The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  “Of course! Let me grab a shirt, though,” he said. “This is. . . this is quite extraordinary!”

  I didn’t mind seeing him in his undershirt. It kinda reminded me of Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire; but he felt self-conscious, so I didn’t say anything. He grabbed a shirt out of the closet and then said, “Let’s go in the living room. I’ll give you the grand tour. This is my bedroom, obviously.”

  He showed the way into the hall and indicated the only bathroom, which was equipped with a real tub and shower fixture. I don’t have a bathtub in my apartment. I miss reclining in a tub of hot water, casting off my problems and tensions in a sea of suds and rubber duckies.

  The living room was more fleshed out, so to speak. There was a couch, a comfy chair, coffee table, a television, and a hi-fi on a stand containing a bunch of records. In another section of the room was a dining table with two chairs. A wall separated the kitchen from the rest. A desk, chair, and a small filing cabinet stood near the hi-fi. The hall went on to the front door of the apartment, next to which was another closet.

  “Very nice, John! I didn’t think bachelors could be so neat, but you are, apparently.”

  “FBI agents are very organized by nature,” he said. He gestured to the desk. “I take my work home with me a lot.” The desk had a phone, an in-box and out-box full of papers, and other stuff. There was also a machine with a microphone on it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Oh, that’s a Dictaphone. Besides the written reports I turn in at the office, I like to dictate my thoughts on these Dictabelts.” He gestured to an open box on top of the filing cabinet, which was full of plastic “belts” coiled into individual smaller boxes.

  “I’ve heard of Dictaphones but I’ve never played with one.”

  “You speak into the microphone and a stylus records the sounds by pressing a groove on the Dictabelt. Ten years ago or so, it used wax cylinders. I suspect someday they’ll have magnetic tape for them, like a tape recorder.” As he spoke he closed the box containing the plastic belts. I guess he didn’t want me to see confidential subjects written on labels affixed to the smaller boxes. I didn’t care. I wasn’t about to invade his privacy, especially if it was FBI business.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

  “Whadaya got?”

  “Even though I don’t drink alcohol, I do keep some in the apartment. I have vodka and bourbon, and stuff you might want to mix with it like orange juice or Coke. I also have some wine. I think I have some ginger ale, or I could make tea or coffee.”

  I asked for a screwdriver—just old-fashioned vodka and orange juice. He said he’d have a little, too, only he’d go easy on the vodka.

  So we sat on the couch and had drinks. He’d made mine pretty strong, and I told him so. “You trying to take advantage of me, mister?” I asked in my best Marilyn Monroe imitation.

  “No, I just want some of those Girl Scout cookies,” he admitted, and then he leaned in and kissed me. And that was the program for the next ten minutes or so. Kiss, grope, kiss, grope. I could tell he was getting excited, for his breathing became heavier.

  So I asked, “Can I really trust you?”

  He stopped and looked me in the eyes. “Sure.”

  “I mean really trust you?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  I gently pushed him away and then I took off my mask. After that I shook my head and let my hair fall to my shoulders. I tossed the mask/hood on the floor.

  “Better?” I asked.

  You should have seen his face. His bottom jaw was practically on the floor. He wasn’t expecting that!

  “My God, you’re beautiful,” he said. “You really are.”

  “I bet you say that to all the Girl Scouts.”

  “Not on your life.”

  And he leaned over and we started kissing again.

  Well, I figured since he knew what my face looked like, I might as well show him everything else. I took off my outfit, he undressed, and we ended up in his bed. He started to turn off the light by the bed but I told him not to. I wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see me.

  Dear diary, it was bliss. We did it three times. I’m not gonna go into details, ’cause I’m turning red just writing this! Suffice it to say that John Richardson is a wonderful lover.

  We fell asleep in each other’s arms, but I woke up around 2:00. I told him I had to go. He asked me to stay until morning, but I shook my head.

  “The only clothing I have is the Stiletto outfit,” I said. “It’s difficult to travel by daylight. In the winter I wear a long coat over my disguise and stuff my mask in my backpack. But in warm weather that doesn’t work.”

  “I wish you’d stay. Another time?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What’s your name?”

  I put a finger to his lips. “One revelation at a time, darling.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Soon.”

  He stayed in bed while I dressed. After a final long kiss, I put on my mask and slipped out the window. He got up to close it behind me. I went down the fire escape and jumped to the sidewalk from the first landing. No one saw me.

  Could it be possible? Is Judy Cooper smitten again?

  I think so, dear diary. I think so!

  29

  John

  HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING

  Today is June 20, 1959.

  Judy Cooper, the Black Stiletto, has been visiting me at my apartment for a couple of weeks now. So far we’ve had three such dates. She’s not aware that I know her real name. She still insists I call her “Eloise.”

  Written reports on the subject have become problematic, to say the least. Haggerty wanted me to gain her confidence. I’m not sure this is what he meant, but I guess I’ve lured her in, all right. She trusts me well enough to remove her mask—and clothes. I must say she is quite an independent and vivacious girl.

  At the office I’ve tried to find out as much as I can about Judy Cooper. Unfortunately, she has no history. Nothing. It’s as if she doesn’t exist. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s her legal name. There’s no driver’s license registered to her. There are plenty of Social Security numbers assigned to Judys and Judiths Coopers all over the country. I’ve concentrated the search in Texas, but she’s never told me what town she came from. There are a lot of Judy Coopers in Texas, too. The Manhattan telephone directory doesn’t help. The three Judy Coopers with real phone numbers are two old ladies and a teenager.

  At least once a week I go downtown for lunch at the diner. I’ve seen Lucy, the waitress, and she smiles at me as if I’m a regular customer. I’m hesitant to engage her in conversation about Judy. I haven’t seen her boyfriend, Peter.

  I have to be careful when Judy’s with me. I’m afraid I’ll accidentally call her by name. I’m not sure how she’ll take it. She has a lot of affection for me, it seems, but I also get the feeling she could fly off the handle if she felt threatened or tricked in any way.

  I’m really enjoying her company, and I’m not sure how to handle it.

  On the narcotics cases, more and more Negro street hoods are being arrested for selling heroin. The buyers range in age from thirteen to sixty. It’s incredible. None of them remain in jail very long. Someone always bails them out. The ones that go to trial get off with light sentences. No one fingers the higher-ups.

  The police had one guy in custody who named Carl Purdy as the boss. He called Purdy the “Harlem Kingpin.” He agreed to testify against Purdy for a reduced sentence. Then one day a colored lawyer came to visit the guy in jail. The next morning, the guy had hanged himself. No case.

  My informant is now working close to Purdy’s inner circle. He acts as muscle, a bodyguard of sorts, and is being paid to do so. He says Purdy is about to wage total war on his enemies, whoever they might be. The Italians? The police? The Bureau? In the meantime, I’ve asked the informant to get a handle on the supply channels for the heroin. We’re pretty sure it
comes from Corsica, but we need to know the direct routes.

  [Pause on Dictabelt.] I’ve been thinking about Judy a lot. That’s probably not a wise thing to do.

  30

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  JULY 5, 1959

  I am so mad I could spit.

  That film I made with Jerry Munroe has come back to haunt me. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that slime bag. I suspected he might be involved with the mob and it turns out he is. He’s a damned crook, pardon my language.

  Since I ultimately never needed that roll of film to audition for the film producer, I’d forgotten all about Munroe. Then, on Friday, the 3rd, as I was having my breakfast before going into the gym, I happened to see his note to me in the classifieds section. Apparently he’d been trying to contact me for weeks with an ad in there every day since May. Must have cost him a small fortune.

  “To Film Star from Munroe. Call Office.”

  Curious, I went outside to a pay phone and gave the guy a call. When he answered, I said, “It’s the Stiletto. I saw your ad in the paper.”

  “Took you long enough,” he grumbled.

  “I’m not in the habit of scouring the classifieds.”

  Then he said, “You need to pick up a shoe box. You’ll find it to the left of the loading door entrance on the Twenty-Ninth Street side of my building, taped under a street-level window sill, about two feet off the sidewalk. It’s brown and it’s taped up.”

  “Why? What’s in it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Why the cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

  “You’ll see. Do you understand the location?”

  “I think so.”

  “And Stiletto?”

  “What?”

  “It’s in your best interest to pick it up as soon as possible.”

  Then he hung up. Well, dear diary, I got an extremely bad feeling about that call. My danger instincts went through the roof. I could tell by the tone of his voice that this wasn’t friendly repartee. Munroe was up to something and it wasn’t good.

  I had to wait until dark, of course, to retrieve the shoe box. I couldn’t very well go during the day as Judy Cooper—Munroe or someone else could’ve been watching. It might’ve been a trap for the mob to get me. Or the cops. Who knew?

  I waited until 11:00. Moving cautiously through the shadows, I approached Park Avenue South on the south side of 29th from Lexington. I kept my eyes peeled for any signs of men sitting in parked cars and waiting for me to show up. When I was within thirty feet or so from the intersection, I grabbed the flashlight from my belt and shined it across the street to the area on the side of the building Munroe mentioned. Sure enough, I saw the small box underneath the windowsill. The average person on the street wouldn’t notice it unless someone was actually looking for it. I flicked off the light, looked both ways, and then darted to the other side. The shoe box was taped securely, but I ripped it off easily with my stiletto. Not wishing to stick around longer than I had to, I ran with the box back toward Lexington. Incorporating my usual stop-move-stop-move system for traveling through the city streets, I made it over to 2nd Avenue and 18th Street before my curiosity got the best of me and I had to open the box. Only then did I see he had written, “To Film Star” on the top with a black marker. I sliced through the tape with my blade, and removed the lid.

  Inside were six eight-by-ten black-and-white photos. The first four were still frames from the film he’d shot. Me fighting the mannequin, me laughing at the camera, and me climbing the fire escape. No surprise there. It was the fifth and sixth shots that took my breath away.

  They were of me in his dressing room with my mask off. I was looking in the mirror and applying makeup. I remembered doing that, but I had no idea he was filming me! The frightening part was that my face was fully revealed in the mirror.

  The creep had secretly unmasked me.

  A note was beneath the photos. This is what it said—

  Stiletto—You will recognize some of these shots from your film. Each photo is from film footage I shot. I have the negative and a copy of the unedited, complete version of The Black Stiletto Unmasked. Nice title, huh? I have certain associates in the Italian olive oil and wine importing business. I think you’ve run across them in the past. They would pay a lot of money for this film. Unless I receive $10,000 from you within five days, I’m afraid I’ll have to sell the film to these customers. Actually, perhaps the police would like to see it, too. Or the Daily News or New York Times. I think I could get rich with this film. But I’ll give you the right of first refusal. You are to leave the money in this same shoe box, taped under the window sill as before no later than midnight July 6. That gives you all day Monday to gather the funds. I trust you won’t let me down. Oh, are you thinking about calling the police? Are you sure you want to do that? That would certainly blow your identity, wouldn’t it, Stiletto? I also warn you NOT to come to my studio. As you know, it is well secured; there is no way you can break in. And my Italian friends may be watching. I’ve also hired a serious bodyguard.

  J.M.

  That bastard. That conniving, sneaky, slimy, greaseball son of a bitch. I think you’ll pardon the language, dear diary, given the circumstances.

  I stuffed the box and its contents in my backpack, then went back to Park Avenue South. I was ready to shout up to his studio and tell him to come down and meet me face-to-face. Of course, I couldn’t do that. But I did notice the lights were on in his second-floor studio. He was inside.

  I tried to recall everything about his studio. There wasn’t a bedroom—just the studio, a bathroom, a little kitchen, and that makeshift dressing room. He slept elsewhere. That meant he had to go home at some point.

  Glancing across Park Avenue South, I noticed one of the buildings on the west side was under construction and covered in scaffolding. Great. It was a perfect spot from which to watch Munroe’s place. At the right moment, I dashed across, climbed up the scaffolding to the second landing, and sat in the darkness on a large piece of plywood. I didn’t know how long it would take, but I planned to sit there until Munroe showed his greasy self—and I was gonna follow him home.

  Thank goodness I didn’t have to wait long. The lights shut off on the second floor at 12:30. After a moment, the little creep came out of his building and started walking north. He was accompanied by a big guy. A mobster with a gun, no doubt. I was tempted to grab them right then and there, but I wasn’t sure where he was keeping the film and negatives. I had to get my hands on those before I taught the bastard a lesson.

  So I stalked them up Park Avenue South. Flitting in and out of shadows, I tailed the guys up to East 36th Street. They turned east. I waited a moment to let them get a ways ahead, and then I followed. At one point Munroe looked behind him, as if he’d felt someone’s presence. I froze. My dark outfit blended in with a cluster of garbage cans on the sidewalk. He didn’t see me, so he and his pal continued walking.

  Munroe and Goonface crossed Lexington and stayed on 36th. I ran against a red light, dodged a speeding taxicab, and then hugged the building at the corner of Lex and 36th. Munroe and his buddy headed toward 3rd. I slowly moved forward, passing some pedestrians who gawked at me. I put a finger to my lips and kept going. Then I saw Munroe stop at an apartment building on the north side of 36th, not quite at the end of the block. He shook hands with his escort and then went inside. The big guy walked on to 3rd Avenue and hailed a taxi. I quickly positioned myself across the street and kept my eyes on the windows of Munroe’s building.

  Third floor. A light turned on. And there was a fire escape on the front of the building, leading right to it.

  I crossed the street and entered the front door. It was the usual setup for a non-doorman apartment building. The front door opened to a small inner foyer where the mailboxes were located. Beyond that was the security door, which was opened by a resident’s key. I studied the mailboxes and there it was. J. Munroe—12. Figuring there were four apartments to a fl
oor, that worked out right.

  Now I knew where the blackmailer lived. And his apartment wasn’t nearly as safe and secure as his photography studio.

  With a plan forming in my mind, I went back to 29th Street, removed the shoe box and a pen from my backpack. I wrote on the inside bottom of the box: “Will comply. But I will need until Tuesday night.” I kept the photos and his note.

  I then used the tape to secure the box under the windowsill as before, only I made sure it was upside down. That way, if he checked to see if I’d gotten it, he’d know there was a message for him.

  Then I went home.

  I knew exactly what I was going to do.

  31

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  I visited New York a few times when I was in my twenties, so I wasn’t unfamiliar with it. I never liked the city. Call me a wuss, but I find it intimidating. It’s different from downtown Chicago. People say they can feel the energy of Manhattan and it’s true. You’re aware of it as soon as you step onto the streets. It’s just that there’s something about that energy I don’t like. Never have. New York makes me feel edgy.

  Carol and I shared a taxi and went straight from LaGuardia to St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital. We’d flown on the same plane, but didn’t have seats together. That was fine with me. I like Carol, I still do, I really do, but I couldn’t live with her again. And she feels the same way about me. The divorce wasn’t nasty. Painful, sure, but we remained friends. Sort of. Hell, we have to.

  We share a child.

  When we saw our Gina, Carol started to cry and my heart nearly burst. I wanted to pound the wall and shout to the heavens, “Why did this happen?” Instead I simply held my daughter’s hands and let her cry. She needed it.

  Her jaw was wired shut, so she couldn’t talk very well. Try talking without opening your mouth—you can speak by manipulating your tongue and lips—but it’s very tiring business, not only for you but for the listener. She’ll have to take her meals through a straw for over a month.