Secrets & Lies (23 page)

That made sense. “So what did your mom say when you talked to her?”

“She just said she believed in me and she'd support whatever I wanted to do with my life.”

Hmpf. Carol was becoming much mellower since getting married to Ross. She used to be worse than me when it came to worrying about Gina.

“You want to have breakfast in the morning before I leave? My flight isn't until noon.”

“Sure. What time? I need to be here by ten.”

“Eight? Eight thirty?”

“Let's say eight thirty.”

Josh and his corporate friend emerged from the office. “Break time's over!” Josh called out in coach mode. Gina took another gulp of water and stood.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Why not?”

“Come over to our place. We'll treat you to a nice Jewish meal.”

“Who's doing the cooking?”

“Josh and I share those duties. His mother's meatloaf recipe is to die for.”

“You talked me into it.”

She joined Josh on the mat, and I stayed put. The man in the suit walked toward the chair in the corner, and I held out my hand. “Hi, I'm Martin Talbot.”

The guy stopped and hesitated, but then he shook it, and said, “Frederick Page.”

“And you're here because—?”

He smiled and gave a dismissive shrug. “I like to watch.”

“What are you, a talent scout or something?”

“Something like that.”

End of conversation. He resumed his seat and ignored me for the rest of the time.

For the first time in a long while, I had a nightmare about my mother. A few months ago, I experienced debilitating anxiety attacks and ugly dreams involving the Black Stiletto. I woke up this morning in a sweat, and I had to take one of my emergency-only tranquilizers to settle down.

Last night was pleasant enough. I'd gone over to the apartment on Central Park West where Gina and Josh lived. It was a one bedroom with a sizable living room and kitchen. There was a doorman downstairs and an elevator and a laundry facility in the basement. A very nice place. I arrived at 7:30 on the dot, and was greeted with welcome cocktails. We didn't waste any time with chitchat; they were hungry and so was I. We sat at an elegantly set table covered in candles. It was Friday night, so Gina and Josh celebrated Shabbat, by lighting two center candles, after which Josh said a short prayer in Hebrew. This was followed by sharing sips from a cup of kosher wine and another brief prayer. There was another prayer and then Gina cut a piece of challah. We passed it around, each of us taking a bite.

“So, are you converting?” I asked Gina as Josh served dinner.

“I don't know,” she said with a smile, as if it would be the most awesome thing in the world to do.

“Do you, like, go to a synagogue or something?”

Josh answered that one. “I belong to a reform synagogue but I'm afraid I've lapsed in attendance. Gina accompanied me to a service in February, isn't that right, honey?”

“Yeah. It was very interesting. I think we'd go more often, but we're too busy.”

“You're too busy beating each other up?” I asked facetiously.

They laughed. “Maybe,” Josh answered.

The food was delicious and Gina was right about the meatloaf.
I probably had too much red wine and was a little tipsy by the time it was all over. It was a nice evening, though. I said good-bye to Josh and confirmed with Gina our breakfast date. Then I went back to the Empire Hotel.

My sleep was fitful, I remember that, but I don't recall much about the nightmare. The one thing I do recollect was coming into my mother's room at the nursing home and seeing her dressed as the Black Stiletto in bed. It was a frightening sight: my mom—old, weak, pale, thin—wearing that costume. There were rips and holes in the leather, as well as several bloodstains on the surface. I tried to speak to my mom, but for some reason she couldn't open her mouth. I could see her terrified eyes through the holes in the mask, though, and it scared the hell out of me.

I felt okay after showering and getting dressed. It was 8:15. Gina would arrive in fifteen minutes. I was packed and ready to go. To kill some time, I turned on the television and sat to watch the news.

My heart suddenly started to race when I realized that I'd just tuned in to a very disturbing lead story. An old photograph of the Black Stiletto flashed on the screen, followed by a picture of Betty Dinkins.

The woman had been found murdered in her Manhattan apartment.

1961

J
UNE
28, 1961

Interesting evening tonight! I didn't have to work at Flickers, so I went out as the Stiletto again.

My appearance on Hollywood Boulevard on Saturday caused a bit of a stir. Several photos of me were in the newspapers. One headline posed the question, “Is This the Real Black Stiletto?” The eyewitnesses at Grauman's couldn't make up their minds. Some of them thought I was the real McCoy, while others were convinced I was just a copycat with Tinseltown stunt experience. The liquor store robbery was reported, too, and the owner told police that the Black Stiletto foiled the crime. The police were befuddled as to how a woman in a disguise had managed to disarm and immobilize the two thieves. So there was a lot of speculation about the “masked vigilante.”

Now I wanted to prove I was the real deal.

I went out around 9:00 in my trench coat—I must look a little weird wearing a coat in the middle of summer in L.A.!—with my outfit underneath. This time I walked down Highland to Hollywood Blvd. but kept going south to Sunset. It's a nice walk. I passed Hollywood High School on my right. I heard the list of alumni includes
such celebrities as Lon Chaney Jr., Johnny Crawford, who I currently watch on
The Rifleman
, Judy Garland, Lana Turner, Mickey Rooney, Ricky and David Nelson, Alan Ladd, and a bunch more I can't remember. It was across the street from the school that I found a dark spot where I could make my transformation.

When I hit Sunset Boulevard in full regalia, I nearly stopped traffic. Like the avenues in New York, Sunset is very busy. It's one of the main drags through Hollywood, and besides hotels and shops, there are a lot of nightclubs. Most of the fancy places are farther west on “the Strip,” but I found myself in the midst of a lot of activity. People on the sidewalk did double takes and pointed at me. So as not to attract a crowd, I began sprinting toward the Strip. I even ran by a policeman. He actually smiled and gave me a wave. He, too, must have figured I was just a Hollywood weirdo. Well, by the time I got to La Brea, I needed to stop and rest. I was out of breath. So far I hadn't seen any crimes in progress, and I didn't think I would on such an active street, so I turned around and headed east. Before long, I was back at Highland. I figured the night was a bust, so I started to head home—but then something drew me to make a right turn on Selma. I thought I saw a trio of Negroes who were nervously looking around. Were they up to no good? I decided to follow them.

Nothing happened, though. When they got to Cherokee Avenue, they simply got inside a car that was parked on the curb and drove away. Oh, well, I thought. Maybe in the future I'll get in my car and drive to a completely different section of L.A., park it, and then do a patrol. But at the time, I thought I'd go home, so I turned up Cherokee and walked north. And then I came to a bar called Boardner's. I was in the mood for a drink, so I stepped inside—dressed in my mask and all—and was immediately struck by how much atmosphere the place had. It hits you as you walk in. The interior was pretty dark, lit with old-fashioned lamps and such, and old-fashioned booths covered in leather or similar material. There weren't a lot of people inside. I counted eleven, all men. They all looked up
from their drinks and their jaws dropped. The bartender stared at me, too, but he got hold of himself and I became just another customer. It didn't matter what I was wearing or who I was. Just another freak show in Hollywood.

“What'll you have?” he asked as if he no longer noticed my outfit.

I ordered a gin and tonic and paid for it. Then I sat alone in a booth against the wall, trying to ignore the gawks. The drink was good and the ambiance was pleasant. I thought perhaps Boardner's might become “my bar.”

After a few minutes, a man sauntered up to my table. He appeared to be in his late 30s or maybe early 40s. He had on a rumpled jacket and tie, and he was probably slightly inebriated. But he seemed friendly when he asked, “So, are you the real Black Stiletto?”

I answered, “Yes, I am, but no one wants to believe it.”

“Mind if I sit with you a minute?”

His accent was one I hadn't heard in a while. I gestured to the seat across the table. He slid in and asked if I wanted a second drink. “I'm still working on this one, thanks.”

“You sound like you're from my part of the world.”

“Oh? What part is that?” I asked, but I knew what he was going to say.

“West Texas.”

“You're right.” I was right in recognizing his drawl.

“From what town do you hail?”

I laughed. “It's not much of one. Would you believe Odessa?”

He smiled. “That's where I'm from, too. How about that?”

I couldn't believe it. “You pulling my leg?”

“As much as I'd like to pull on one of your legs, no, I'm telling the truth.” He held out his hand. “Barry Gorman.”

I removed my glove and slapped his palm. “Hi, Barry. I'm the Black Stiletto.”

“I guess you're not going to tell me your real name.”

“I guess not.”

“How do I know you're the real Black Stiletto?”

“You'll just have to trust me. Do you read the papers?”

“Sure do.”

“Did you read about that liquor store robbery the other night?”

“I did. That was you?”

“That was me.”

“Well,” he lifted his glass, “here's to fighting crime.” I raised my drink as well and we clicked them together. “That's my line of work too.”

“Oh?”

“I'm an unofficial private investigator. Former LAPD homicide detective.”

“Former? Aren't you too young to retire?”

He shook his head. “My employment status, um, changed. Not by choice.”

“I see. What happened?”

Barry shrugged. “I don't mind telling you. Everyone else knows. I was doing things I shouldn't have been doing. Working with some crooks down in our old neck of the woods.”

“Odessa?”

He nodded. “The Dixie Mafia. I helped smuggle weapons down to Texas, and I was caught. So the LAPD cut me loose, and I spent eighteen months in San Quentin. When I got out, I wanted to become a P.I., but I couldn't get a license, being an ex-con and all. So I do it on the sly, so to speak. And, frankly, I find it suits me much better than wearing a badge. I guess you could call me a paid, glorified informer.”

“Do you get a lot of work?”

“Actually, I work exclusively for the D.A., believe it or not. Bill McKesson and I are old friends. He took pity on me and hired me to look into organized crime here in L.A. You see, I had—
have
—a lot of connections in the underworld. What with my association with the Dixie Mafia and all, I know a lot of riffraff in town.”

I found all of this very interesting. Since his glass was empty, I offered to buy him another round, but he told me to stay seated; he wanted to treat. So Barry got up and in a minute brought back drinks for both of us.

“You know, I followed all your exploits in New York,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I left. The heat got to be too much. The police there wanted to throw me to the wolves.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know. It's a shame. They couldn't see what an asset you were. They should've given you a medal.”

“Thanks.”

“How long you been here?”

“Not long.”

“You want a job?”

That threw me. “What?”

“You want a job working for me? I could use someone like you. You have—abilities—that I don't. You have unconventional ways of getting in and out of places.”

“What are you talking about?”

“D.A. McKesson—Bill—he gives me carte blanche when it comes to my investigations. I have permission to hire anyone I want to help me. The money's pretty decent, too. I'm paid very well. You could do some good here in Los Angeles, actually working on the side of the law for once. What do you say?”

I wanted to laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Honey, if you're
the
Black Stiletto, then, yeah, I'm dead serious. Are you really her?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you are. No one else would have the ba—er, guts—to come waltzing in here in that getup and ask for a drink. Even the wackos on Hollywood Boulevard don't do that.”

The drinks were making me a little tipsy, so I thought I should get home before I did or said something stupid. Nevertheless, Barry's proposition was intriguing. “What would I do?”