The Black Stiletto
The Black Stiletto
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The Black Stiletto
The First Diary—1958
A Novel
Raymond Benson
Copyright © 2011 by Raymond Benson
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-60809-020-4
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,
Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For Randi
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank the following individuals for their help: Michael Adkins, Tasha Alexander, Brian Babendererde, Michael A. Black, Michael Colby, Brad Hansen, Jeff Knox, Alisa Kober, Ganita Koonopakarn, Toby Markham, Christine McKay, James McMahon, Henry Perez, Heather La Bella, Justine Ruff, Pat and Bob, Frank, Susan, and everyone at Oceanview Publishing, and Peter Miller and the good folks at PMA Literary & Film Management, Inc.
Follow the Black Stiletto at
www.theblackstiletto.net
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While every attempt has been made to ensure the accuracy of 1950s New York City and West Texas, the Second Avenue Gym, Shapes, and the East Side Diner are fictitious. Some liberties have been taken with architectural aspects of the Algonquin Hotel, the Plaza Hotel, and the New York Athletic Club Yacht Club, but for the most part the descriptions herein are extremely close to their actual layouts during the era depicted.
The Black Stiletto
1
Martin
T
HE
P
RESENT
My mother was the masked vigilante known as the Black Stiletto.
I just found this out today, and I’ve been her son for forty-eight years. All my life I knew she had some secrets, but needless to say, this is a bit of a shock.
At first I thought it was joke. I mean, come on. My
mother
? A costumed crusader? Yeah, tell me another one. And the
Black Stiletto
, of all people? No one in a million years would believe it. I’m not sure I do, and here I am being presented with hard evidence.
The Black Stiletto. One of the most famous persons on the planet.
And she’s slowly dying. In a nursing home.
Oh. My. God
.
I really don’t know how I’m supposed to react to this.
It was sure something I didn’t expect when I was called to Uncle Thomas’s office this fine May afternoon. He’s not really my uncle; just a friend of the family. I suspect he was my mom’s lover at some point when I was a kid, but they remained friendly and then later he acted as her estate attorney. You see, my mom—Judy Talbot—is seventy-two years old and she’s got Alzheimer’s. It’s a terrible disease and it hit her hard and fast. It didn’t creep up on her like it does with most victims. It was almost as if she was okay one day, and then a couple of years later she couldn’t remember
my name. Within five years of the onset of her illness, I had to put her into Woodlands North. An unpleasant but necessary thing to do; and I couldn’t have done it without Uncle Thomas. The ironic thing is that she’s somewhat okay physically. She was always in pretty good shape, even with all the drinking and depression. Then one day her mind shut down and she was no longer able to take care of herself. What bodily ailments she has now are simply due to atrophy from being held prisoner in a nursing home for the last two years. Yes, she’s dying, and it’s going to be slow and terrible. Her doctors don’t know how long it will take. It could be years, it could be a few months. One never knows with Alzheimer’s.
Uncle Thomas’s office is in Arlington Heights, Illinois. That’s a northwestern suburb of Chicago. I grew up there. I lived with my mom in a house near the downtown area, where we would catch a commuter train if we wanted to go into the big city.
Downtown Arlington Heights used to be a funky, quaint little place, certainly not much to talk about when I was a kid growing up in the sixties and seventies. Today they’ve built it up and made it more of a nightlife destination with movie theaters, trendy restaurants, nightclubs, and shops. But I don’t live there anymore.
I live a little farther north in a suburb called Buffalo Grove. I’m a single dad. My daughter lives with her mother—my ex-wife—in Lincolnshire. All these places are close together. So it’s not much of a schlep to see Uncle Thomas, or to visit my mom at Woodlands, which is in Riverwoods. And I do it. Visit my mom, that is. At least once a week. Aside from my daughter who sometimes visits her, I’m all she has—even though most of the time now she doesn’t know who I am.
Janie, Uncle Thomas’s secretary, welcomed me warmly when I walked into the office. We exchanged brief pleasantries and then she said I could go on in. I found him at his desk studying a pile of legal documents. Uncle Thomas is around my mother’s age and
still works eight hours a day, seven days a week. He looked up at me, smiled, and stood. We greeted each other, shook hands, and then he told me to have a seat. He walked around the desk and shut the door so we could have some privacy.
“So what’s up?” I asked him. He had been fairly mysterious on the phone.
“Martin, I have some things I’m supposed to give you.” He gestured to his desk and indicated a small metal strongbox, the kind used to hold files or valuables. Next to it was a nine by twelve envelope with my name and address typed on it.
“What is it?”
“It’s from your mother.” When I furrowed my brow, he continued. “She set this up a long time ago. Fifteen years ago, to be precise. In the event that she died or became incapacitated, I was supposed to see that you got these things. This letter and this strongbox.”
“Where have they been all this time?” I asked.
“I’ve had them in safekeeping. In trust, so to speak.”
“Do you know what’s in them?”
“No, Martin, I don’t. Your mother was very clear about the contents being private and confidential. I’ve debated with myself for a while when I should release them to you. I suppose it’s time I stop the denial and admit your mother is indeed incapacitated. She will never recover from that horrible disease unless some kind of miracle cure is discovered, and the chances of that happening in her lifetime are unlikely. So, here you are. Sorry I’ve waited so long.”
I wasn’t upset with him. I understood his dilemma, but I was more concerned and curious about the stuff on the desk. What could she have possibly deemed so secretive?
“Well, let’s see it.” I held out my hand and he gave me the envelope first. It felt as if it contained a letter, certainly, and something metal and slightly heavy—a key to the strongbox perhaps?
I opened the envelope and sure enough, a small key dropped into my lap. I picked it up and put it aside for the time being. I took out the letter and read it.
