The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  Once again I assumed position. Although my eyes saw nothing but a curtain of darkness, I mentally placed Briggs’ body. He was on all fours, like a dog, trying to shake the stars out of his brain. A clean, short mae geri—front kick—to his noggin put him out of my misery for a while.

  I then heard a scuffle in the break room. John and Haggerty. I can only guess John ran for the fuse box to protect my identity, but I was still very upset with the knowledge that romancing me was an FBI plot.

  A gun went off in the break room. Then I heard sirens outside.

  The real FBI backup? The police?

  I couldn’t stick around. Even with my hands cuffed, I was a sitting duck. I tapped the floor with my right foot, searching for my mask. It took me a few seconds, but eventually I stepped on it. The only thing I could do to pick it up was sit on my rear end and grab it from behind. Then, with mask and stiletto in hand, I got up and ran toward the slightly open loading dock door. The light was better there.

  I dropped to the floor and laid flat, parallel to the opening, and simply rolled outside. When I came to the edge of the loading dock, I swung my legs over and dropped to my feet.

  Red-and-blue flashing lights illuminated 128th Street in front of the machine shop, but I was on the Lexington Avenue side. Cuffed and clutching my knife and mask behind me, I ran south and took a right turn on 127th.

  46

  Martin

  THE PRESENT

  After visiting with Gina in her dorm room, making a call back home to check on my mom, and seeing Carol off—she finally decided to return to Chicago and to her job—I made my way downtown to the East Side Diner for the scheduled appointment with Johnny Munroe.

  Richardson told me he thought it best that I didn’t know all the details of his plan. That way, I wouldn’t unintentionally telegraph or anticipate anything to Munroe at our meeting. All I knew was that Richardson would be there with his recording device, and I’d once again have the bug planted in my cell phone.

  He also supplied me with a leather money bag from a bank, stuffed with several stacks of crisp, new bills, all rubber-banded together. I don’t know where he got them. He wouldn’t say anything except, “I still have some connections.” I asked him if it was really a million dollars and he said, “Sure,” and then winked. I guess that meant they were phony.

  All I could say was that I hoped he knew what he was doing.

  Once again, I sat in the booth alone and waited. Richardson occupied his usual stool at the counter. He had a large brown paper bag from a grocery store with him. I didn’t know what was in it. The place was moderately full, so I was lucky to get my spot. To my left was a group of elderly women. Sitting in the booth behind me were two very big young men in their twenties, one black and one white. I couldn’t help but hear them discussing football; they looked like linebackers, but they were dressed incongruously in fancy suits.

  Finally, Munroe walked in the diner. He was dressed the same, his gold chains glistening on his hairy chest. He carried a brown envelope. Without acknowledging me, he took the opposite seat at the table.

  “Hi,” I said. Munroe just grunted. He turned and caught the waitress’s eye. We both placed orders for coffee. When she was gone, he got right down to business.

  “You still got your cell phone?”

  I took it out of my pocket, made a big show of turning it off, and setting it on the table.

  “You got the money?”

  I tapped the leather bag on the seat beside me. “Right here.”

  He nodded. “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  Then he smiled. “Good.”

  Our coffees came and we took a moment to doctor them and take a few sips. Then I asked, “You have the film?”

  He held up the envelope. “It’s right here, but I’m beginning to think I could sell it to some other outlet. World Entertainment Television didn’t offer me enough. You convinced me it’s worth more than a half million. Now I think it’s worth more than a million. What do you think Time or Newsweek would pay for it? Or CNN?”

  “Hey, we had a deal,” I said. “I pay you a million, you hand over any and all copies of the film, and then you forget about it. Right?”

  “I’m thinkin’ I need to change the terms of the deal. Why don’t you give me a down payment of a million today. I’ll give you forty-eight hours to raise another mil. How’s that sound?”

  I just stared at the sleazeball. I wanted to strangle him, but he knew he had the advantage over me. He was bigger, tougher, and more experienced in breaking the law.

  “That’s not what we agreed on,” I said.

  “Agreements are made to be revised or broken,” he said.

  “Not if you want to keep doing business with people. You’ll make a lot of enemies.”

  “Hey, Talbot, let’s get one thing straight.” He pointed a finger at me, jabbing the air for emphasis. “You ain’t no friend of mine. I don’t give a shit if you don’t like my business practices. Now hand over the down payment or I’m walkin’ out of here.”

  I was unsure what to do. This wasn’t what we expected to happen. Surely Richardson was going to jump into action at any moment. If I didn’t agree to Munroe’s ultimatum, he was going to leave and I might not see him again. This was our only chance to get him.

  “This isn’t fair,” I said, doing my best to appear affronted.

  “Tough shit.”

  “If I agree to another million, I get the film now. Understood?”

  “No way.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table, ran my hand through my hair, and put on a great show of being upset.

  “Don’t take all day,” he said. “In five seconds, I’m gettin’ up and leavin’.”

  Finally, I said, “All right, damn it. You win. But I want to see the film. Let me look at it.”

  He thought about it, shrugged, and pushed the envelope across the table at me. I opened it and pulled out a small roll of 8mm film. I then unthreaded a few feet, held it up to the glass window and the daylight outside, peered at the tiny frames, and verified it was indeed a copy of what I had at home. As I rolled it up and replaced the reel, I asked, “Munroe, do you swear on the soul of your father that this is the only copy?”

  “Fuck you, Talbot,” he said. “Not that it matters, but yeah, I swear it’s the only copy.”

  I lifted the bank bag and handed it over the table to him. “Here’s your blood money,” I said.

  He greedily snatched it out of my hands, placed it on the seat beside him, unzipped it, and glanced inside. His eyes bulged when he saw the stacks of bills.

  “They’re all unmarked hundreds,” I added. “Just like you wanted.”

  To avoid being too conspicuous, he placed the bag in his lap; then he started to count one banded stack. It didn’t take long for him to stop, blink, and wrinkle his brow.

  “Hey, are you breakin’ my balls? This money’s fake!” He started to rise—but by that time, John Richardson was standing by his side.

  “Sit down, Mr. Munroe.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Richardson whipped out a badge. “FBI.”

  Munroe’s eyes went wild. He turned to me and growled, “Why you little motherf—”

  “Can it, Munroe. Scoot over, I want to talk to you.”

  The blackmailer wasn’t having it. “You ain’t no FBI, unless they’re recruiting at the old folks’ home.”

  Richardson sat in the booth beside him anyway. “I’m retired.”

  “Then you can’t do anything to me. Get out of my way, old man, I’m outta here.”

  “I’m retired, but Joe and Smithy aren’t.” He nodded to the booth behind me, where the two big guys in suits sat. They were busy chomping down on their lunch and talking about football, as if they were completely unaware of us. “All I have to do is say the word and they’ll come over here and put you in handcuffs.”

  Munroe eyed the rhinoceroses wearing ties and then said, “You ain’t got n
o evidence of anything. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  Richardson pulled out his recording device and pressed a button. Munroe’s voice came out loud and clear: “I’m thinkin’ I need to change the terms of the deal. Why don’t you give me a down payment of a million today. I’ll give you forty-eight hours to raise another mil. How’s that sound?”

  Again, Munroe squinted at me. “You’re wired, you piece of sh—”

  “Mr. Munroe,” Richardson interrupted, “you will be arrested on a federal charge of attempted blackmail if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

  “Screw you.”

  Richardson pulled a white envelope from the inside of his jacket. He opened it, removed a piece of paper, and laid it on the table. He then took a pen from his shirt pocket and slapped it down as well.

  “This is a legal affidavit. It says the film in your possession is indeed the only copy of it in existence, and that you have sold it to Mr. Talbot for the sum of one dollar. Furthermore, you agree to never speak of this transaction or of the film ever again, and you will never contact Mr. Talbot for any reason. Please sign and date it.”

  “One dollar? Are you out of your mind?”

  Richardson ignored him. “Is this the only copy of the film?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then sign the paper.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then Joe and Smithy will arrest you. A federal crime is serious, Mr. Munroe. You’d be looking at five to ten years. At your age, that’s not so good. You’re too old to defend yourself from the prison gangs and you’re not old enough for them to leave you alone. You’d be somebody’s bitch real quick.”

  That was enough to scare him. Munroe picked up the pen. Before he signed the paper, he gave me the most malevolent glare imaginable.

  Richardson looked at me. “Do you have a dollar, Martin?”

  “Oh! Sure.” I removed my wallet and pulled out a dollar bill. I held it out to Munroe.

  He looked at it as if was a scorpion. “Shove it up your ass, Talbot!”

  “You don’t want it?” I asked.

  “No. Let me outta here.”

  Richardson stood and allowed Munroe to slide his bulk out of the booth. He did, however, snatch the dollar from my hand before he stormed out the diner door.

  I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to jump up and dance. “John! Holy smoke!”

  Richardson sat again, folded the signed paper, put it in the envelope, and handed it to me. “I don’t think he’ll ever bother you again.”

  “Thank you. Gosh. Thank you!”

  Then Richardson called out to the two guys in suits behind me. “It’s over, fellas.”

  “Joe and Smithy” stood. The white guy handed Richardson their bill and said, “Here you go, Grandpa. Did we do all right?”

  “You did fine, Joe,” Richardson said. “Martin, meet my grandson Joe and his good friend Smithy. Joe and Smithy play for the Columbia Lions.”

  Dumbfounded, I shook their big strong hands. “They’re not FBI agents?”

  Joe loosened his tie and said, “I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. I feel like I’m at church.”

  “You fellas go on,” Richardson said. “Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem, Mr. Richardson,” Smithy said.

  Joe leaned over and gave Richardson an awkward hug. “See you, Grandpa,” he said, and then they were gone.

  “So we were bluffing the whole time,” I said. “That was your big plan?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” He handed me his grandson’s lunch bill. “Here you go. A small price to pay, wouldn’t you say?”

  I laughed and took the check. Then he handed me the brown paper bag he was carrying.

  “What’s this?” I asked. “Some old Dictaphone tapes I made, back when I knew your mother. I want you to have them.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve kept them all these years. I suppose they were a part of the source of conflict between your mother and me. You’ll have to find an old Dictaphone to play them. I think you’ll appreciate them more than I do now. And I know you’ll keep them safe and secret.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I simply nodded, took the bag, and set it on the seat beside me.

  “I’m going now, Martin,” he said, starting to stand.

  “Wait. Don’t leave yet.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve done what I can. It’s time for me to go.”

  “Can we. . . can we stay in touch?” I asked.

  “You have my number.”

  “Do you. . . do you want to see my mom? You want to come to Chicago?”

  Richardson pursed his lips for a moment and then said, “That’s probably not a good idea. I’m too old and frail to travel that far.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “Can’t do it, Martin. Wouldn’t be right. She wouldn’t know me anyway.” He gazed out the window at the pedestrians on the sidewalk. “I’m glad you contacted me, though. The way I treated your mother—well, let’s just say this gave me a chance to make it up to her. Thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. But it’s me who should be thanking you.”

  He held out his hand and I shook it. Then he got up, took the bank bag, and left the diner.

  I knew I’d never see him again.

  47

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  LATER

  I had to take a break and get a bite to eat, dear diary. I feel like I’m writing War and Peace, ha ha.

  So where was I? Oh, yeah, I had my hands cuffed behind my back, I was unmasked but carrying the mask and my stiletto in one hand, and I was running west on 127th Street. I stopped in a shadowy alcove of a gutted brownstone to catch my breath and figure out what I wanted to do. I couldn’t take the chance of anyone seeing me without my mask, and yet I either had to go the distance and pursue John’s boss and Carl Purdy—’cause somehow I knew they were in cahoots—or I had to give up and make my way home.

  I was too angry to surrender, so I headed toward Purdy’s bordello on 129th Street between 5th and Madison. Part of me felt guilty that I didn’t go back to the machine shop to help John. After all, he did help me. But I knew that would be suicide. An unmasked Black Stiletto was no match for all those cops or G-men, whatever they were. I couldn’t think about poor Mike Washington, who turned out to be one of the good guys. And I couldn’t worry about John. I was still upset about his treachery. How many people in the FBI knew he was sleeping with the Black Stiletto? I’ve heard of spies using sex to get information, dear diary, but I thought that was the stuff of pulp fiction. Of course, I suppose I did the same thing last year to that Cuban spy, Rafael Pulgarón, but I never imagined in a million years that tactic would be utilized against me.

  Crossing Park Avenue was trickier than usual. Although it was pretty late, there was still a lot of traffic and pedestrians out. I felt so exposed without my mask. I finally just went for it and darted across the avenue with my head down. I must’ve looked like a chicken running across the road. I made it, though, and continued heading west until I reached Madison. As I moved north two blocks to 129th Street, I kept my head down again. I’m sure some folks saw me, but hopefully I was travelling so quickly that they couldn’t focus on my face.

  Sirens filled the air in the distance. It was impossible to determine where they were, but I knew they were close. Probably at the machine shop.

  Finally, I made it to the brownstone. Sonny was still in front.

  Could I trust him? Somehow, I thought I could. Call it that mothering instinct of mine. I was pretty sure I’d reached him before. Somewhere deep inside the young man was a good person that had been smothered by evil. No doubt he’d been promised a better life if he joined the gang. I had to appeal to the innocent teenager he once was.

  I stepped out of the shadows about ten feet away from him.

  “Sonny,” I said softly.

  He jumped and drew a gun from beneath his coat. When he realiz
ed who he was looking at, his mouth dropped and he lowered the weapon.

  “I need your help,” I said. “Please.”

  “I can’t help you. Get out of here! They’ll kill you if they see you! I’m supposed to be watchin’ out. It’s my job. Go away!”

  “Sonny, is Ruby still here?”

  The spark behind Sonny’s eyes flickered. Something passed over his face, and I knew it was the specter of guilt and pain.

  He shook his head. “She died.”

  “Was it the drugs?”

  He hesitated and then shrugged.

  “Sonny, you need to get out of this hellhole. This is a pit of wickedness. You’re still young, Sonny. The cops don’t know about you. You can walk away and leave it behind.”

  “I got nothin’ else, lady. You’re white. You don’t know how it is.”

  “You’re right. I’ll never know what it’s like for you or any other Negro in this country. But I think I understand it.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Sonny, it was Carl Purdy who killed your sister. Not the drugs. You can’t let him get away with it. I’m not gonna let him get away with it. Please help me. I trust you. You’ve seen my face.”

  “What do you want?”

  I turned around. “Take my mask and put it on me.”

  Once again he faltered. Then, after a few seconds, he holstered his gun and approached. He took the hood out of my hand, reached up, and pulled it over my head. I turned to face him and let him adjust it. My hair was still sticking out the bottom and back of the mask, but I could fix that later.

  “Now take my knife and put it in the sheath on my leg.” He took the stiletto, examined it, felt its weight, and then stuck it in the small scabbard. “Great. Now open that pouch on my belt, the one by the flashlight.” He did. “See that thing that looks like a key ring? Take it out.” When that was done, I said, “Let’s move into the shadows over here so no one will see us.” We stepped into a dark spot, away from the light. “Now I need you to find the right pick that’ll unlock these handcuffs. Start with the smallest one and then work your way to the larger ones. One of them should work.” Sonny stuck the first one in the keyhole. Too small. “You need to jiggle it a little, and try to catch the pick on a latchlike thing inside the cuff. If it doesn’t work or you don’t feel any resistance, go to the next size up.”