The Black Stiletto: Black & White
Page 9
As they say in Hollywood, “That’s a wrap.”
We went back inside, upstairs to the studio. Then Jerry did something I didn’t like. And maybe this had to do with what I sensed about him that I couldn’t put my finger on earlier.
“You want this as a rush job, right?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“How fast?”
“As soon as you can do it.”
“I have to develop the film and edit it down to three minutes; that could take a while.”
“When do you think you’ll have it?”
“Give me two days. But since it’s a rush job, I have to charge you another hundred.”
I thought that was kind of sleazy. “You told me it would be $300.”
“That was for the normal delivery. Developing and editing usually takes about a week. If you can wait that long—”
“No, go ahead. I just have $300 with me tonight, though.”
“You can pay me the other $100 when you pick up the film.”
So I dug into my backpack, found the cash, and gave it to him. “So what do I do, just come back here in two days?”
“That should do it.”
“Same time?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Thanks, Jerry.”
“You’ll be pleased with the results. What do I call you, anyway?”
“Call me Eloise.”
“Is that your real name?”
“What do you think?”
He smiled. “Okay, okay, I got you.” He held out his hand and I shook it, but he didn’t look me in the eye.
I left the studio, went down the stairs to the first floor, opened the front door, and stepped outside to the sidewalk. I started to go left and east on 29th Street, but two men wearing hats and heavy coats rounded the corner with purpose. They were ten feet away from me. Both of them carried guns.
My senses went haywire.
Just as gunshots filled the air, I leaped to the right between two parked cars at the curb. The men moved forward to shoot me between the vehicles, so I slipped beneath the car to my left. My body lay prone beneath the dirty underbelly. Not stopping for a second, I then rolled out toward the street—not too far, I didn’t want to get run over by passing traffic! As soon as I was clear of the car, I jumped to my feet and scurried up the side of the vehicle to its roof. It happened so quickly, the men were just starting to stoop and shoot beneath the car. One of them looked up and saw me—I kicked him hard in the face with my right boot. His gun—a revolver, from the looks of it—flew out of his hand. He staggered back to the building behind him until he tripped over his own foot. By this time the other guy was rising with his gun aimed at me. I kicked the revolver out of his hand with my left boot, drew my stiletto, and jumped on top of him. We both fell to the pavement, me straddling his chest and my blade against his left cheek.
The first guy quickly recovered from my blow and was back on his feet, mad as heck. He rushed me, so I sliced the cheek of the fella below me just to keep him occupied. He yelped and I hopped off of him, ready to face the first guy. With my stiletto in hand, blood dripping off the tip, I crouched in a fighting position.
“Come on,” I spat. “You want more?”
The man hesitated. His pal writhed on the ground, his hands covering his face and blood oozing between his fingers. My opponent eyed one of the revolvers on the pavement, just a couple of feet away—closer to him than to me.
No one moved.
I then noticed we had attracted an audience. Pedestrians stood watching, but they kept their distance. I heard someone say, “It’s the Black Stiletto!” And another person shouted, “Call the cops! Quick!”
I couldn’t waste any more time. Instead of cutting the guy, I performed a mawashi geri—a roundhouse kick—in which I twisted my hips in a circular motion so that the ball of my left foot swung inward, allowing me thrust my right leg up and out. I struck him in the sternum so hard that he collapsed.
That was my cue to scram.
I sheathed the knife and ran around the corner, heading east on 29th. I didn’t stop until I reached Lexington Avenue. Looking both ways, I darted out into traffic, timing my crossing to barely avoid several vehicles headed downtown. Once I was on the other side, I kept running along 29th to 3rd.
It wasn’t until I got to 2nd Avenue that I halted, found a dark doorway, crouched, and caught my breath.
That was close, dear diary. Those two men—I’m sure they were gangsters, probably working for Franco DeLuca—it was as if they’d been waiting for me to come out of the building. How did they know I was there? Had someone in the mob seen me during the film shoot at the side of the building and called them? That must be it. But I was inside the studio after that for only a few minutes. How were the hitmen able to show up in such a short time? Maybe someone saw me earlier, when I first arrived at Jerry’s building.
Then I got to thinking about what it was that bothered me about Jerry.
He looked and acted like a gangster. Yes, he was short, but he was cocky and full of himself, just like the wise guys I’d met before. He was one of them. I’d bet my life on it—in fact, I almost did.
14
Martin
THE PRESENT
After reading some of Mom’s diary, I knew who Jerry Munroe was. I now understood why my mom made a film with him. I’d have to read more of it to see if there was further mention of Munroe in the diary, but instead I spent the next day trying to locate contact information for his son Johnny in New York City. From Buffalo Grove, Illinois, that turned out to be harder than I’d expected.
The Internet was no help. There are a billion Munroes in New York and it seemed the first initial for half of them was a J. I went to the World Entertainment Television website for contact information, and was presented with several e-mail addresses, depending on which department you wanted to reach, and a corporate address and phone number. I tried calling first.
It was inane. The recorded voice went on and on with a menu of choices that had nothing to do with what I wanted. Did I want the WET Fan Club or the WET Online Store or the WET Comment Line? The remote possibility of talking to a live person was never offered.
So I studied the e-mail addresses on the WET website. Everything was WET-something. I’m sure they all laughed real hard in the conference room when they realized they could create licensed products like a WET beach ball, a WET blanket, and a WET noodle. I’m not kidding.
There was a General Questions address, one for Employment, one for Submitting News, and a few others that were just as useless. For a moment I considered sending an e-mail to General Questions, but then I figured it’s answered by flunkies and would never be seen by the right people.
I clicked back through the various pages on the WET website until I came upon anchorwoman Sandy Lee’s “personal page.” Apparently, she’s a lot more popular than I realized. After skimming her bio and admiring the several head shots, I noticed the hyperlink: Contact Sandy!
Surely the woman didn’t answer the e-mails herself. No way. Some assistant to an assistant handled the job. I’d bet Sandy Lee knows nothing about what comes in.
Nevertheless, I clicked on the link and a new window addressed to SandyLee@WETOnline.com popped up. What was the worst that could happen? The recipient would think I’m a crackpot. Big deal. So I wrote: “Dear Ms. Lee: I enjoyed your segment on the Black Stiletto. I would be very interested in contacting your guest, Johnny Munroe, for I may be able to help him with whatever he needs authenticating.” I signed it Martin but left out my last name.
I never expected a response.
At the end of the workday my in-box displayed an e-mail from Sandy Lee. I had to assume it was the Sandy Lee, for it was short and sweet.
“Dear Martin, I, too found the segment exciting! The gentleman you seek can be reached at—” and she provided a phone number. Just like that. I was amazed. Apparently the WET people don’t care too much about their guests’ privacy.
“You reached Johnny Munroe. Leave a message and how I can contact you, and maybe I will.”
Beep.
I was suddenly struck dumb. I hadn’t planned on leaving a message. What could I say? That this was the Black Stiletto’s son calling and I wanted to talk?
“Uh, Mr. Munroe, my name is Martin Talbot.”
Shit! I didn’t mean to use my real full name. That flustered me even more, and a few seconds of awkward silence went by. But then I somehow managed to collect myself and say, “Regarding your appearance on World Entertainment Television, I may be able to authenticate whatever it is you have on the Black Stiletto.” I left my cell phone number and hung up.
Did I come off as a crank? Would he believe me? How many other similar calls would he receive?
I shrugged and fixed dinner. Scrambled eggs and toast. No bacon. That’s right, breakfast for dinner.
As I sat at the table to eat, I glanced at the clock. Gina would probably be finished with school for the day. An hour later in New York would make it late evening for her. I dialed her cell phone number and got the voice mail, which was unusual for Gina. She could be in the middle of a funeral and she’d answer her cell phone if it rang.
“Hi, honey, this is dad, but you already know that ’cause I know you check the caller ID every time you get a call. I just wanted to see how you are. Haven’t talked to you in over a week. Call me back when you can. Love you.”
A couple of hours later, I went to bed and struggled to go to sleep. Dozens of invented conversations and situations raced through my head. Would I really hear from Johnny Munroe? Was he as slimy as I thought he was? Why was I slightly concerned about Gina not answering her phone? I told myself she’s a grown college student and it was only 9:00 in New York when I called. She was probably still at school. Maybe she’d finally learned that using a cell phone in certain public situations was rude. How many e-mails did Sandy Lee normally receive? Did she ever get suggestive ones? And how cool was it that I actually got a real e-mail from Sandy Lee?
I think that was my last thought before I finally drifted away.
15
Judy’s Diary
1959
MARCH 5, 1959
Well, dear diary, I’m a movie star, ha ha.
Dressed as the Stiletto, I went over to Jerry Munroe’s studio tonight to pick up the film. I was a little wary after what happened the other night. I have no idea if Jerry had anything to do with the attempted hit on me, so I planned to look hard at the man and see if I could detect anything other than the fact that he thinks he’s a little tough guy and is a serious chain-smoker.
As I stood outside the building, I noticed the windows of Jerry’s studio had metal gates on them. They could be unlocked from the inside in case he had to get to the fire escape, but they would certainly make it difficult for burglars to gain access. If he was located on the ground floor, I could sort of understand the need for them; but on the second? After he buzzed me in and I went up the stairs, I caught that the steel door to the studio was reinforced with not one but two deadbolts. Why in the world would a photographer need so much security? Was he just paranoid?
“Hello, Stiletto,” he said as he shut and locked the door behind me. The cigarette still dangled from his mouth.
I asked him flat out, “Why do you need so many locks on your door?”
He shrugged. “You can’t be too careful. Lots of crime these days.” He didn’t look me in the eye, which is always a bad sign.
“Like what happened outside the building when I was leaving the other night?”
Then he looked at me. “I heard about that. Are you all right?”
“Of course.” I studied his face. He blinked a couple of times. He was less confident and cocky than he was the last time I was there. Nervous, in fact. “You don’t happen to know who those guys were?”
Jerry made a face. “No. Why should I? The police said they were professional hitmen with the mob. Is that true?”
“I just know they tried to kill me outside your building. How did they know I was here?”
“I have no idea.” He immediately turned away and nodded toward a film projector he’d set up. There was also a portable screen on the far side of the room. “You want to see your movie?”
He knew something about the hit. I was sure of it.
“Okay,” I said.
There were two chairs by the projector. I sat in one, but he chose to stand by the machine. He turned it on, then walked to the wall and switched off the lights. The film started. There was no sound, just the black-and-white images on the screen.
He had cut together several of the various “fights” with the mannequin. Some of the in-between banter between me and the camera—laughing and rolling my eyes—was included. I asked him why he didn’t edit that out.
“I thought it made you more real, you know, more human,” he answered.
After about three minutes of the indoor footage, there was a cut to the street. The images were darker and grainier, due to the lack of adequate lighting. Nevertheless, you could still see me as I climbed the fire escape all the way to the top of the building. Once I was up there, I was just a tiny dark figure moving around. I waved at the camera and the film ended.
“That’s it,” he said as the film ran through the projector and flapped around the reel. He shut it off. “What do you think?”
Frankly, I didn’t think much of it, but it would do. “Fine,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Just ‘fine’?”
“Hey, you’re not Cecil B. DeMille, okay? It will do for what I need. It’s fine, Jerry.”
“Okay.” He threaded the end of the film to the empty reel and rewound it. When it was done, he put it in a small film canister and handed it to me. I gave him the balance of his fee.
“Thanks,” he said. “Listen, how can I get in touch with you?”
“Why?”
“I have friends—you know, other photographers in the camera clubs—they’d pay you to pose for them.”
“Did you tell anyone you were shooting me?”
“No! I’m just saying, I think you could make some money doing this.”
“Then why am I paying you? Never mind, just kidding. I don’t know, Jerry, I’m not thrilled about fraternizing with the public, you know what I mean? I’m wanted by the police, I guess you know that.”
“And apparently by the mob, too.”
“That’s right. Do you know anything about that, Jerry?”
Again, he averted his eyes. “No, of course not.”
Then I hit him with the question, out of the blue. “Jerry, are you up to anything illegal?”
His reaction was almost palpable. I swear he turned pale for a second and turned away. “What are you talking about?” he blustered. “I’m just a photographer.” Then he laughed.
He was lying, dear diary. But there was nothing I could do. I put the film can in my backpack and headed for the door. “Okay, Jerry, thanks a lot.”
“Wait. What about my photographer friends? Will you think about it? How can I contact you if I wanted?”
This time when he said it, I detected something different in his voice. The guy really wanted to contact me again. Could it have something to do with the mob hit? Did he have information that might lead me to some answers if I followed through with his request?
“All right, Jerry,” I said. “I read the Daily News. Put an ad in the classified section—‘To Film Star from Munroe.’ You might need to run it a few times. I can’t guarantee I’ll see it, but if I do, I’ll call you.”
That was good enough for him. “Okay. Thanks.”
I held out my gloved hand. He hesitated a second and then shook it.
“Nice doing business with you,” I said.
Again, he wouldn’t look at me as he answered, “My pleasure.”
I heard h
im bolt the door twice when I left the studio. Downstairs, I cautiously opened the front door, looked both ways, and determined there were no additional Mafia hitmen waiting for me. A few pedestrians did double takes as I stepped out to the sidewalk.
Then I dashed east on 29th into the darkness.
MARCH 6, 1959
I’m writing this at 10:00 p.m., for the Black Stiletto is ready to go out and do something risky. So, dear diary, if I don’t come back, you’ll know why.
This morning I planned to drop the film can off at Albert Franz’s office, which was located Midtown near the theatre district. But first I had a lesson with Soichiro. When I was on my way to Christopher Street, I realized I couldn’t just walk in to Franz’s office, unmasked and in civilian clothes, and hand them the film. I figured it would be best to mail it, but that would take up time. Soichiro needed that money immediately. So the plan was to stake out the office and see if there was a way to surreptitiously deliver it with no one seeing me.
That never happened.
When I got to Studio Tokyo, there was a sign on the door that said, “Class Canceled.” I rang the buzzer anyway, but Soichiro didn’t answer. I had a bad feeling about it.
I went to the pay phone on the corner and dialed the studio’s number; no one picked up. Thinking I’d get the subway to Times Square, I started walking north on 7th Avenue—but as soon as I came to Soichiro’s bank, I saw him coming out! I quickly ducked into a storefront entryway and watched him. Again, he carried that briefcase, and as before, he started walking east toward Avenue of the Americas, or what we New Yorkers simply call 6th Avenue.
This time I made sure he didn’t see me. I backtracked to Christopher Street and ran east. People must have thought I was a madwoman, rushing through clumps of pedestrians shouting, “Excuse me, excuse me!” I made it to 6th Avenue and was in luck—a passenger was just getting out of a cab at the curb.
“Taxi!” I shouted.