Secrets & Lies (16 page)

“Oh my gosh, is Kennedy here?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Leo replied. “Maybe.”

Once we were inside the café, I did feel underdressed. Leo said not to worry about it. It was too early for the piano player, George
Feyer, to start, so the “jet set” wouldn't be arriving until later. It was a cute place with colorful, slightly risqué murals on the walls. The waiter told us they were by Marcel Vertes. I'd never heard of him, but apparently he's a big deal.

We just had burgers and fries for dinner, and they were delicious. Leo told me what he'd learned about Kennedy staying there.

“He has a seven-room duplex suite on the 34th and 35th floors. Apparently, he sometimes entertains young ladies there when he's in town without his wife.”

“You're not serious!”

Leo shrugged. “That's what they say.”

“Well, I always heard he was popular with the ladies.”

“Did you know he sees Marilyn Monroe every now and then?”

“No!”

“Apparently, there are some underground tunnels beneath the hotel, and Kennedy uses them when he doesn't want to be seen. He also sneaks his girlfriends in and out that way.”

“I don't believe it! Who told you that?”

He winked at me. “I have my sources.”

I asked him where his room was, and he replied it was only on the 11th floor. “It's a nice room, but it's no duplex suite. Want to see it?”

Ha! The guy didn't give up. I gave him one of my sideways looks and wagged a finger at him. “Be nice, Leo. I told you I'm not that kind of girl.”

At that point he poured some more wine. We'd already had a martini each, so I was feeling pretty good. I laughed at his witty remarks, and I admit I was intoxicated by those Paul Newman blue eyes. I asked him if anyone told him he resembled the actor, and he said, “Yeah, all the time. Actually, I think I'm better looking, don't you?”

Well, dear diary, thirty minutes later I was up in his room. It did cross my mind at the time that it was too soon, that I was being a “loose woman,” and that it was a reckless thing to do. But the drinks,
the atmosphere, and the good time I was having with him simply hypnotized me. Leo Kelly knows how to seduce a girl. I finally threw caution to the wind and said to myself, “Oh, why not?”

All I'm going to write here is that of all the times I've been with a man, this was the most intense. And it happened several times—in one night! Today I am very tired and very sore, and not just my ankle. But I feel
great
, if that makes any sense.

We were about to go to breakfast in the café this morning, but I told him I didn't want to be seen in the same place wearing the same clothes as last night. We found a diner down the street and had an oddly quiet meal of eggs and bacon. I think we were both a little dazed. He checked out of the hotel and then the cab dropped me at the gym before taking him on to the airport. Outside on the sidewalk, Leo took hold of my upper arms and said, “Come to L.A.”

“Is that a proposal?” I asked facetiously.

Instead of laughing, he answered, “No. I'm not the marrying type, Judy. I should probably say that up front.”

“Then why come to L.A.?”

“For a change. Don't you want a change? From the way you talk, I think you do.”

At the time I didn't think so, but now I believe he's right.

Before a very passionate last kiss, he repeated that I'd have a job and would make a dynamite hostess. He said I should “think about it,” and know that “he'd be there.” We said good-bye and I watched him return to the taxi and shut the door. As the cab moved on, he looked back at me through the window and waved. I did the same.

I must have been really shell shocked, because I barely remember going inside and seeing Freddie behind the counter, and all the morning regulars in the gym. I don't
think
it really happened, but it seemed as if everyone stopped what they were doing, turned, and looked at me. What's it called, the “walk of shame?” When you're caught sneaking home after spending the night with a man? That's what it felt like. But maybe no one noticed. Except Freddie, of course. He had that fatherlike frown on his face.
That
I remember!

It's bedtime and I'm just now writing all this down. I floated through the rest of the day, working in the gym. At one point, Freddie told me to get off “cloud 9.” I swear he really
is
becoming overly paternal.

There's always an ache in the middle of my chest after something like this happens. I miss the man, the intimacy. It hurts, but it's a good hurt. It's very difficult to explain. Is that how love begins? With pain? So often that's what it
ends
with.

Whatever, all I know is I can't stop thinking about Leo Kelly.

1961

A
PRIL
17, 1961

Worrisome news today. There was a military sea invasion of Cuba this morning, but it's not clear what's happening. The daily newspapers were already printed when we heard about it on the radio. Apparently, it's an anti-Castro force of Cuban exiles that's behind the attack. I guess we'll know more tomorrow.

I think I have my head on correctly today. Yesterday I was in a cloud. This morning Freddie asked me if I was all right, and I just grinned and said, “I'm fine.” He went back to his newspaper and grunted, “Well, I hope you know what you're doing.”

Isn't a man supposed to call a girl the day after he's slept with her? I didn't hear from Leo, but I suppose he's busy after flying back. I can't expect this to be like a real relationship. After all, he's on the West Coast and I'm here. I have no idea when I'll see him again. Maybe it was just a one-time thing. I don't know. I'm not particularly bothered by that notion, although I do miss him. Did I do the right thing by staying the night at his hotel? After a day to get a more realistic perspective on the weekend, I have a feeling Leo Kelly could be trouble, if only because he's such a charmer. But what can I say? He knows how to treat a girl and make her feel good. I still have his business card. I wonder if
I
should call
him
? Probably not. That's
not the accepted thing to do. Then again, when have I ever done the acceptable thing?

My ankle is better and I'm able to walk without the crutches, although I have to limp. I was more active in the gym today, and that's a good thing. Maybe the sprain wasn't so bad. The swelling has gone down completely.

I was going to end my day at work after Clark's boxing lesson because I was invited to Lucy and Peter's for dinner and the Oscar Awards on TV. Clark didn't show up; I don't know why, he didn't call to say he wasn't coming. That's not like him. Oh, well, I spent the time spotting Corky and Jimmy on weights.

The Oscar show was fun. Bob Hope is always a riot. It wasn't a surprise that
The Apartment
won Best Picture. Burt Lancaster won Best Actor for
Elmer Gantry
and Elizabeth Taylor won for
Butterfield 8
. Lucy thinks she got it because she just had a tracheotomy due to pneumonia and almost died, but Lucy's down on Elizabeth Taylor because the actress stole Debbie Reynolds's husband, Eddie Fisher.

Going to bed now, hopefully to dream about Leo.

A
PRIL
18, 1961

The papers say the invasion in Cuba was definitely what we thought. An anti-Castro force made up of Cuban exiles attacked the country, but as of tonight it's not going well for them. A lot of talk today was whether or not the U.S. was involved; otherwise how could a bunch of Cuban exiles get the boats and planes and guns? Freddie thinks the CIA is behind the whole thing. Nevertheless, it sounds as if the Cuban army is smashing the invasion force to pieces.

Normally, I don't pay much attention to the gym regulars' schedules and whether or not they show up, unless I have a one-to-one lesson or training session booked. But Clark was absent again today, so I called the phone number we had on file for him. It rang and rang. I'm getting one of my bad feelings about this. The mother
lioness thing. Somehow I sense something's not right with Clark.

Leo still hasn't called.

A
PRIL
19, 1961

I'm about to go out as the Stiletto. I wanted to wait until dark, so I had a little time to make a diary entry.

Very bad news—Clark is in the hospital. When he didn't show up again today, I started to phone his home again. But a little Negro girl, maybe twelve years old, came in the front door of the gym. She was timid at first, but Freddie asked her nicely if he could help her. She said she wanted to see Judy.

Her name was Violet and she was Clark's sister. She was very cute, but she had sad news. Clark was injured in a fight. Her mother told her to come tell me because I'd want to know.

“Is he going to be all right?” I asked.

She didn't know. Freddie nodded at me so I went with her—actually I hailed a cab—and we went together to Beekman Downtown Hospital. That's where I went to visit Billy last November when he was hurt. Violet led me to the floor where Clark's mother and baby brother were gathered. The Intensive Care Unit.

I introduced myself to Clark's mother, Mrs. Raney. She'd been crying and was still very upset.

“What happened?” I asked.

She told me Clark had been beaten nearly to death on 3rd Street last Sunday night and she believes it was a group of white boys that did it. The police haven't bothered to arrest anyone because there were no witnesses. Clark has been in a coma ever since.

“How bad are his injuries?”

Mrs. Raney said he had broken bones all over his body, but the worst part is that he'd been hit in the head with a
baseball bat
.

She let me peek in the room to see him. He was wrapped like a mummy in white, but glimpses of his dark flesh peeked through
here and there. My heart broke. I started to cry. After a moment, I went back in the hall and Mrs. Raney gave me a hug. She thanked me for being good to Clark.

“He's not going to die,” I told her.

She said the doctors told her it could go either way; but even if he does live, he'll be a “vegetable.” That's the word she used.

So that's why I'm going out as the Stiletto. It was Kraig, it had to have been. Even though it happened on 3rd Street and not 2nd, I know it to be so.

It's almost dark, five more minutes. I just heard on the radio that the Cuba invasion failed. They're calling it the “Bay of Pigs” invasion, because that's the Spanish translation of where the battle was, I think. The fighting is still going on, but by all accounts the exiles have lost.

Okay, I'm out the window. Wish me luck.

T
HE
P
AST

The trip to New York was a whirlwind. I got a lot of business done and I had fun, too. Saw a Broadway show, a Yankees game, and I got laid. What more could a guy ask for?

I met with Jules Krasny, Mookie Samberg's friend who had access to the special paper the government used to make dollar bills. They called them Federal Reserve Notes. Everything about U.S. money was secret. The paper it was printed on, the kind of ink, the special engraving machines—and it was becoming more difficult to copy them. But if anyone could do it, Samberg was the man. Krasny's prices were high, but Samberg warned me they would be. I had to get on the phone and clear it with Casazza, who in turn checked it with DeAngelo, and then I got the green light. We got the paper at a reduced price in exchange for protection in New York through DeAngelo's colleagues in another family. No problem. We'll just have to kick some of the counterfeit dough to New York, too. I didn't care—a little slice of the pie wouldn't hurt us.

As soon as I got home from New York, I checked in with Christina, who was doing some fella she picked up at a nightclub in Hollywood. They were in her bedroom upstairs making all kinds of noise. I didn't want to disturb them, although I was curious to find out who he was. What could I say? I was protective of my little sister, even though she could probably kick my ass from here to Sicily if
she wanted. So I just made some noise in the kitchen and after a moment she came out of the room dressed in a bathrobe and descended the stairs.