse.

  She doesn’t really know who I am anymore. When I walk into her room, her eyes brighten a little. She knows I’m someone she loves and who loves her, so that’s good. I don’t think she understands what our relationship is anymore. I’m not sure she remembers she has a son, even though on her dresser there are pictures of me at various ages. In many of them we’re together. I remind her sometimes that I’m her boy, and she nods; but I’m pretty sure the concept flies right over her head.

  There’s still no new roommate. Since she was admitted to Woodlands, she’s gone through a few of them; however she seems to outlive them all. I certainly prefer it that way. I don’t know if it makes any difference to her, but I enjoy the privacy it gives us. I can put on music she likes, read to her, and show her old photographs. Come to think of it, these are all the old photographs we own. They were taken after we settled in Illinois. She says I was born in California, but I was too young to remember being there. I do have fleeting memories of traveling in a car, stopping in lots of hotels, living in apartments here and there, and finally coming to Arlington Heights. I was still preschool age at the time. We moved into our house—that’s still up for sale—when I was in second grade.

  I wish she had photos of her life as Judy Cooper. I’d love to see what her brothers look like. I have no idea if my Uncle John and Uncle Frank are still alive. So far I haven’t attempted to find them. I’m afraid it would open up a can of worms if I did. I’d have to explain how come I waited until now to contact them—I didn’t know they existed until I read Mom’s first diary!—and there would be all sorts of questions I couldn’t answer. Maybe someday I’ll take the chance.

  When I walked into her room, Mom was sitting in a rocking chair I’d bought her for Mother’s Day. She enjoys it, I can tell, but whatever’s going through her mind is a mystery. She just rocks and stares blankly out the window.

  “Hi, Mom!” I try to be as cheerful as I can.

  She looked over at me and produced a smile. “Hi!” she said.
She’s always glad to see me.

  “How are you doing, Mom?”

  “Okay.” She’s a woman of few words these days.

  “Hey, guess what, I have a letter from Gina I can read to you. You know Gina, your granddaughter?”

  There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. She continued to smile. “That’s nice,” she replied. I really don’t think she made the connection, so I pointed to Gina’s high school graduation photo, which also sat in a frame on the dresser. “That’s Gina.”

  Mom smiled wider. I still wasn’t sure if it clicked, but I do know she always responded well to Gina when my daughter visited. It was almost as if they shared some kind of secret language. Gina was always good in sports and gymnastics when she was young. Before she got sick my mom always watched her granddaughter with interest. Then Gina became more interested in acting and dance, and now she’s at Juilliard.

  I pulled out the letter and read it aloud. Gina had addressed it to both me and “Grandma Judy.”

  Gina began her freshman year less than a month ago. She wrote how she loves Juilliard. Her classes are intense and she’s working very hard. She’s at school from 8:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. every weekday with classes, private lessons, and rehearsals. She says she’s making tons of friends and everything is great. Gina lives in the Meredith Willson Residence Hall, which is named after the guy who wrote The Music Man, and shares a suite with seven other students.

  At the end, Gina wrote, “Give Grandma a kiss for me and tell her I’ll see her at Christmas.” So I leaned over and kissed Mom on the cheek. That made her smile again, and I swear I thought her eyes welled up slightly. Maybe she comprehends more than I think. I just don’t know.

  I wish I could show Mom that reel of 8mm film and see if it loosens any memories buried in those dark recesses of her gray matter. But I know from experience that mentioning the Black Stiletto elicits an unfavorable reaction. The last time I did, Mom became very anxious. It’s impossible to know if she still has any inkling she was the Stiletto. With Alzheimer’s, the memories are there, it’s just that the brain can’t access them. I do believe the Stiletto resides somewhere in her mind’s hard drive, but any mention of her provokes an emotional response that is obviously painful. So I’ve let it go and stopped trying to talk to her about it.