The Black Stiletto (26 page)

This is where all that practice throwing a knife came in handy. I spent hours—
days
—throwing knives at targets. I got to where I could hit them 99 percent of the time. Perhaps I could strike the bulb with the stiletto. However, if I missed, the knife might easily
drop into the water. Even though it was shallow by the pier, I wouldn’t want to have to fish for it. Especially in the lamp’s spotlight.

Aw, heck, I thought. Go for it. I stepped on the pier and stood in the shadow just beyond the beam’s perimeter. It wasn’t the ideal angle from which to throw, but it was the best I could do without being bathed in luminescence. I drew the stiletto, raised my arm, held the blade between my thumb and index finger, and aimed.

Relax. Breathe.

Just like Soichiro taught me.

Concentrate.

As Fiorello instructed me.

Picture the outcome in your mind.

I threw the stiletto.

The bulb shattered, plunging the
Carolina
’s slip into darkness. The knife fell neatly but noisily on the wooden planks. I hoped it didn’t alert Sam to my presence. I waited a few moments, but nothing happened. Moving forward, I retrieved the knife, sheathed it, and climbed aboard the boat as silently as I could. I tiptoed down the small stepladder to the cabin door and listened.

“Poor Little Fool” by Ricky Nelson was playing inside. Apparently Sam could afford one of those new transistor radios I’ve seen advertised. Forty dollars was too rich for my blood, but it’d be fun to have one.

I knocked on the door.
Why do I always knock
? Am I too polite? I don’t know! It just seemed to be the right thing to do. I’d hate to kick the door down and find the guy undressed or something. That would be too embarrassing.

“What? Who’s there?”

It was Sam, all right. He sounded scared. I decided to play with him a little, so I scampered up the ladder and hid around the port side of the cabin. The door opened.

“Someone there?” He stepped up on deck. He was shirtless, wearing boxer shorts and socks. “Dad?” Sam shrugged, turned, and went back inside. The door closed. I moved down the steps again, knocked, and ran around the starboard side of the cabin. The door opened again. “All right, who’s out here?” Sam bounded up the steps and wavered unsteadily on his feet. He was drunk. “Damn it. Is someone here?” He looked around the port side—nobody there. I stifled a giggle and then dashed down the steps and into the cabin. A bed had been pulled down from the bulkhead, so I dropped to the floor and slid under it. By then Sam had made a circle on deck, wondering if he was going nuts or not. Eventually he came back in and shut the door. I could see only his feet.

“Oh boy,” he groaned as he sat on the bed. As soon as he lay down, I rolled out from under and sprung to my feet.

“Get up, you creep.”

Sam screamed like a girl. He jumped and catapulted back against the bulkhead, kicking out with his feet at me as if I was a demon from the netherworld. Perhaps I was.

“The police are looking for you,” I said.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“No? You didn’t beat up your girlfriend behind the East Side Diner?”

“No!”

Once again, my intuition didn’t fail me. Sam Duncan was lying like nobody’s business. If he was really innocent, I’d be able to tell.

“Why did you do it, Sam? Were you trying to make it look like a random assault? Didn’t you think the police would suspect you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Go away! Leave me alone!” He started shouting, “Help! Help!”

“
Shut up
!” I couldn’t help myself—I drew the stiletto—
swish!
—and drew a thin red line across his pectoral muscles. This caused him to scream again, but at least he wasn’t calling for help.

“Be quiet or I’ll cut your throat!” I hissed.

That did the trick. He pulled the sheet up over his body, as if that would protect him. He peeked over the edge with wide, terror-filled eyes.

Good
, I thought. This was how Lucy felt when she was attacked. Scared to death.

“Now, Sam,” I said, “you’re gonna admit what you did to the cops. You hear me? If you don’t, I promise you I will cut out your heart and feed it to you.”

I know that’s a pretty rough thing to say. I can be pretty mean if I want to. But I was mad. I really could’ve killed this guy for what he did to Lucy. It took a heck of a lot of self-control not to hurt him
really
bad.

The stiletto flashed again, this time ripping the sheet. Sam screamed once more. “All right, all right! I did it, I did it! I’m sorry!” Then he started bawling. He climbed off the bed and onto the floor, on his knees, begging me not to hurt him. “Please, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt her! Please!”

“You didn’t
mean
to hurt her? You put her in a
coma
! She could have brain damage! What did you
mean
to do if not hurt her?”

“I’m so sorry! I’ll confess! I’ll go to the cops!”

It’s what I wanted to hear. “Do you have a pen? Some paper?”

“Uh—at the helm.”

“Let’s go get it.” I waved the stiletto and gestured him up. He reluctantly stood and went to the door. “No funny stuff. I’m right behind you.”

He opened the door and I marched him up the steps. As I expected, he tried to make a run for the pier—boxer shorts and all. Or less. I leaped forward and tackled him. Sam landed badly and
hit his forehead on the edge of the hull. He tried to yell for help again, but I slithered over his prone body, covered his mouth with my gloved left hand, and stuck the stiletto’s point against his cheek. There was a cut above his right eyebrow, where he’d hit his head.

“I said no funny stuff. I’m not in a laughing mood.”

He was breathing hard and fast, but the fight was knocked out of him.

“You gonna cooperate now?”

He nodded.

“If I take my hand off are you gonna yell for help?”

He shook his head.

“If you do, I will turn you into a pin cushion. Do you understand?”

He nodded again.

“Get up.” I released him but kept the knife in play. “Now get the pen and paper.”

Sam did as he was told. Meek and subservient, he went to the helm, opened a compartment, and removed a pencil and a small pad of paper. I followed him back into the cabin and shut the door.

“Sit. And write.” I pointed to the bed. Funny—at that moment the radio started playing “Tom Dooley” by the Kingston Trio.

It took him ten minutes to write a full confession. Once again, I tied up my prey. I left him on the bed—gagged with a torn piece of sheet—and I placed the notepad on a table for the authorities to find. Then I left.

I changed back into my civilian clothing in the shadows of the pier. No one had noticed the broken lamp. I made my way back up to the Yacht House. It was probably best to avoid people, so I went around the side and climbed over a fence. That wasn’t easy in a skirt, but I managed to do it. Walked to the Main House, where dinner was still in progress. I brushed myself off and went
inside. No one saw me dart to the ladies’ room, where I checked my appearance and made sure I was presentable. When I came out, I ran into a waiter, or butler, or whatever you call someone who works at the clubhouse.

“Is there a telephone I can use?” I asked sweetly.

“Yes, ma’am, right this way.”

The gentleman led me to a booth where I could use the phone for free. I checked the time and then dialed
O
. When the operator answered, I asked for the police. I told them where Sam Duncan was and that he had confessed to the assault on Lucy Dempsey.

“May I have your name and address, please?” the officer asked.

“Oh, this is the Black Stiletto, and I have no address,” I answered.

Silence on the other end. My cue to hang up.

My taxi was waiting outside the Main House. I was long gone when Sam was arrested and taken away.

That was last night.

This morning I went to Bellevue and learned Lucy had come out of her coma. Her mother and father were there, so I introduced myself to them. They said they’d “heard about me” and appreciated that I was a good friend to their daughter. They were very sweet. Mrs. Dempsey told me the doctor said there didn’t appear to be any brain damage. Lucy was expected to make a full recovery after some rehabilitation. That was music to my ears.

They’d also been informed of the other good news—Sam Duncan had been arrested and charged with attempted murder. Stories appeared in all the papers, and this time the Black Stiletto was credited for bringing the assailant to justice. Even NYPD Commissioner Kennedy was quoted as saying, “We would like the Black Stiletto to leave the crime fighting to us, but for locating
the perpetrator of this horrible crime and bringing him to our attention, we give her our thanks.” If you ask me, I thought they were pretty dumb. Anyone could’ve figured out Sam was hiding on his daddy’s boat if they’d used a brain cell or two.

I went in to see Lucy for a couple of minutes. She was very weak, but she smiled when she saw me. I held her hand and told her the offer for her to move in with me was still good.

“Thanks, Judy,” she whispered.

“You get well. By the time I get back, you should be out of the hospital.”

“Where you goin’?”

“I have to go out of town for a little while. There’s something I need to take care of. But I’ll be back. Don’t worry.”

Yes, dear diary, I’ve made my decision. I’m going to Texas to find Douglas Bates.

30
Roberto
T
HE
P
RESENT

Can’t believe I passed my driver’s test. Had to renew my license since it expired nearly fifty years ago. I got hold of the book they make you study, just in case the traffic laws and signs had changed. Some had and there were some new ones, but it was basically the same. I thought for sure they’d make me take an actual behind-the-wheel test, but they didn’t. Just had to pass a written one. Walked out of the NYSDMV with a new license. Un-fuckin’-believable.

Couldn’t afford to buy a car, though. Besides, I didn’t need one in the city.

After takin’ care of a bunch of crap like that to get my life back in order, I resumed my search for Judy Cooper. I remembered she used to work at a gym in the East Village. I couldn’t recall what cross street it was on, but I knew it was on Second Avenue. I took the Q line subway into Manhattan and got off at 14th Street. Walked east all the way to Second and then headed south. By the time I got to 8th, things started to look familiar even though it had changed. I mean, all the stores and restaurants were different, but for the most part the streets and buildings looked like they did back in the fifties.

At 4th Street there was a diner. That rang a bell. It was called East Side Diner and it was open. It was important, somehow.
Couldn’t quite remember, but the place had something to do with Fiorello and Judy Cooper. I thought maybe it’d come to me in a minute, so I kept walkin’. At 2nd Street there was a gym, some place called Shapes. In my day, there were no gyms for women. This one was for
only
women. Was this the place I was lookin’ for? It felt right. This was the old gym. I knew it.

I went inside and there was this delicious dame at the desk. The gym itself looked brand-spankin’ new. I guess they’d remodeled it or somethin’. There were women wearin’ skimpy leotards and stuff, doin’ all kinds of exercises. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

“May I help you, sir?” the dame asked.

“Sure. Did this used to be a gym for men?”

“Gee, I don’t know. It’s always been Shapes since I worked here.”

“I’m lookin’ for a gym that mighta been in this spot back in the fifties.”

“The
nineteen fifties
?”

“Yeah.”

The dame shook her head. “I was born in nineteen eighty-eight. Can’t help you.”

“Anyone here who might know?”

“I don’t think so.”

Some other dame was sittin’ on a bench puttin’ those wooly stocking things on her legs like I seen some women wearin’. She overheard us and said, “What about Lucy? She might know.”

The first dame laughed and said, “Oh, yeah. Lucy. She’s this old la—um, elderly lady who comes in here sometimes.” The dame lowered her voice and giggled softly. “She thinks she comes in to exercise, but she walks for five minutes on a treadmill, stops, and then spends the rest of the hour gabbing. I think she’s been around since the fifties.”

That name Lucy sparked a memory, but I’m not sure what it was. Was she a friend of Fiorello’s? Maybe a friend of Judy Cooper’s?

“How can I find this Lucy?”

“Gee, I can’t give out members’ addresses. But she hangs out at the diner on Fourth Street a lot. Maybe you’ll find her in there.”

“What’s her last name?”

The dame on the bench answered that one. “Gaskin. Lucy Gaskin is her name.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think I do know her after all.” I coulda stayed and watched those young dames exercise all day, but I had more important things to do. I left and walked back to the diner on 4
^th
Street. I was hungry so I decided to sit down and have a BLT on rye and a Coke. The waitress was in her thirties, I think, not bad lookin’, could maybe lose a few pounds down at that Shapes place. Anyway, I asked her about Lucy Gaskin.