The Black Stiletto's Autograph Page 2

  ***

  I lit a cigarette and then raised my glass of Jack Daniels and tapped it against Martha’s gin and tonic.

  “Cheers.”

  “Are you going to get drunk with me, tonight, Joey?” the woman asked, her speech slightly slurring. “The rain doesn’t look like it’s gonna let up anytime soon.”

  “I’m already drunk, darling, you know that,” I replied.

  After lighting her own cigarette, she reached over the table and pinched my cheek. “You’re so cute I could eat you up.”

  I suppose I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. Martha was a lush and she was fifteen years older than me, but I enjoyed her company. She was a character, too. Fancied herself a Broadway actress, even though she’d never acted in anything but off-off-Broadway productions over a decade earlier. I bet she was once quite glamorous, but the booze had aged her considerably. She mercilessly flirted with me. I didn’t reciprocate, but she was a pleasant drunk and fun to talk to.

  All the regulars were characters, as well as serious alcoholics. Dale stood at the bar, a cigarette behind his ear and another in his mouth, trailing smoke. The two Johns sat at a table, John #2 with his wife, while Pete and Charlie sat in their usual corner, drowning their sorrows in bourbon and whiskey, respectively.

  I did the same thing. Drowning sorrows, that is. Looking back, I’m not really sure how I got to that dark place. Only twenty-five and I was a regular at O’Malley’s, too. It was a perfect hole where one could wallow in melancholy. It was convenient and had a welcoming atmosphere. Not too depressing or dour. When the little black and white television wasn’t on, Morris, the bartender, tuned the radio to a station that played Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. For a dive, it was cheery.

  Why was I an alcoholic? Good question. Perhaps I saw myself as a younger version of Martha, only of the male gender. I, too, had come to New York to be an actor. After high school, I joined the army, did my two years, and moved from my small town home in Ohio to Manhattan. For four-and-a-half years, I encountered nothing but rejections and disappointments. It was too bad no one was doing a production of The Iceman Cometh, ‘cause I’d been perfect for a role in that one. I suppose I had an affinity for booze; I took a liking to it in high school and it stuck. I never wanted to admit I had a problem.

  I took a sip and looked around the surprisingly empty joint. Maybe ten other people besides the regulars had taken shelter from the downpour. Morris had just made a martini for a guy who had wandered in with a collapsible press camera in hand. He wore a suit, so I figured he was a newspaperman.

  “So did you hear they’re gonna make Alaska a state?” Martha asked.

  “Yeah, I did. Doesn’t make sense. Isn’t Canada between us and Alaska?”

  Before she could answer, the door flew open and a figure dressed entirely in black burst into the place. Everyone, including me, turned to see who had come in out of the rain.

  It was a woman. She wore a black leather jacket zipped up the front, black leather pants, and a backpack. Shiny black boots rose to her knees. With her black leather gloves, she wiped water off her arms and legs and stomped her boots slightly to shake droplets to the floor. The woman wore a dagger strapped to the outside of her right thigh, and she had on a mask. The black leather hood covered her head and the top half of her face, her eyes visible through two holes. Only her neck, chin, mouth, and the bottom of her nose were exposed.

  “Oh, my God,” one of the Johns said. “Is that—?”

  The Black Stiletto.

  My cigarette fell out of my mouth and onto the floor.

  Was it really her? There had been Black Stiletto imposters spied around the city, but very few people had seen the real thing in person.

  The woman noticed the bar customers silently staring at her. Only Dean Martin’s voice crooned “Angel Baby” on the radio.

  “Mind if I come in to get dry?” she asked.

  No one said a word. Every person, including the bartender, stood or sat in frozen tableaux with mouths wide open.

  When she spoke, it was with a strong Southern accent. “Don’t worry, I’m harmless. I just want to get out of the rain. And I might have a drink while I wait.” She scanned the room. “If that’s all right.”

  Morris finally spoke. “Sure. Come on in.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped forward and approached the bar. “It’s Niagara Falls out there.”

  It was the newspaperman who finally asked the question. “Are you…?”

  She smiled at him. “What do you think?”

  “You’re the real Black Stiletto?”

  “Last time I looked.”

  Morris asked, “Uh, what can I get you?”

  Without thinking, I stood and announced, “I’m buying the lady a drink!” I suddenly felt bold. My heart was pounding. I’d never met a celebrity before and it just so happened that I was fascinated with what the papers said about the Stiletto. Despite floating in a murky Jack Daniels fog, I left Martha at the table and approached the bar. “What’ll you have, ma’am?”

  “Oh, let’s see. How about a scotch and soda?”

  “Get the lady a scotch and soda,” I ordered. I hoped my words weren’t slurring like Martha’s. Morris shook himself out of his state of shock and got to work. The newspaperman offered his hand. “Hi, my name is Max.”

  The woman slapped his palm and shook it. “Hi, Max, I’m the Black Stiletto.”

  I wasn’t about to be left out. “I’m Joey.”

  She shook hands with me, too. “Hello, Joey, whaddaya knowy?”

  I laughed and said, “Not much, but I’d sure like to have your autograph.” I have no idea why I said that.

  “My autograph?”

  “Yeah. If you wouldn’t mind.” I grabbed a white square napkin from the top of the bar. “Morris, you have a pen?”

  The bartender set the scotch and soda in front of the woman of the hour and nodded. He grabbed a pen by the cash register and handed it to her.

  The Black Stiletto rolled her eyes. “No one’s ever asked me for an autograph before.”

  “Has anyone ever had the chance?” I asked.

  “I guess not.” With pen in hand, she wrote on the napkin: To Joey, lots of love, the Black Stiletto.

  “Thank you so much.”

  She looked at me and smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, Joey.”

  I was immediately struck by her sparkling eyes. Brown with flecks of green.

  “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  The woman playfully put a hand to her heart and batted her eyelids. “Oh my, sir, you sure know all the right things to say, don’t you?”

  At that second, everyone broke out of their immobility and immediately got up to meet the woman who had recently become a nationwide sensation. Although wanted by the police, the Black Stiletto had made headlines by suddenly showing up at crimes in progress and leaving the crooks incapacitated for the police to arrest. Very few people had seen her in action. As yet no photos of the crime fighter existed; there were only police sketches made from eyewitness accounts. After all, she had to be careful about appearing in public. The police commissioner recently declared her to be a public menace. The man and woman on the street, however, had embraced the Stiletto as some kind of folk heroine.

  People talked at once. “I’m honored to meet you!” John #1 said. Martha professed, “You’re doing such good work out there. I always read about your exploits in the paper!” “Where’d you learn how to fight?” Dale asked. The Black Stiletto answered their questions graciously and seemed to enjoy the attention.

  I first read about her sometime after the New Year. She had made headlines after an altercation with some Italian gangsters. The police alleged she had killed a powerful Mafia don and an enforcer. Since then, the vigilante made news every few weeks until she was constantly in the population’s consciousness. I’d always been a comic b
ook reader. I loved Superman and Batman. The Black Stiletto conjured up fantasies in my head that superheroes really could exist.

  “Do you have any super powers?” I asked.

  The Stiletto laughed. “Are you kidding? I’m just a regular gal, sweetheart.” Then she wagged her finger at me. “But I can tell when men lie to me, though.”

  Martha gasped. “Oh, will you tell me how to do that?” We all laughed.

  Max held up his camera. “Ma’am, would you mind if I take some shots of you for the Daily News?”

  Everyone went, “Yeah! Take some pictures! Take ours, too!”

  The Black Stiletto held up her hands to quiet down her entourage. “No, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” Max asked. “All we ever see in the papers is that awful police sketch. It sure would be a scoop for me, ma’am. I’d really appreciate it.”

  Maybe because she’d already drank half of her scotch and soda and was feeling good, she rubbed her chin, looked around the room, and said, “Well, you’re right. I hate that police sketch. Sure, why not.”

  It was unbelievable. For the next ten minutes, Max snapped photos of the Stiletto in various poses alone—at the bar, holding up her drink, flashing her stiletto, and smiling at the camera. She’d laugh and roll her eyes and blow kisses, just like a pin-up model. I kept thinking to myself—this was just an ordinary woman, very attractive and personable, and yet she wore a costume and was lethal. In the eyes of the law, the woman was a criminal, and yet she was as nice and warm as can be. She seemed happy to be doing what she was doing. What did she get out of it? What was in it for her?

  It wasn’t long before the customers joined the Stiletto in various combinations for more pictures. By then she was on her second scotch and soda—which Max purchased for her—and she appeared to be having the time of her life. She even gave Morris a kiss on the cheek. Her laugh was infectious and her warm, bubbly personality won over her admiring crowd. Her accent also accentuated her charm.

  “Where are you from?” John #1 asked.

  “From the south, can’t you tell? I’ve been in New York for a few years, though.”

  I ordered another drink and asked her if she wanted a third. She refused and then leaned in to whisper, “Joey, haven’t you had enough for tonight?”

  “Never,” I replied, turning away from her to pick up my new glass of Jack.

  And then the strangest thing occurred. I was about to mosey on back to my seat where I’d been sitting earlier and let the Stiletto talk to the others, but I felt her studying me. I turned back and she was staring at my face. She placed her gloved hand on top of mine, tilted toward me again, and whispered, “It’s okay, Joey. You can stop this. Whatever it is that’s hurting you, it’ll end if you just tell it to go away.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I have a weird sense about these things. Joey, happiness can come from the unlikeliest places. But you gotta make up your mind that you’re gonna look for those places.”

  At first I wanted to laugh, but there was something sincere about the way she said it that made me pause.

  And then the front door opened again. The man who stepped in shook water off his uniform and muttered, “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

  No one spoke. Everyone froze.

  The newcomer was a young New York City patrolman.

  He looked up and saw the Black Stiletto in the middle of the group. The crime fighter didn’t move. For a moment, time stood still.

  Morris broke the silence. “Uh, hello Kenny. Come in out of that nasty weather, why don’t you?”

  But the cop continued to stare at the Stiletto.

  Then he drew his gun.

  “You’re under arrest, miss,” he proclaimed with as much authority as he could muster. “Step away from the bar and put up your hands!”

  The customers, now thoroughly captivated by the crime fighter, spoke up at once. “Leave her alone!” “She’s not doing anything!” “She ain’t hurting anyone!”

  The policeman raised his voice. “This woman is wanted by the law and I’m gonna bring her in. Now step away from the bar, miss, and put your hands above your head!”

  More protests were cut short by the Black Stiletto herself, who raised her hands and announced, “It’s all right, folks. This fine officer is just doing his job.” She stepped away from the patrons and stood facing the patrolman. “I’m gonna cooperate.”

  The clientele remonstrated loudly.

  “No, no,” she continued. “I appreciate your support, but I’m going with the nice policeman.” She cocked her head sideways and eyed him. “He’s handsome, too, wouldn’t you say?”

  Apprehension flooded my heart as I watched the Stiletto slowly approach the cop with her hands held high. The officer continued to point the gun at her. Everyone fell silent. They couldn’t believe what they were witnessing. The Black Stiletto was giving herself up? Was her reign of vigilantism finished?

  “You ready to go, officer?” she asked.

  Before he could reply, the woman swiftly kicked the gun out of the man’s hand. It flew across the room and discharged, frightening the captivated audience. Martha and John #2’s wife screamed—but by then, the Stiletto had already performed a maneuver many of the spectators had never seen. She grasped the policeman’s right arm, turned her own body sideways, and flung him over her back. He landed with a slam on a table. In the time it took the barflies to gasp in shock, the Black Stiletto had run to the door, opened it, and rushed outside into the rain.

  Two men immediately went to the fallen policeman. He shooed them away, saying, “I’m all right, damn it.” The man rolled off the table, spent a few seconds retrieving his weapon, and followed the costumed vigilante into the stormy night.

  So did everyone else. It didn’t matter that no one had umbrellas. This was a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle and we weren’t about to miss it. Max and I reached the street first and looked north and south. The rain hampered visibility.

  “Where’d she go?” Max asked.

  “I don’t see her,” I added.

  Patrolman Kenny stood in frustration, his anger increasing by the second. Then he eyed the building next to the bar. Scaffolding and tarps covered its façade, as the structure was undergoing improvements. Expecting the Black Stiletto to be hiding underneath, he stepped forward and slipped through two pieces of canvas that covered the bottom.

  She wasn’t there.

  Some of the other bar customers decided that returning to O’Malley’s was preferable to getting soaked. I stayed put, scanning First Avenue as far as I could see. I started to walk south to 23rd Street but stopped short when a dark object fell from the sky onto the pavement.

  “Owww!” the Black Stiletto cried out in pain. She had landed on her right leg and toppled flat on her face, right in front of us all. I looked up and guessed what had happened. The woman had climbed the scaffolding, probably in an attempt to reach the roof, but her boot must have slipped on the wet plywood planks. I also figured her gloves didn’t provide enough friction if she’d tried to grasp the slippery metal poles.

  The Black Stiletto was on her side and holding her ankle, her face contorting under the mask. Patrolman Kenny told everyone to stay back as he drew his gun again and pointed it at her.

  The crowd got ugly.

  “Leave her alone!”

  “She’s hurt!”

  “Call an ambulance!”

  “Is she okay?”

  The cop shouted angrily for the people to go back inside. I badly wanted to intervene, but I knew that would only get me in trouble with the police. Nevertheless, I was appalled when the policeman approached the seemingly helpless heroine and kicked her injured leg. He then reached down, drew the woman’s stiletto from its sheath, and tossed it aside.

  “Lie face down and put your hands behind your back!” the man commanded.

  The c
rowd protested even more.

  “No!”

  “She didn’t do anything!”

  “Let her go!”

  “Boo!”

  “Stinking cops!”

  The policeman kept the gun aimed at the woman while with the other hand he removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt. The Stiletto curled into a ball, nursing her wounded leg. The officer then bent over her, ready to force her into position so he could slap on the restraints.

  With my inebriated condition, the rain, the inadequate lighting, and the speed with which the Black Stiletto performed her attack, I barely registered what happened next. I could swear the woman reached into the top of her left boot and removed a second, smaller blade. She grasped its handle firmly between her right thumb and the side of her index finger, saber-style, lashed out, and sliced the back of the cop’s gun hand.

  Policeman Kenny shouted and dropped his weapon.

  The Black Stiletto leaped to her feet and clobbered the officer. She hit him hard on the side of the face with her right fist, knocking the man to the pavement. Then, she scooped up her stiletto and ran—actually she limped quickly—south on First and disappeared into the night. No one pursued her.

  The crowd wasn’t sure how to react. Some of them cheered her on. Others, including me, were too stunned to say a word. I think it was John #2 and Pete who squatted beside the patrolman—she had rendered him senseless. They helped revive him, made sure he was okay, and accompanied the man back into the bar.

  We all went inside to dry off. Morris found a bunch of towels for everyone to use. Policeman Kenny seemed to be all right, but he was so mad he could spit. His pride was hurt more than anything else. He asked to use Morris’ phone and called his precinct. For the next hour or so, O’Malley’s patrons exchanged perceptions of what had happened that night. Not me. I found myself in an odd mood. I went back to my old seat to finish my Jack Daniels, but I didn’t do that. I put the glass down and stared at it. I didn’t know what had come over me, but I felt curiously remorseful. Normally when I get drunk, I feel happy. Not this time. There was something about what the Black Stiletto had said to me that made me question what the hell I was doing.

  More cops arrived and a detective took statements. The majority, including me, slanted the events in the Stiletto’s favor. Even so, the next day the Black Stiletto was wanted for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.

  They never caught her. And I never went back to O’Malley’s.