The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (31 page)

Heaven help me, but I didn't feel any sorrow for Mitch or Alice, and I was relieved my secret died with the traitors.

I quickly moved back into the bedroom, but I didn't shut the window. I had to fashion another crime scene of my own invention
and get the heck out of there. Police sirens in the distance grew nearer, and I had no doubt they were headed to 52nd Street. I unmasked myself and threw on the trenchcoat. Before leaving the bedroom, though, I shut the suitcase full of money, latched it, and carried it away. It was heavy, but I could manage.

The elevator was empty. When I got to the ground floor, some people had already gathered outside around Mitch's corpse. “What happened?” I asked innocently.

“Guy jumped,” a man said.

“Oh my God!”

“Do you live in the building?”

“No, I was visiting a friend. I'm on my way to the train station.” The man paid me no mind after that, so I walked away.

I'm home now and it's nearly dawn. I'm going to try and catch a few hours' sleep before I have to show up at the gym. I'm anxious to count the money in the suitcase, but I'm just too tired. I hid it under my bed for later, and now I'm getting between the sheets.

Like I said—I was a little shell-shocked by what happened tonight, but I feel better having written it down. Good night.

O
CTOBER 21, 1960

Tonight I watched the fourth debate between Kennedy and Nixon over at Lucy and Peter's apartment. It went very well and I believe Kennedy was the winner. I also now have a very good feeling about the election. I think Kennedy will win. Seeing the two candidates on television over the four debates has helped bring them into everyone's living room, so to speak, and we all feel as if we're making a much more personal choice.

At any rate, I'm happy they're both alive.

Yesterday the newspapers had some pieces about my handiwork. One article reported that two Russian men dressed as Waldorf-Astoria bellhops had killed each other in a suite. One was stabbed and
the other one shot himself. Apparently they had diplomatic ties to the Soviet Mission to the United Nations, so the FBI and CIA were looking into whether or not their presence had anything to do with the presidential candidates' appearances at the Alfred E. Smith dinner elsewhere in the building. The mission denied any knowledge of the men, of course.

An unrelated article reported that a Cuban-American couple had also committed suicide in an eastside Midtown apartment. The woman, Alice Graves, was poisoned, while the man, Mitch Perry, jumped from his sixth-floor fire escape. Police were still looking into the possibility that Perry had murdered his wife before leaping to his death. Perry was described as a successful stockbroker, so the motivation was a mystery.

There was no mention of the Black Stiletto.

Police came to talk to Mr. Dudley and Mr. Patton at HQ today. Because Mitch and Alice were volunteers for the Kennedy campaign, the cops were covering all the bases. They didn't talk to any of us. So far they hadn't linked the couple to Michael or Ivan, and I doubt they will.

I think I've figured out what was supposed to happen at the Waldorf that night. Ivan had booked a suite on the 27th floor as a base of operations. Mitch probably brought the sniper rifle in its case to the hotel along with other luggage. The dinner tickets were actually for Mitch and Alice, not Ivan and Michael. Ivan and Michael dressed as hotel bellhops in order to get around the hotel with impunity. At the right time, Michael would have gone to the ballroom box, opened the case, assembled the rifle, shot Kennedy and Nixon, and then rushed to the stairwell with the case. He'd stash it in room 2730. He and Ivan, still dressed as bellhops, would have then innocently left the hotel amidst all the chaos, departed the city, and disappeared. Mitch and Alice would spend the night in the suite, check out in the morning, and leave with the rifle case among their luggage. Their attending the dinner was the perfect alibi.

Unless I'm wrong, the history books won't contain any references to the attempt on John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon's lives on October 19, 1960. No one has a clue it even occurred except the Commies, and they won't be talking, ha ha.

Oh, and guess what, dear diary? There was $20,000 in that suitcase. I have no idea where the money came from, but it's mine now! Ya-hoo!

A couple of nights ago I got very upset with Martin. He walked out of the house for no reason. His behavior was totally bizarre—he put on a wet shirt I was cleaning for him and then he left. All right, he was distressed about something, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. Something on the television set him off, I think. I realize he got some bad news about his mother at the hospital, so that could be a big part of it. But if he doesn't talk to me and be honest about what is bothering him, then how can we move forward?

Bill Ryan called me today at the office, so I returned the call during my lunch break.

“Judy's and Martin's Social Security numbers were registered in Odessa, Texas, in 1962,” he said.

“Martin was a newborn, so that's understandable,” I thought out loud. “But why her?”

“Maybe she lost her card and had to reregister. Maybe she never had one. Or—”

“Or maybe she changed her identity?”

“That's always a possibility. The new card was in her married name—Talbot—so that part of the equation is still a mystery.”

Indeed it was.

I'm afraid I believe Judy was some kind of criminal in Los Angeles. The evidence is too compelling. How could Martin not know about those gunshot wounds? It just doesn't make sense.

I've decided I must confront Martin with my suspicion and tell him that if he doesn't reveal what he's hiding from me, then I'll have to call off our relationship. I don't want to go through that again. Lies and deceit destroyed the one other serious love affair I ever had. There's a
shadow
that covers Martin and his mother, and I need to know what it is. It's all I think about, because, well, I think I really do love him. I don't want to push Martin away, but I know from experience that it's what must happen if I don't get some answers.

But first we have to go to his ex-wife's wedding. Oh, boy.

N
OVEMBER 5, 1960

Yesterday was my birthday. I'm twenty-three. My friends at HQ surprised me with a cake. Last night, Freddie took me to dinner at Gage & Tollner's, down on Fulton Street. That was where I first met Fiorello, so it brought back poignant memories. The dinner was exquisite, though, and Freddie thanked me for “looking out for him” all year. He was very sweet. I got a little teary-eyed.

I didn't hear from Lucy. Did she forget?

Oh, well, these birthdays are starting to get overrated.

My last Kennedy Girl assignment was today, Saturday, at the New York Coliseum at Columbus Circle. Kennedy held a rally there, and it was also his last big event in the city before the election on Tuesday. Nixon had a rally in the same location on Wednesday, but I didn't go. I was too busy playing my new Elvis record, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” over and over. I had to stop when Freddie threatened to slit his wrists if he heard it one more time, ha ha.

Betty, Louise, and the rest of the Girls were all present today, and we sang “High Hopes,” “Marching Down to Washington,” and “Happy Days Are Here Again,” just like we always do. The rally was very crowded. I heard over a million people attended the senator's rally in Chicago yesterday. There may very well have been that many supporters at the Coliseum today.

Kennedy thanked each girl personally for our help. Once again, he called me “Miss Cooper.” I'm amazed that he can remember my name. I wished him luck and I told him I know he will win.

“Do I have a guardian angel watching over me?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“More than you know,” I answered.

He shook my hand and went on to the next girl.
Sigh
.

I will miss being a Kennedy Girl. Luckily, we get to keep our uniforms. Betty joked that they'll be worth money someday.

One thing bothers me about today, though. Billy was supposed to be there and he wasn't. He and Lily had important volunteer jobs. I asked Lily where he was, and she averted her eyes and said, “He sick.” I asked, “Is he okay?” and she wouldn't answer. In fact, she looked like she might cry! That's when I knew she wasn't telling me the truth. Something was very wrong.

I decided to pay a visit to Chinatown tomorrow.

N
OVEMBER 6, 1960

Tonight I took the chance of dressing as the Stiletto and venturing back into dangerous waters. It had been a while since I'd shown my mask in Chinatown, and I didn't know what to expect. I knew where Billy and his mother lived on Mott Street and unfortunately, that was in Flying Dragons and Hip Sing Tong territory. Hopefully I could get in and out as quickly as possible without attracting much attention.

I waited until 10:00, after businesses and restaurants were closed and less people populated the streets. The sidewalks were never completely empty, though. I'm sure I was seen by someone as I darted from one shadow to the next and made my way from Canal to Mott. The building where Billy lived seemed to be in more disrepair, and scaffolding now stood in front of it. That actually made my job easier; I didn't have to bother with the fire escape and it concealed my
presence outside their window. I climbed to the second-floor platform and peered inside.

It appeared to be a studio apartment—one room—that contained the bedroom, kitchen, and living area all in one space. I saw one bed and what I thought was an army cot. Billy lay in that one, and, Lord, his face was bruised and swollen. He had been badly beaten. His mother sat in a chair beside him with a book in her hands.

Even though she disliked me, I tapped on the window. The woman looked up and made an angry face. She stood, jabbered at me in Chinese, and gestured for me to go away. I put my hands together in prayer fashion and mouthed “Please, let me in,” but she would have none of it. Then Billy opened his eyes, saw me, and said something to his mother. She argued with him for a moment, but apparently he won out. She came over and opened the window. I slipped inside.

“Thank you,” I said to her, and then I knelt by Billy's cot. Only then did I see bloody bandages around his torso. “Billy, what happened?”

Dear diary, he could barely talk and was in a tremendous amount of pain. From the way he was breathing, I guessed he had some broken ribs and maybe even a punctured lung, which could be quite serious.

Even so, he looked at me and smiled. “I'm glad . . . to see you.”

“Billy,” I repeated. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

“Flying Dragons. Who else?”

“What happened?”

He spoke slowly with great effort. “We owe them ten thousand dollars. They wanted me to join instead. I refused. How could I join the gang that killed my father? I stood up to them and they . . . they . . .”

I shushed him and examined his injuries. He had a
knife wound
in his chest, and his mother had tried to patch it up with a bunch of rags. His face was battered and he couldn't move his right arm. When I touched it he winced, indicating it was broken.

“My God, Billy, you need to be in the hospital!”

He shook his head. “We don't have moneyfor hospital.”

“
I'll
give you money. They should treat you anyway, silly. They're not going to turn you away.” I looked around the room. “Do you have a phone?”

Again, he shook his head.

“I'm going outside to call an ambulance.” I dug into my backpack and pulled out all the money I had on me—$35. But there was plenty more at home. I thrust it into his mother's hands. “For hospital,” I told her, but she looked at it as if it was gold. I turned back to Billy and said, “I'll bring back more money tomorrow night. Tell your mother to expect me around this same time. What's the nearest hospital?”

Billy was fading fast. “Beekman Downtown.” he managed to murmur before passing out.

I left, found a pay phone on the corner, and called for the ambulance. I hid in the shadows and waited until it arrived, and then watched as the medics brought Billy down on a stretcher. I'm afraid I shed a few tears as they drove away.

Then I went home.

N
OVEMBER 7, 1960

Beekman Downtown Hospital is located near City Hall. After work at the gym, I took the bus in my street clothes to check on Billy. When I asked to see him, the dumb nurse asked, “Are you a relative? Oh, of course you're not.” I explained I was a friend, but she wouldn't let me in the room. All she could tell me was that he was stable, whatever that meant. However, as I was leaving, I saw Lily in the hallway and managed to catch her.

“Oh, hi, Judy. You here to see Billy?”

“They won't let me. How is he?”

“I can take you. They let me. But he asleep now. His mother here, too. She no like visitors.”

“I understand. Tell me, do you know what his injuries are?” She explained in her broken English that Billy had been stabbed, he had two broken ribs, a slightly punctured lung, a broken right arm, and numerous contusions on his face and body. The Flying Dragons had taken him close to death but purposefully left him alive so he would always remember what they perceived to be a snub.

That made me hate the Tongs more than ever.

Tonight at the appointed time, as the Stiletto, I brought Billy's mother $5000 of the money from Mitch's suitcase. This time she seemed eager to see me, ready for the handout. I didn't mind. I'm sure she'd never seen that much money at once in her entire life. I told her, “For Billy. For Billy.” She nodded as if she understood, but then she immediately sat and started counting the bills. I didn't wait to be asked to have a cup of tea, so I left the way I came in—through the window.