The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes Read online

  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.

  2

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  JANUARY 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!

  LATER

  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.

  “We don’t have any.”

  “Well, shoot, Freddie, why didn’t you get me up? I’ll run out and get some for you.” I poured a glass of juice and looked back at him. It was then I could see this was more serious than gas pains. Freddie was wincing and couldn’t respond.

  “Freddie?”

  Then his expression changed for the worse. His eyes popped open and he gasped for air. One hand clutched the edge of the table as he tried to stand. He didn’t get very far. I put down my juice and rushed to him—just in time to catch him as he toppled into my arms.

  “Freddie!”

  I gently laid him on the kitchen floor. He writhed in agony and was short of breath. When he attempted to speak, he merely made choking noises.

  “I’m calling an ambulance!” I didn’t want to leave him, but I had to. The phone was on the other side of the kitchen. I darted to it and dialed the operator. It seemed like it took forever to get connected to the right place, but I finally blurted out where they should come. After I hung up, I moved back to Freddie. He was breathing a little better, but his eyes were wet and there was absolutely no color to his skin. The immediate distress seemed to be passing, though.

  “Try to relax, Freddie, an ambulance is on the way,” I told him.

  All the time we waited, I prayed I wouldn’t lose him. Not Fred-die—my substitute father, my trainer, my friend. I even cried a little, but I was careful not to let him see. I kept thinking about everything they were saying on the news about smoking cigarettes and how bad they can be. Freddie smoked a ton a day. Could that be the cause?

  Well, dear diary, the ambulance arrived about twenty minutes later, which seemed like an eternity. I went downstairs to the front of the gym to let them in. The fellows rushed upstairs with one of those stretchers on wheels. One of the guys asked me to wait in the other room, but I wouldn’t leave. They checked Freddie’s vitals and asked him a few questions, which he was surprisingly able to answer. Eventually they got him on the stretcher and carried him down and outside. I insisted on going with them in the ambulance. I threw on a pair of training pants and a sweatshirt, tennis shoes, and grabbed my purse. I looked like I’d just rolled out of bed—which was true— but it was no time for vanity.

  When we got to the hospital, they wheeled him right into the emergency area. A nurse asked me if I was a relative. I explained that I was the only family Freddie had, even though we weren’t related. She handed me a clipboard and ordered me to fill out some papers. I answered the questions I could and gave it back. And then I waited. And waited. And waited.

  At one point I went to the pay phone and called Lucy. No one answered. She and Peter must have gone out to do something fun on New Year’s Day. It was cold outside, but the weather was clear. I just wanted to speak to somebody. I didn’t have anyone else’s phone number with me or I would have called Jimmy or one of the other gym regulars.

  I was there four hours before the doctor came out to talk to me. By then it was around ten o’clock. Dr. Montgomery was very young. I thought he looked like he was just out of medical school.

  Sure enough, it was a heart attack. Dr. Montgomery said Freddie would have to stay in the hospital for a while, probably a few weeks! But he was stable and they’d given him drugs and stuff to make him comfortable. I asked if I could see him, but the doctor replied that Freddie was sleeping now. Dr. Montgomery suggested I go home and get some rest, too, and I’d most likely get to see the patient tomorrow.

  So now I’m back at the apartment. I hadn’t eaten all day. I feel pretty lousy. I’m going to make some eggs and then go to bed. I guess I’ll have to close the gym in the morning.

  Please, God, if you’re really up there, please make Freddie better. Please, please, please!

  JANUARY 2, 1960

  It’s been a long day.

  I put a sign on the gym door saying we were closed “due to illness.” Then I took the bus to Bellevue, and luckily, I was able to see Freddie. First the nurse on his floor told me the doctor wanted to talk to me. So I was stuck doing nothing again, this time in a small waiting room. Apparently, the floor was dedicated to heart patients, because a lot of pamphlets and literature about cardiac emergencies sat in trays on the table along with magazines that were several months old. I didn’t have to wait too long, though. This time a different doctor showed up. His name was Abramson. He was older and looked more experienced than Dr. Montgomery. He introduced himself and asked what my relationship to the patient was. I told him that Freddie’s my landlord and employer, repeating that I was the only family he had that I knew of. The doctor nodded grimly, which I didn’t take to be a good sign.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  Dr. Abramson didn’t immediately say, “Oh, he’s fine,” or “He’ll be okay.” Instead, he made a shrugging gesture and rocked a flat hand back and forth to indicate “not so bad, not so good.”

  “We’re still waiting on all the tests, but Mr. Barnes definitely suffered a serious heart attack, what we call a myocardial infarction.” He went on to explain that a major anterior coronary artery was blocked. I didn’t understand a lot of the medical terms, but he put it as plainly as he could. The crux of the matter is that Freddie’s condition is severe enough to warrant a long hospital stay.

  When I asked if he could operate, Dr. Abramson looked at me like I was crazy. “There is no treatment like that for this sort of thing,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. There’s a lot about the heart we don’t know.” I felt kind of dumb.

  He told me I could go on to Freddie’s room, but I shouldn’t stay long and I had to take care not to “excite” him. What was I going to do, make him do jumping jacks? I told the doctor Freddie and I were like father and daughter and that it would do him good to see me.

  Freddie didn’t have his own room. A curtain separated the two sides, and an old man covered with tubes and stuff was in the first bed. I quickly skipped over that space and went around the curtain. Dear diary, I stopped breathing for a second. I had never seen big, strong Freddie look so pathetic. He was in bed, of course, and he had an oxygen mask on his face. There was a plastic tube in his arm that coiled up to one of those bottles containing clear liquid. His eyes were closed. There was a little more color in his complexion, but somehow he seemed smaller and older. I wanted to cry.

  “Freddie?” I whispered. I moved to the side of the bed and gently placed a hand on his. “Freddie?”

  His eyes fluttered open. When they focused on me, he smiled beneath the oxygen mask. With his other hand, he reached up and removed it.

  “Hello, Judy.” His voice was soft and weak.

  “Oh, Freddie.” I indicated the mask. “Shouldn’t you be wearing that? You don’t have to talk.”

  He barely shook his head. “It’s okay. I can take it off for a few minutes at a time. I have to eat, too, you know. They gave me breakfast this morning.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “It . . . it looks like you have good doctors.”

  Freddie rolled his eyes. “They’re all quacks when it comes to heart attacks. They don’t know what they’re doing. I just have to rest for, God, I don’t know how long.”

  “They said you’d be here for a few weeks.”

  He nodded. “Judy, you’ll have to run the gym. I won’t be training anyone for a while. Can you take over?”

  “Of course I can! And if the guys don’t like me training them, then tough cookies. Don’t you worry about it. And I’ll tell the regulars they should come visit you.”

  Freddie winced slightly and said, “Wait a week or so before you do that.”

  I laughed. “Okay, Freddie.”

  He sighed heavily. “I’d kill for a cigarette.”

  This time I shook my head. “I’m afraid that’s not allowed.”

  “I know. I have to quit. For good. It’s gonna be hell. I’m not sure I can do it.”

  “Sure you can, Freddie. I’ll help you.”


  “I have to limit my drinking, too.”

  “That shouldn’t be as difficult.”

  “I’m part Irish. Didn’t you know that?”

  I laughed. “I don’t think I did. But it makes sense.” After a little pause, I asked if he was in pain. He said, no, they’d got him on painkillers. There was a piece of paper on the tray by his bed where the doctor had written names of medicines he’ll be taking. I copied them down so I could spell them correctly: quinidine and nitroglycerin. I always thought that second one was an explosive, like dynamite. What do I know?

  After a while, I could see he was growing tired, so I left him alone. I didn’t really want to go home yet. I thought I’d let him rest a while and then after I had lunch I’d see him again. Downstairs I called Lucy from a pay phone and told her what was going on. She offered to come up and sit with me, so I suggested we have lunch somewhere near Bellevue. And that’s what we did. I can’t remember where we ate, but it was a diner very similar to the East Side Diner. I wasn’t much company, I’m afraid. Lucy told me not to worry. Freddie would be all right. Lots of people recovered from heart attacks and lived a long time. Yeah, maybe so, but I think more people didn’t recover and an incident meant that their time on earth was now limited.

  Lucy talked mostly about her and Peter and the wedding. It kind of went in one ear and out the other. I was actually thankful when we got up to pay our checks.

  I visited with Freddie for a few minutes again in the afternoon, but he seemed even more tired than before. I thought it best to leave him be. Surely he’ll regain more strength as the days pass.

  He’ll be okay.

  I said that over and over to myself as I took the bus back to the East Village.

  So a little while ago, I made myself some dinner and watched TV alone. It was strange being in our apartment without Freddie there. It made me very sad. The only thing that perked me up was something I saw on the news.