The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (2 page)

I love her, too.

Judy Cooper Talbot.

The legendary Black Stiletto.

And I'm the only person who knows, except for an elderly retired FBI agent living in New York. John Richardson isn't going to tell anyone. I trust him. Of course, there could be other people in the world that perhaps know the secret. Like my father, for instance. If he's still alive. I still didn't know if Richard Talbot really existed or
if that was all a lie. He allegedly died in Vietnam, but his photograph never graced a mantel in our home when I was growing up. I'm beginning to doubt that Vietnam story.

So many masks. So many secrets.

Right after my mom's birthday in November, I got lucky and found a job. It was a step backward, but I snatched it right up. I couldn't afford to miss paychecks any longer. I'd been out of work since last May and my savings were nearly drained. My daughter attended an expensive arts school in Manhattan—even though she received a substantial scholarship, it was still a burden on the wallet. With Christmas just around the corner, I desperately needed the income. The opportunity came at just the right time.

Wegel, Stern and Associates, Inc. was a mom-and-pop accounting shop in Deerfield. Actually it was just a pop shop. Sam Wegel was in his seventies and had run the business out of the same small office for forty years. His partner, Morton Stern, passed away a few months earlier, so Wegel was forced to hire some young blood to fill in.

I applied, interviewed, and was offered the job.

Sam explained that he wanted to spend less time at work and eventually retire. The only other person in the place was a fifty-year-old woman named Shirley who acted as receptionist, secretary, and legal aide. I figured I could be a big fish in a small firm and end up running the place. So I accepted.

Sam was a good guy, a nice Jewish fellow with a wife and three grown children, none of whom wanted to go into the family business. It wasn't long before I became something of a fourth kid to him. He even invited me over for dinner with his family, which I appreciated. He's already invited me for Thanksgiving, but I told him I'd probably spend the holiday with my mom, even though the food at Woodlands is terrible. I certainly wasn't going to show up at my ex-wife's place and have turkey and stuffing with Carol and Ross, the guy she's probably going to marry. Maybe Maggie and I will have Thanksgiving together. I hope so.

Now, a month later, the job is what it is. I do income tax returns for regular, ordinary people. I used to be a corporate auditor and accountant. I worked in the Chicago Loop and made pretty good money. Now I tell Mr. Whatzenblatt and Mrs. Whozenstein what they can and cannot deduct. It's boring, tedious work, but it's a paycheck. And the hours are fairly flexible. Sam understands about my mom. It's a good thing the Deerfield office is near Riverwoods, where the nursing home is located. I can stop by and visit on the way home to Buffalo Grove.

So at least the employment component of the crisis has been taken care of.

The other things—my daughter's assault, the blackmail attempt, my mom—her care and the frikkin' elephant in the room that's the Black Stiletto—
those
things still weigh heavily on my mind. If only I could tell Gina. She would understand. She'd probably think it was cool as hell that her grandmother was a mythical vigilante. I'm just afraid she wouldn't keep that knowledge to herself.

Should I come clean to Maggie? Lord knows she wonders what skeletons reside in my closet. She definitely suspects something is wrong. After all, she's a doctor. Dr. Margaret McDaniel. Boy, things sure have changed between us since I first met her.

She's the physician who makes calls at Woodlands, where my mother has lived for the past couple of years. At first I couldn't stand the woman. I thought she had a bug up her ass or something. She was very stern and businesslike. Her bedside manner was off-putting. Okay, I thought she was the B-word. In particular I didn't like her questions about all the scars and ancient wounds my mother has on her seventy-three-year-old body. I refused to answer how my mom got them. I pretended not to know. There was no way I could tell Maggie that my mom was the Black Stiletto.

So if you'd told me two months ago that I'd be dating my mom's nursing home doctor, I would've said you were nuttier than an Almond Joy. But it's true and maybe not going too badly.

Even though we got off on the wrong foot at first, hey, I'd always
considered her good-looking. Striking, in fact. Bright blue eyes. Terrific body, from what I could discern beneath that white lab coat. Just a few years younger than me.

I finally got the nerve to ask her out after I returned from New York. Our first date—for coffee—was awkward. I was nervous. I hadn't dated since I got divorced. It was very strange to be back in that game. I think Maggie felt the same way. She told me she'd never married, which I found surprising. I thought she was divorced, too. We mostly talked about my mother. No surprise there.

The second date was better. We both found our attempt at conversation to be much easier. The wine at dinner helped immensely. By the end of the evening we were actually laughing and enjoying ourselves.

On the third date, we kissed. I'd almost forgotten how to do it.

There's no telling where it's going, but whatever the thing is, I'm willing to give it a shot.

Currently, we weren't too busy at Wegel, Stern and Associates. Folks didn't start to bring in their stuff until after the holidays. Then it was supposed to be a madcap four months to April 15. Sam warned me it would be hell and that I couldn't take off during that time period. I said it was no problem.

When I got to work, Sam wasn't there. I didn't think he'd show up because it was snowing. He often took the day off or “worked from home” when the weather was bad. So I drank a lot of coffee and went through the motions of filing some guy's extension. Mostly I sat at my desk and gazed out the window at the white wonderland forming outside. Typical Chicago weather in early December.

I hated it.

Gina smiled at me from her high school senior photo. The frame stood right next to my in-box, where I saw it every time I reached for something new to do. She's such a pretty girl. When I think of what happened to her, my blood boils and my soul breaks. Her face
was so bruised and battered. I felt so sorry for her. But she bounced back pretty well. She only recently had the wires removed and could resume eating normal food. I'm still amazed she insisted on continuing her studies. Her mother and I suggested that she take the semester off to recover, but Gina's always been a willful girl. She was determined to make an impression as an actress and dancer at school, so she wasn't about to drop out.

The psychological damage was something that couldn't be established yet. Sometimes a trauma's aftereffects can suddenly erupt weeks or months later. She's seeing a counselor at school, but that's all she told her mother and me. It's heartening, though, that every time we speak on the phone, Gina sounds happy and energetic. I believe she's going to come out of it all right. We just have to take it a day at a time.

She's planning to come home for the Christmas holidays. That's great.

I clocked out early and went to see Mom on the way home. When I got there, she was asleep. Afternoon nap time. Apparently she slept a lot now. Was her body doing that involuntarily so she could escape the frustrating blanket of fog that was her waking life? If I was in that situation, I'd want to sleep as much as possible. Or be dead. I couldn't imagine what was going on inside Judy Talbot's head. Anything at all? Ever since the disease struck her hard, my mom had become more quiet and subdued. She used to have tremendous energy and was extremely sociable. That's all gone now.

Maggie wasn't at the nursing home, so I didn't bother staying long. I sat with my mom for a while and watched her breathe. She was still a pretty woman, although she looked frail. I knew, though, that she had strength in those skinny arms and legs. The way she'd kicked Roberto Ranelli in the balls last summer was a sight not to be believed. Every now and then I caught glimpses of the person she once was.

I even saw the Black Stiletto in her, although I couldn't mention
that name in her presence. It triggered something painful for her. She became distressed if I so much as whispered anything about her alter ego.

There's so much I still don't know about her. I've read only two of the diaries she left behind. One might think I would have devoured them all in one sitting, but I couldn't do that. I find the process of going through the books very upsetting. I don't know why. I went through the whole summer without reading the second one. When I finally caved in and finished it, I wasn't compelled to learn any more. When I returned from New York, I wanted to forget all about the Black Stiletto. Simply go about my business as if my mother was just Judy Talbot, the woman she had always been to me.

But then the recurring nightmares started, the panic attacks multiplied in frequency, and I was in a state of upheaval.

Against my better judgment, I thought perhaps it was time to find out more about Mom's past. Maybe that would ease my anxiety.

When I got to my house, I phoned for a pizza to be delivered, and then went into my makeshift home office. I had hidden the diaries and the strongbox in the back of a file cabinet drawer and covered them with manila folders. Everything else—the costume, the knife, the guns, the ephemera—sat in a safety deposit box at the bank. It's where this stuff should've been, too. I kept it nearby in case my curiosity drew me back to my mother's tale, even though I found it very disturbing.

I removed the strongbox and unlocked it with the key I kept in the desk drawer. I'd already solved the mystery of one of the trinkets—the roll of 8mm film. There's still the presidential campaign button, the heart-shaped locket, and the gold key. I removed the button and examined it. It was obviously from 1960, as it had the Democratic presidential candidate's and his running mate's faces on it. “Kennedy/Johnson” it proclaimed.

Reaching under the folders, I grasped the third diary, the one that would have been from that year, and pulled it out. I then closed
and locked the strongbox, stored it away, and shut the drawer. I carried the diary into the living room and sat in my comfy chair.

I breathed deeply. I fought the unease that crept up my spine. It was going to be painful, but I couldn't put it off any longer.

I opened the diary and started to read, and I was back in the world of the Black Stiletto.

J
ANUARY
1, 1960

Good morning, dear diary. Or should I say good afternoon? I slept past noon, and boy, am I hungover. Yuck. I feel crummy. It was a great party, though. I think. What I remember of it, ha ha.

After I went back downstairs last night, the champagne really flowed. I made the mistake of also drinking a couple of Jack Daniel's with Coke. By the time midnight rolled around, the gym was spinning. I never got sick, though. I don't recall how I made it up to my room, but somehow I did.

The only thing I
do
remember was what Lucy told me, just before the clock struck twelve. She and Peter made a date for their wedding. It'll be in May, but now I've forgotten the exact day. She asked me to be her maid of honor, and I'm pretty sure I slurred, “I'll be happy to, Looshy!”

Gosh, it's 1960. I can hardly believe it. A whole new decade. What will it bring? What kind of changes will we see? A bunch of them, or none at all? There's a presidential election this year. It'll be the first time I can vote in one. Actually, I was old enough in ‘56, but I didn't do it. I don't know why. I was too young to care then, I suppose. A new president always brings some changes, right? Now that I think about it, there's a lot going on that could use some change.
There's a bunch of trouble in the world. The Communists over in Russia are a big concern. They have bombs. We have bombs. Now that Cuba is also Communist, people are worried that it's so close. Will it lead to war? Gosh, I hope not. And then they're training astronauts to fly into outer space. Will we go to the moon or to Mars? Wouldn't that be something? And there's a firecracker about to go off right here in America. The Negroes are demanding equal civil rights. Will Dr. King lead his people to victory? I hope there won't be any violence.

Well, my stomach tells me I shouldn't be concerned about any of that right now. I need to go to the kitchen and put something in my belly before I
do
get sick. Maybe some toast and orange juice. I'm not sure I can handle eggs right now.

Okay, Judy, put on your robe and make an appearance. I don't think more beauty sleep is going to make much difference, ha ha!

L
ATER

It's nearly midnight again and I just came back from Bellevue Hospital.

Oh my Lord, Freddie had a heart attack today! Dear diary, I'm so worried. The doctor says he's going to be okay, but still, I've never seen Freddie look so bad. I swear I thought he was going to die in my arms.

When I left off earlier, I went to the kitchen to get some breakfast. Freddie was there at the table with his newspaper and a plate full of uneaten scrambled eggs. They were cold. I didn't know how long they were sitting there, but it must have been a couple of hours. Freddie was pale and had one arm around his chest. His brow was furrowed and he looked extremely uncomfortable.

“Freddie? What's wrong?”

He just shook his head. “I must have had too much to drink last night. I have awful gas pains.”

Freddie never had hangovers. He had the ability to swallow
booze as if it was water and smoke a couple of packs of cigarettes at the same time. It never fazed him.

“Have you taken any Alka-Seltzer?” I asked as I went to the fridge to get the orange juice.