The Black Stiletto: Black & White: The Second Diary

The Black Stiletto

Black & White

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The Black Stiletto

Black & White

The Second Diary—1959

A Novel

Raymond Benson

Copyright © 2012 by Raymond Benson

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60809-041-9

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,

Longboat Key, Florida

www.oceanviewpub.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For My Mother

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to thank the following individuals for their help: Will Arrington, Austin Camacho, John Douglas, John F. Fox, James McMahon, Pat, Bob, Frank, David, and everyone at Oceanview Publishing; and Peter Miller and the good folks at PMA Literary & Film Management, Inc.

A very special thank you goes to Athena Stamos for her splendid promotional help on The Black Stiletto.

Follow the Black Stiletto at www.theblackstiletto.net

AUTHOR’S NOTE

While every attempt has been made to ensure the accuracy of 1950s New York City, the Second Avenue Gym, Shapes, and the East Side Diner are fictitious.

The Black Stiletto

Black & White

1

Martin

THE PRESENT

The vintage 8mm projector whirred, the reels rotated, and the brand-new bulb cast a flickering image on the bare wall. The film was over fifty years old, so the quality wasn’t great. It was in black-and-white, of course.

The scene was a room, something like a photographer’s studio, for artificial lighting bounced off a backdrop that hung down the far wall. A tall woman in a black costume stepped into the frame. The camera was far enough away so you could see her full body and the width of the room. A male mannequin dressed in street clothes stood across from her. She assumed a position, prepared herself, and then leapt into the air, kicked her right boot forward, and struck the mannequin square in the chest. The opponent toppled backward and crashed to the floor. The woman landed lightly on both feet and looked at the camera. The mask covered the top half of her head and face. The filmmaker zoomed in for a close-up. The woman’s dark eyes sparkled through the holes in the black leather, and her lipstick-covered mouth formed a sweet smile. She said something to the man behind the camera; but as this was a silent film, I didn’t understand it.

There she was. The Black Stiletto. Unbelievable.

After a cut, the woman had repositioned herself on the studio floor and the mannequin was back in place. This time, she drew the knife from the sheath strapped to her right thigh—a stiletto, of course—and performed a lightning-fast maneuver to switch her grasp from the hilt to the blade. She then threw the weapon across the room. The knife penetrated the middle of the mannequin’s throat. Once again, she looked at the camera, smirked, and then laughed at something the unseen filmmaker said.

It was simply amazing. Despite the bizarre getup—the snug, black leather jacket and belt, tight leather pants, knee-high boots, small backpack, and half-hood mask—she was really cute! Her bubbly personality simply radiated from behind the disguise. She had charisma in spades.

And she was my mother.

Still is.

And I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not the only one who knows.

The old small reel of 8mm film was one of several trinkets my mother had kept in a strongbox along with a letter to me that revealed her identity as the Black Stiletto. The film can was marked March 1959, so I have to assume that’s when the footage was shot. There’s no indication of who was behind the camera.

Fascinated, I continued to watch the approximately five minutes of footage. It’s really difficult finding an 8mm projector in this age of digital photography, but I managed to get one at a thrift shop in Palatine. I set it up in the privacy of my house in Buffalo Grove.

While there existed a few vintage candid films of the Black Stiletto, most of them were shot by amateurs on the street—fleeting glimpses of her running or climbing. This was the first real, close-up, somewhat professionally staged footage of the famous crime fighter that I’d ever seen. Maybe it was the only footage.

It was just a few months ago when I received the surprise of my life. My mother’s attorney, Uncle Thomas—he isn’t really my uncle, but I’ve always called him that; I’ve known him since I was a kid—had held the strongbox in safekeeping until which time she became incapacitated. And that she definitely is. My mom has Alzheimer’s and currently resides in Woodlands North, a nursing home in River-woods, Illinois. She doesn’t really know who I am anymore, although she recognizes me as someone she loves. She’s seventy-three now. I’m almost forty-nine.

My name is Martin Talbot. My mother’s name is Judy Talbot, née Cooper. Unbeknownst to anyone but me—that I know of—she was the legendary and notorious costumed vigilante known as the Black Stiletto, who operated in New York City and Los Angeles between 1958 and 1963 or so. After she seemingly vanished, the Stiletto became the stuff of myths and pop-culture mystique. No one knew her true identity or what happened to her, despite the deluge of Black Stiletto products that appeared in the eighties and since—comic books, action figures, Halloween costumes, and even a movie in the nineties starring a young Angelina Jolie.

Uncle Thomas didn’t know the contents of the strongbox he handed over to me just a short while ago. You can imagine the shock when I learned my mom was the Black Stiletto. At first I didn’t believe it. It was completely crazy. But then I started exploring our old house in Arlington Heights—which is still up for sale—and found her costume and a series of diaries in a secret closet in the basement. I’ve managed to read the first diary, marked 1958, and learned how fourteen-year-old Judy Cooper ran away from her mother, brothers, and an abusive stepfather in Odessa, Texas, back in 1953. She ended up in New York alone and penniless. There, she was befriended by Freddie Barnes, the owner of a gym in East Greenwich Village, and moved into a room above the facility. She worked as the gym’s cleaning woman, but after hours Freddie taught her how to box. A Japanese trainer named Soichiro instructed her in martial arts before stuff like judo and karate were in the public consciousness. It was her first serious boyfriend, a Mafia soldier named Fiorello, who taught her how to use a knife. After Fiorello’s murder, she became the Black Stiletto and took it upon herself to fight crime in the city. Law enforcement didn’t like it. Soon she was wanted by the police and the FBI. Nevertheless, throughout 1958, the Stiletto fought petty criminals, the Mafia, and Communist spies. Late in the year she managed to take a trip back to Odessa, find her abusive stepfather—a man named Douglas Bates—and exact her revenge.

My mother’s activities even reached across the span of decades to bite us in the here and now. Roberto Ranelli, a Mafia hit man, was released from prison; somehow he knew my mother was the Black Stiletto, and he tracked her to the Chicago suburbs. Luckily, he was old and unwell. Although he murdered my real estate agent and attempted to kill my mom, some latent memory in my Alzheimer’s-stricken mother kicked in—literally—and she miraculously disabled the killer right there in the nursing home. But it was his heart that killed him.

I’m still discovering my mother’s story, but I’ve been terribly busy. I’m currently jobless and I’ve had to spend time over the summer looking for employment. I also had to deal with my daughter Gina’s move to New York to attend Juilliard. I’m a divorced dad. Gina’s mother, Carol, still lives in the area and I suppose you can say we get along all right. I wasn’t terribly happy about Gina going to New York to study acting and dance, but she finally convinced me that she had to follow her own heart and not mine.

Anyway, I haven’t had a spare moment to delve into my mother’s remaining diaries. I just now finally got the 8mm projector to view that mysterious film.

Back to the images on the wall. The Black Stiletto sparred with the mannequin, showing off her fighting ability. That poor mannequin took quite a beating. At one point she chopped the guy’s shoulder with a flat spear-hand, karate-style, and the arm fell right off. She put a hand to her lips and giggled, turned to the camera and mouthed, I’m sorry. There was a cut and the arm was back on the mannequin. My mother kept laughing. She was obviously having a good time, but you could also tell she found the experience silly. She rolled her eyes whenever the cameraman gave her direction. I assume they were the only two people in the studio.

After a couple more setups in which the Stiletto punched and kicked and stabbed the mannequin, there was a cut and suddenly we were outside on a Manhattan street corner. It was nighttime, the only illumination provided by a streetlight and some kind of spotlight the filmmaker had aimed at the side of a building and its fire escape. Due to the poor lighting, the picture was grainier than before. The Black Stiletto entered the frame, threw a rope and some kind of grappling hook to the bottom of the fire escape ladder. The hook caught, and she pulled the ladder down to street level. She then swiftly coiled the rope, attached it to her belt, and climbed the ladder to the second-floor landing. The filmmaker stayed on the ground and tilted the camera to follow her. She glided up the steps to the third floor and then the fourth. Her speed was uncanny. She moved like a cat, graceful and lithe. After reaching the fifth floor, she climbed the extra few feet to the roof, swung a leg over, and hopped up. Now she was a tiny black figure against the even darker sky. You could barely see her; nevertheless, it was obvious that she waved at the camera before darting out of view.

The film ended. The rest of the roll appeared to be blank feeder.

I was stunned. I was in possession of a gold mine. Who wouldn’t pay big bucks for this footage? But then, of course, I’d have to reveal how I got the film. I’m not sure I can do that while Mom’s still alive.

I was about to stop the projector, rewind the film, and watch it again—but suddenly there was another scene at the very end of the roll. This time, the Stiletto sat in a small room in front of a mirror surrounded by bright lightbulbs. Makeup supplies sat on the counter. A dressing room. She stared into the mirror, applied more lipstick, and adjusted her mask. Unlike in the previous footage, she didn’t acknowledge the camera. In fact, she ignored it. I was certain she didn’t know she was being filmed at this particular moment. She leaned forward, dissatisfied with something, and then she pulled off the hood/mask. Judy Cooper revealed herself to the mirror.

My mother. Age twenty-one. My God, she was beautiful. Her long black hair, which had been bundled up inside the hood, fell to her shoulders. She applied some mascara to her eyelashes, examined her handiwork, and then swept up her hair with one hand while she slipped the hood over her head with the other. After she tucked her hair inside, the Stiletto positioned the mask properly on her face and stood.

Cut.

The film truly ended and ran out of the projector.

This was an astonishing artifact of history. The Black Stiletto in action, up close and personal. It was both exhilarating and disturbing. I was excited to have an authentic recording of the woman in action. What bothered me, though, was that last scene. It caught her with the mask off, her full face revealed. She must have known about the footage, since the reel was in her safekeeping; but I’m convinced she was unaware of being filmed in the dressing room when the guy was doing it.

I rethreaded the film and viewed the whole thing again, trying to pick up clues as to where the thing was shot and who the cameraman might have been. There were no indicators to identify the building other than it was a typical five-story New York brownstone that sat on a corner. The street signs were out of the frame, so it could be anywhere in Manhattan.

When it was over, I was left with more questions. Did this mean there were more people who knew the Black Stiletto’s true identity? Who was the cameraman? Why was the film shot? There had to be a story behind it.

Obviously I had to read the second diary—the one from 1959—to find out what it was.

2

Judy’s Diary

1959

JANUARY 9, 1959

I’m still a little shaken by what happened last night, dear diary. The Black Stiletto made her first appearance of ’59 and it was an eventful one. I didn’t sleep at all once I got back to my room.

But before I try to gather my thoughts about it, first let me bring you up to date. I haven’t written since New Year’s and I’m starting a new diary.

After the big annual party we had on New Year’s Eve, I took it easy for a few days; just worked at the gym and stayed out of trouble, ha ha. A lot of stuff is happening in the world. Alaska became a new state this week, so I guess they have to make a whole new American flag with another star on it. Also, Fidel Castro just took control of Cuba. I knew it was coming and I told you so, dear diary. I was hoping my work last year taking out that Cuban spy might have done some good, but I suppose it didn’t. There’s a lot of talk in the papers speculating where Castro’s allegiances are going to lie. America or Russia? Since he’s a Socialist, he’s probably going to side with the Communists. That worries a lot of people, Cuba being so close to us and all.

Anyway, I suddenly got stir crazy yesterday and decided to go out. I think it was hearing that silly Chipmunks Christmas song on the radio for the millionth time. I thought it was cute a couple of weeks ago, but ever since it got to be number one, they’ve been playing it to death on the radio. Now I’d like to strangle those chipmunks! Thank goodness the new song by the Platters is climbing the charts—Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, and ain’t that the truth? It’s too bad Elvis is in the army. I miss hearing new songs by him. They keep putting out pieces he recorded a while back, like One Night and I Got Stung. More and more rock-and-roll acts are giving him some competition, and I like a lot of it. Buddy Holly, the Everly Brothers, Ritchie Valens. There’re a lot of new popular singers that aren’t as wild, too, like Frankie Avalon and Bobby Darin. They’re all right, but I think they’re a little too safe—that’s the only way I can describe them. I’m even listening to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin a lot more than I used to. The other night Freddie put on a record by a jazz musician named Miles Davis. He plays a horn. I liked it all right, it was different. It’s interesting how most of the jazz musicians are Negroes. Not too many white men play jazz. Why is that? And that brings me to last night, for the first part of this story has to do with Negroes.

It’s been cold and wet outside, being January and all, so I dressed in my warm Stiletto outfit and took to the streets. I guess I went looking for a crime in progress, since that’s what I do, but I can’t say I was hoping to find one. I mean, I really don’t want crime to occur at all. Wouldn’t it be nice if people everywhere were always safe from criminals? But I know that’s never going to happen in a million years, so there I was, racing across the rooftops and down to the shadows of the street to stalk the night.

It was around 11:30 or so and I was in the West Village. I hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, so I decided to go home and get out of the cold. I was poised in-between buildings on 7th Avenue, out of the streetlights, waiting for the traffic to ease a bit so I could dart across and head east. Close by there’s a jazz club called the Village Vanguard—apparently it’s famous, a New York institution. Anyway, a Negro couple came out, a young man and woman. I guess they were in their 20s. Not much older than me. He had his arm around her and they were laughing. They looked cute, obviously out on a date. Must have just heard some music in the club, but nobody else was coming out. I was maybe fifteen or twenty feet away from them, so my acute hearing picked up their voices. He said something like, If we can get a cab, I’ll make sure you’re home on time. And she replied, My daddy’ll kill us if I ain’t. They must’ve left the show early ’cause she had a deadline.

So the young man stood at the curb with his arm up, you know, like he was hailing a taxi. Several empty cabs drove by, but none of them stopped. I felt bad for them. Since living in New York I’ve become much more aware of the prejudice that exists against Negroes.

When I was growing up in Odessa, I didn’t really think about it. Down in the south, we called them colored. I’ve been training myself to say Negroes because that’s more polite. The Negroes in Odessa all lived south of the tracks, not that far from where we lived, so I was used to seeing them. I knew a lot of white people in Texas didn’t care for colored people and I sometimes heard my brothers saying nigger this and nigger that but I never used that word. I knew it wasn’t nice. I’ve heard white people use that word here in New York and talk about Negroes as if they were less than human.

Thank God Freddie’s not that way. He lets Negroes come to the gym. When I first came to New York, I was under the impression that most gyms were as segregated as anyplace else. But a lot of boxers are Negroes, so I guess it’s not so unusual. In fact, all races come to the Second Avenue Gym. Whites, Negroes, Mexicans, and Latin fellas from Cuba or Puerto Rico. So I’m used to being around all sorts of skin colors. They’re all just people.

Anyway, as I watched that poor couple wait for a cab, I remembered everything I’d been reading in the papers lately concerning the civil rights speeches made by a Negro preacher named Martin Luther King, Jr. He’s always getting in trouble with white people. Actually, it’s the other way around. White people are always making trouble for him. I still remember last fall when he was here in New York promoting his book, Strive Toward Freedom —which I read, by the way—and he was stabbed in the chest at a department store in Harlem. The irony is that it was a colored woman who did it. They said she was a mentally imbalanced homeless vagrant. I understand she was committed to a state mental hospital. Dr. King survived, thank goodness. Anyway, there’s racial tension in all the cities, powder kegs ready to explode. I don’t blame the Negroes at all for the unrest. They’ve had a hard time all these years. All they want is to be treated equally. I understand it. Why doesn’t everyone else?

So I stood there in the shadows feeling sorry for those two young people, and then, from up the street, these three white men came walking. They were in their late 20s or early 30s, I guess. They looked like they were drunk or something, because they were talking loud and laughing, pushing each other, you know, acting tough. They saw the colored couple standing on the sidewalk and one of the men called out, Hey, look at the niggers! Trying to get a taxi! Good luck, niggers! I hate that word and don’t like writing it down, but that’s what they said. The men laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. The boyfriend tried to ignore them, but I could see the young lady was getting nervous as the white men approached. She pulled on her date’s arm and said, Come on, let’s get the subway. He saw the wisdom in her suggestion and nodded. So they started walking toward me, heading for the 7th Avenue subway entrance. But then the three troublemakers got in front of them.

"What you doing down here, boy? one asked. Harlem’s a long way away!" He said it like Harlem was some kind of ugly place. Unfortunately, because of the cold weather the avenue was deserted. There wasn’t anyone else around to stand up for the couple. The three men continued to taunt the pair, forcing them back against the building. One guy shoved the colored man. That’s when I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped out of the darkness and revealed myself.

Stop it, I said. Leave them alone!

The three thugs whirled around and, boy, were they surprised.

Look, it’s her!

The Black Stiletto!

They didn’t know whether to be excited about seeing me in the flesh or if they should be angry that I’d interrupted their fun.

Why don’t you fellas run along and leave this nice couple in peace? I said.

As for the young man and woman, they stood there wide-eyed and mouths open, half in fear and half in awe.

Go on, I prompted. Get out of here.

That’s when the leader of the trio took a step in my direction. What are you, some kind of nigger lover? he snarled.

Well, I didn’t like that one bit. I lost my temper. I moved in quickly and slapped the man across the face before he could react. I really hadn’t meant to start a fight, I just wanted to teach the guy a lesson, you know, like a teacher scolding an unruly pupil.

Now turn around and go away!

The man hadn’t expected that and his eyes turned red. Why, you bitch! he shouted, and he went at me, fists flying. I blocked the blows easily enough and then let him have a strong right hook on the jaw. He fell to the pavement.

Then one of the other guys produced a switchblade and flicked it open. He waved it menacingly at me, ready to attack.

I drew my stiletto, which, of course, was bigger and scarier. You really want to play knives with me? I asked him.

That didn’t intimidate him. He swished the blade back and forth and came at me without much finesse, so I effortlessly kicked the weapon out of his hand. He yelped in pain and jumped back before I could stab him. I wouldn’t have done it, but that’s what he thought.

The third guy must have been the smartest one, for he said to his humiliated comrades, Come on, let’s get out of here.

"I’m not gonna let some freak get the better of me!" the man blubbered. He charged recklessly. These punks were all bravado. They talked big and acted tough, but they had no discipline or training. I sidestepped the raging bulldog and he missed me. He rushed at me again, and this time my knee met his stomach. Oomph. Knocked the breath right out of him. He staggered for a moment and fell back into the arms of the third guy, who implored, Come on, Wayne, let’s go! Now he and the second guy were scared. They helped their gasping friend move away, and the trio disappeared down the avenue with their tails between their legs.

I turned to the couple, who stood shivering from fright or the cold, I don’t know which.

Are you two all right?

The young man nodded. Thank you, miss.

The woman also spoke. Yes. Thank you. Are you really the Black Stiletto?

I shrugged. What time you supposed to be home? I asked her.

Midnight. In about ten minutes!

Wait here. I stepped out to the curb, raised my arm, and whistled as loud as I could. A taxi stopped right away. The driver’s jaw dropped, and he stared at me like I was some kind of ghost. I reached into my backpack and pulled out some cash that I carry with me. Twenty dollars. That was more than enough. I waved the couple over and opened the back door for them. I gave the twenty to the driver and asked, You don’t have a problem with taking these nice folks up to Harlem, do you?

No, ma’am! he replied.

Good. And be quick about it. I’ve got your cab number and I’ll know if they come to any harm. You understand me?

The driver nodded, his jaw still hanging open.

The pair got inside and thanked me again. I shut the door and slapped the back of the car as if it was a horse. The driver pulled out into traffic and off they went.

That felt really good. Best twenty dollars I ever spent.

But that’s not what shook me up and caused my sleepless night. That came next, when I was on my way back to the gym.

It happened at Washington Square Park. There were a few people walking here and there, but mostly the place was deserted. It suddenly started to snow, and it was gorgeous. I’m not crazy about winters in New York, but when it snows something magical happens. I was feeling good after helping that couple, so I walked out into the middle of the park and let the snow fall around me. I wanted to dance and sing and twirl around, so I did. Some pedestrians stopped to watch and point. Yep, a Black Stiletto sighting! And what was she doing? Dancing with an invisible partner in the snowfall. They must have thought I was nuts. I laughed aloud and waved. Some waved back.

And then there was a gunshot.

I felt the heat of the bullet whiz past my left side, too close for comfort. I immediately hit the pavement and lay flat, my eyes scanning the park’s perimeter for the shooter. A man in a heavy coat started walking toward me from underneath the arch. His arm was outstretched; in his hand was a gun pointed straight at me. As he moved forward, he fired again. The round splintered the cement near my head, spraying tiny chips of concrete across my face.

I got up and ran.

I didn’t know if he was alone or if he had friends with him. I wasn’t taking any chances. Although he missed me twice, I could tell he had experience with the gun. The weapon was some kind of semiautomatic.

Another shot hit a park bench just in front of me. I crossed 4th Street and dashed to Thompson Street. With buildings east and west of me, I was safer. I slipped over to an unlit closed storefront, crouched in the darkness, and watched my pursuer. He reached the south edge of the park and prepared to cross 4th. He was alone. Although he was too far away for me to know for certain, I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before. There was something about his demeanor, though, that said gangster. I had been around enough of those Mafia types when I was with Fiorello, I could spot them a mile away. I can’t describe it—it’s an attitude, along with the way they dress. And who else would walk around New York carrying a piece if he wasn’t an undercover cop or a mobster? This guy was no undercover cop.

As soon as he reached the T-intersection of 4th and Thompson, he halted. He peered down the street but didn’t see me. I was safely tucked in the shadows behind a line of garbage cans—and then my heart nearly stopped. I saw my footprints in the freshly fallen snow. The street and sidewalks were covered with a light dusting; my trail was in plain sight, leading right to where I squatted.

The gunman spotted the prints, too. From where he stood, he raised the firearm and shot three rounds—hitting one of the trash cans twice and shattering a