Secrets & Lies (19 page)

T
HE
P
RESENT

I walked twenty blocks to Hell's Kitchen to take a look at Betty Dinkins's building. The area was pretty much what I expected, but not as bad. It consisted of old, brown brick structures that looked like they'd been standing since before World War II—and they had. That musical
West Side Story
supposedly took place in Hell's Kitchen. Nevertheless, the ethnic mix was all over the map now. There were blacks and Hispanics, for sure, but maybe more white people than any others. I had to admit that 47th Street actually had a lot of character.
I
wouldn't want to live there, but I'd seen worse neighborhoods in Chicago.

The woman's building was easy to find between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, just like Uncle Thomas said. As it was midday, the neighborhood was quiet. Kids were at school, I guess, and most folks were at work. I stood on the opposite side of the street and watched the place for a few minutes.

Last night I wrote a letter to Betty Dinkins. I used the hotel stationery and went through three different drafts before I was happy with it. It was all bullshit, but I simply wanted to scare her into not pursuing the Black Stiletto thing. I told her I was a journalist from the Midwest, and that my name was Jerry Smith. Not very original, but what the hell. The letter said that “respectfully” I knew she wasn't the real Black Stiletto, and she was making it up. I said I had
proof she wasn't telling the truth. Then I wrote that some very bad men were out there and they would harm her. She should go back to Sandy Lee and the TV studio and admit it was all a hoax and that she was sorry. Otherwise, the consequences could be very dangerous for her.

I sealed the letter in an envelope, wrote her name on it, and I now had it in my jacket pocket. The weather was a bit nippy, so I couldn't stand around waiting for something to happen. I started to cross the street when, lo and behold, who came walking up the block from Ninth Avenue?

Betty Dinkins carried a grocery bag and waddled quickly toward her building. I recognized her immediately. She wore a big coat and appeared as if she'd just rolled out of bed. Her head turned this way and that, perhaps looking out for the paparazzi. Our eyes met, and she quickly averted them. I wondered if the sudden attention she'd had from the media may have ultimately unnerved her. Maybe kooks were coming out of the woodwork to bother her. I didn't know and I didn't care. I just wanted her to stop what she was doing.

She opened the front door and paused at the mailboxes. Using a key, she opened her box—it was empty—and then unlocked the inner security door. Once she was inside, I crossed the street and waited a minute for her to get up the stairs. Then I opened the front door and stepped into the little foyer with the mailboxes. Through a window on the security door, I saw the stairs. Dinkins was gone. I scanned the boxes and found hers, marked “Dinkins 4E.” I took the envelope out of my pocket, folded it so it would slip through a thin slot, and started to stuff it in. It's not the normal way the postmen deliver the mail. They usually have a key that opens the entire cabinet of boxes, exposing all of them for easy access. But it was the only way I could do it. The envelope got stuck halfway in and I had to pull it out and begin again. Just as I was pushing the thick wad through, the front door opened. A man stood there, surprised to see me. His eyes jerked from my face to my hand, obviously catching me in the act of forcing the envelope into Dinkins's mailbox.

Shit
.

I finished the task, heard the envelope drop into her box, and then I turned to go. “Hi,” I said to the man, as if there was nothing unusual about what I was doing. He let me move past him to the sidewalk, and I started walking toward Ninth. I felt him watching me, though. I turned back and, sure enough, he stood in the doorway, giving me the squinty-eye treatment. Was he a tenant in the building? A member of the Neighborhood Watch? Maybe he was a friend of Dinkins. He'd probably tell her that I'd stuck an envelope in her mailbox. He'd describe me to her.

As for him, he was in his thirties or forties, dressed in blue jeans and a brown jacket. He had dark, rather long hair, was unshaven, and wore a not very friendly face.

When I reached the corner, I looked back and he had disappeared. My anxiety dissipated a little. I figured I was being too paranoid. So what if he saw me putting a note in her mailbox? It wasn't a crime. Big deal. I told myself to forget about it.

I had no idea if my letter would accomplish anything. I was flying by the seat of my pants. If Dinkins continued to “be” the Black Stiletto, then there wasn't much else I could do about it. I had to ignore it and move on. Maybe she'd take the note to heart and realize she might indeed get herself in trouble. At any rate, I felt as if I'd done my job, I'd made an attempt to dissuade her from pursuing the lies.

Whatever happened next was out of my hands.

1961

A
PRIL
21, 1961

It's nearly noon and I'm in Chicago at the LaSalle Street Station. I'm waiting to board the
Super Chief
to go to Los Angeles. Last night I slept poorly in my seat, so I'll be glad to upgrade to a sleeper car on the next leg of the journey.

Yesterday afternoon the train stopped in Albany for a short while, long enough for me to get off and use the telephone. I'd kept the number for Beekman Downtown Hospital, so I called to find out how Clark was doing. First they asked if I was a relative, and I replied that I was a family friend. They kept me waiting a long time, and I was afraid I'd have to hang up and get back on the train. Finally, though, a woman got on the phone and told me that Clark had died.

I started crying. I couldn't help it. That poor young man, he was a victim of racism and hatred. It was so senseless. There's just no need for that kind of violence in this day and age. This is 1961, for heaven's sake.

I still had three or four minutes before the train departed, so I called the gym. Freddie answered, thank goodness, and we spoke for a minute. He told me the police did indeed show up at the front door at 8 yesterday morning with a search warrant. They went all
over the gym and in the upstairs rooms. When they asked about my old bedroom, Freddie told them he was considering renting it out, hopefully to a future assistant manager. A detective asked him point blank if he knew anything about the Black Stiletto. He said he didn't. Why was she seen trying to get into the bedroom window? Freddie replied that the only thing he could think of was that perhaps she'd noticed the empty room from outside the building and tried to get in to hide. He thinks the cops believed him. Luckily, they never asked to see the building's storage room and probably didn't realize there was one. They left, asking Freddie to call them if he ever saw the Stiletto or heard anything about her.

“Do you know about Clark?” I asked.

“Yeah. It's terrible.”

“Are the police doing anything? Do they know about Kraig?”

“I don't know.”

“Call them, Freddie. Call the police. Tell them about Kraig. At the very least, maybe they'll talk to him. Somebody had to have seen what happened.”

“I will.”

“Will you do me a favor? Could you buy some flowers and find out where Clark's funeral is going to be? Please put my name on them and get them there.”

“I'll do that. I'll send some, too.”

I heard the announcement for all passengers to board. “Freddie, I have to go. I'll call again soon. I miss you already.”

“I miss you, too. Be careful, Judy.”

The call was over so quickly it was almost like it never happened. Before I knew it, I was back in my seat and the train was rumbling on across the state. Tears ran down my cheeks and I kept my face toward the window. I didn't want anyone asking questions. I was so upset about Clark, about leaving Freddie and New York, about everything. I guess I was really feeling sorry for myself, dear diary. Everything had turned out so rotten.

Another passenger, an older woman sat near me and noticed my red eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked in a foreign accent. I hesitated, but then shook my head. “Man trouble?” she asked. I figured that was as good excuse as any for my behavior, so I nodded. She sighed and said, “That's usually what it is. Here. Have some of this.” She pulled a metal flask out of her purse and handed it to me. “Go on,” she prodded. So I took it and had a swig. It was brandy, I think. It was warm and
brown
. It burned my throat going down, but it felt good. I started to hand the flask back, but the woman said, “You go ahead and keep it a little while. I think you need it more than me.” She introduced herself as Ursula, from New Jersey. I told her my name, but then said I really didn't feel like talking; but I thanked her for the booze. “It's all right,” she said. “I don't feel like talking either!”

After a half hour or so, I felt a little better. I'd had maybe six or seven swallows of the booze, and then I gave Ursula the flask. She took a long drink out of it and then put it back in her purse. We both sat and stared out the window as the countryside flew past. I'm glad she didn't want to talk, but it was nice having her there.

Eventually she fell asleep, so I removed some paper and a pen from my backpack. I wrote two letters. The first one was to Lucy and Peter. I tried to come up with a decent explanation for why I left town so suddenly, but, in the end, I relied on the same lame excuse—man trouble. Only this time I spun it the other direction. I said I'd fallen in love with Leo Kelly and that I was going to Los Angeles to be with him.

The second letter was to Freddie, and I poured out my heart. I told him how sorry I was for any grief I'd caused. The last thing I ever wanted was for him to get in any trouble with the police. I told him I hoped I'd see him again soon, but I didn't know when that would be. Then I said he was the father I never had; the memories of my real dad had faded into oblivion. I called Freddie a saint and wished him well.

We stopped again in Buffalo yesterday evening, just long enough for me to rush out, buy some stamps, and mail the letters. I didn't see Ursula after that. She never said good-bye.

The seat wasn't the greatest for sleeping; I was awake most of the night. It wasn't long after dawn that the train pulled into Chicago. I had several hours to wait for the next train, so I bought my ticket and a copy of the
New York Times.
There was a piece in it about the Black Stiletto and the encounter with the police. Dear diary, I was relieved to learn that the policeman who fell from the building is going to be all right. It turned out he was in the hospital's critical unit for just a little while. He had some broken bones and a concussion, but otherwise nothing too serious. The good thing is that the man exonerated me. He reported that the Stiletto actually tried to help him, and that falling was his own fault. The police commissioner, however, was quoted as saying that the Stiletto was still wanted and that I caused great harm to the patrolman and the force. They were diligently searching for me and had reason to believe the Stiletto resided on the Lower East Side.

It's a good thing I'm not there.

The paper's front page revealed that the Cuban invasion had failed. Castro blames the CIA and Washington for being behind the attack, and it may be true. It doesn't make President Kennedy look too good, I'm sad to say.

While I waited, I found Leo's business card and held it for a while. I knew I should call him and tell him I was coming. For some reason, though, I was hesitant. I was afraid he'd think I was nuts. I was in such a blue mood that I actually believed he wouldn't remember me, or he wouldn't care, or whatever.

Well, my fears were unfounded. After I had a bite to eat, I got up the nerve to phone his office before I boarded the train. I knew it was two hours' difference in time, so it was just after 10:00 there. A woman answered the phone with, “Mr. Kelly's office.” I asked if he was in. “Who may I say is calling?” I told her my name.

After a moment, his voice was there in my ear and it was like wonderful music.

“Judy! What a surprise!”

“Hello, Leo. How are you?”

“I'm fine. How are
you
?”

“I'm okay. I just wanted to let you know I'll be arriving in Los Angeles on the
Super Chief
.”

“What?”

I checked my ticket and told him the time. The day after tomorrow. He said he'd be at the station to pick me up.

“I can't believe you decided to move.”

“I can't believe it, either. Leo, I'm going to need a place to stay, and if that job at the nightclub is still open—?”

“Judy, don't you worry about a thing. I'll make sure everything is taken care of. I can't wait to see you,” he said.

Who would have thought? I answered that I couldn't wait to see him, too, and it was the truth.