Secrets & Lies (13 page)

“Judy? It's Leo Kelly.”

“Leo! How are you?”

“I'm good. How are you?”

I lied and put on my best happy voice. “I'm good, too. Are you calling from California?”

“No, I'm in New York. I told you I'd call you, so here I am.”

“Oh, wow, when did you get in?”

“Just today as a matter of fact. I'm staying at the Carlyle on the East Side.”

I was impressed. That's a pretty fancy hotel. “I heard President Kennedy is buying an apartment there, or he's already got one, or the family has one, or something like that.”

“Really? I didn't know that. Listen, I'd really like to see you.”

“Me, too,” I said, and I did want to see him. I really did. “How long are you in town?”

“All week. I leave on Sunday. What are you doing Thursday night? I have tickets to see Mike Nichols and Elaine May on Broadway.”

“Really? Oh, I'd love to see them.”

“Great. Let's have dinner first.”

I thought about the gym schedule and decided it wouldn't matter. Freddie could cover for me if I left early. “Sure. Where do you want to meet?”

“How about I come pick you up?”

That made me hesitate. I really didn't want Leo to see me at the gym. For the first time in my life, dear diary, I was ashamed of my position in life. Leo was a successful, well-dressed businessman. I didn't want him to think I was just low-class white trash. “How about I meet you at the restaurant? Just tell me the place and time. I can get off early.”

He thought a second and said, “How about Sardi's. Do you know it?”

“Sure, I've eaten there before, it's fun.”

“Six o'clock then? I'll make reservations. That'll give us enough time before the show at eight.”

We jabbered about nothing for the next minute or so, and then he said good-bye. Today's Monday. I don't know how I'm going to wait until Thursday!

The phone call from Leo put me in a better mood, so I decided to write this diary entry after I got dressed and had dinner. I guess I need to get back in the habit. I'm still bothered by what Kraig said
to me. I fear Kraig and his cronies will gang up on Clark in the street. Kraig knows Clark's gym schedule. I could follow Clark home tomorrow as the Stiletto. Should I? Would it be safe?

It's funny, the radio is playing “Runaway” by Del Shannon. When I hear it I think about Odessa. My brother Frankie is still there, I suppose. I wonder if John is still in the army. Should I contact Frankie? Do I dare risk facing those awful West Texas memories again? It may be a selfish reason that I don't stay in touch with my brothers, but it's just too painful to be reminded of that time in my life.

I'll sleep on it.

1961

A
PRIL
11, 1961

I'm mad and I feel like an idiot. I'm in a lot of pain, too. I think I sprained my ankle pretty bad, so I have an ice pack on it, a glass of Freddie's bourbon in one hand, and a pen in the other. Tough luck if I don't get up tomorrow morning in time for work.

Today after Clark finished his workout, I ran upstairs and dressed as the Stiletto. It was still light outside, but it would be dark in an hour. I quickly slipped out the window, ran across the roofs and caught up with Clark as he made his way to 1st Avenue. He lived on Avenue C, which is also called Loisaida Avenue. Pablo, one of our newer gym regulars, told me that the word is really English and Spanish mixed, is pronounced “Low-E-Side-a,” and it means “Lower East Sider.” The neighborhood is primarily Puerto Rican and Dominican, but there are some Negroes and white people, too. I rarely travel that far east.

Clark lived between 2nd and 3rd Streets on the east side of the avenue. Normally, he would walk west along 2nd Street to get to the gym, but due to Kraig and his band of bullies, who live on 2nd between Avenues B and C, he takes a detour and goes a short block out of his way on 3rd Street. It's not a big deal to him, but I believe
it's the principle of the thing. He shouldn't have to do that. And after Kraig's threat, I wanted to make sure he was okay.

Tonight he walked along 2nd Street on the way home. I guess he figured it was too late for Kraig to be guarding his turf. He was wrong.

I didn't want him to know I was following him, so I stayed in building doorways until he was far enough ahead before I continued. After I crossed Avenue B, I climbed the nearest fire escape on the north side of the street using my pulley hook and rope. I then moved along the rooftops until I had a bird's-eye view of the entire block. Clark was now below me to my west, nearly to Avenue C. He looked so small. Clark's not a very big guy. Has he turned eighteen yet? He was sixteen when we first met. I don't remember when his birthday is.

Sure enough, I spotted a group of four boys loitering on a stoop in front of a brownstone at the other end, and south side, of the street. Kraig and his henchmen. I moved farther east along the roofs until I was directly across from their building. Dusk had turned into night, so it was unlikely anyone could see me.

As Clark approached, he saw the trouble ahead and casually crossed from the south side of the street to the north. At that point Kraig and his buddies noticed him and stood. Kraig held a baseball bat. I positioned myself above a fire escape so that I could slither down if I had to. The quartet stepped into the street and shouted at Clark.

“You're on our street, boy!”

“What the hell you doing, boy?”

And so on. Lots of N-word usage.

Clark, bless his heart, did his best to ignore them. He kept walking, eyes straight ahead. He passed directly beneath me. Kraig and his gang moved closer to Clark.

“I'm talking to you, boy!” He slapped the bat against his palm.

Clark just kept going. Kraig obviously wanted him to get mad and say something in return, which would give Kraig an “excuse”
to attack him. Clark said nothing. Then, just as Clark approached the corner of C and 2nd, a police car turned onto 2nd from the avenue. It slowly moved toward Kraig and the other boys, who retreated so the patrol car could pass between them and Clark. By the time the cops were gone, Clark had reached the corner. He was safe.

“We better not see you on this street again!” Kraig shouted.

Clark could have turned and hollered a retort, but he didn't. I moved along the roofs to the building at the end of the street and watched Clark finally enter a brownstone apartment building.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It went better than I expected. If I had interfered, it may have turned out a lot worse. Someone would have gotten hurt. Clark had done a really smart thing by not responding to the white boys' taunts. He handled it maturely and responsibly. They're teenagers, and they need to work out their differences by themselves. They don't need me. I still don't trust Kraig to leave Clark alone, but maybe Clark will continue to use 3rd Street as his route instead of 2nd. I think I'll advise him to do that the next time I see him.

On the way back to the gym, I used a different fire escape to get down to the street at the corner of Avenue B. Unfortunately, there were some bolts loose, and the entire contraption broke away from the building in a few spots. I was on the top level of stairs and I thought my weight would cause the structure to fall. It wobbled like crazy. I made my way down slowly and carefully until I got to the second-floor landing. From there it was maybe a twelve or fifteen foot drop to the sidewalk. I'd jumped and landed on my feet from that height so many times in the past, it was like second nature. But this time, I don't know what happened. Maybe I wasn't concentrating. Perhaps I was too relieved not to have plummeted with the fire escape. Whatever it was, I jumped and I landed badly on my left foot. Even with my sturdy boots on, my ankle twisted and I felt a sharp pain. I yelped and fell, right in front of pedestrians—a couple. I think it scared them, for the woman shrieked. At first I thought I'd broken my ankle because it
hurt like the dickens
! I rolled onto my back, bent my leg at the knee, and held on to my leg as I gritted my teeth.

“It's the Black Stiletto!” the man said.

“Really? She's not an imposter?”

“Are you all right?”

What a dumb question, but I guess he was trying to be helpful. I shook my head and sucked in air.

“Are you the real Black Stiletto?” He had a Spanish accent. He and his companion were most likely Puerto Ricans.

I nodded.

“Did you twist your ankle?”

“Yes,” I managed to say. I wanted to cry, it hurt so bad.

He knelt beside me. The guy was maybe in his thirties. “You need to take off your boot. If your ankle swells too much, you won't get it off.”

I knew that, but I was too mortified by my clumsiness to think. There was no way, though, that I was going to get it off by myself. “Can you help me?” I asked.

The woman said something to him in Spanish. He answered her and they had a momentary conversation I couldn't understand. It seemed she didn't want him to get involved. After all, I was a criminal, right?

“Please, can you help me?” I asked again.

The man positioned himself in front of me and took hold of my left boot. “This will hurt.”

“It can't be worse than what I feel now.”

It was. I actually screamed a little as he tugged and worked that boot off my already-swelling foot. I examined my ankle and, sure enough, it was starting to balloon.

My first thought was: how was I going to get home? I couldn't limp on one foot all the way. I'd never be able to climb the telephone pole to the roof or enter my room through the window. It would have to be the gym's front entrance. It was only around 8:00 in the evening, so there were a
million
people on the streets. I'd be seen. I'd be caught.

A little crowd was already gathering around me. Mostly Puerto Ricans.

“Can you stand up?” the man asked.

I had to try, so I nodded and he helped me. I dared putting some weight on my left foot and
wham
—the pain made me wince and nearly cry out.

Everyone was jabbering in Spanish, but my savior snapped at them, and then repeated himself in English, “No police.”

“Thank you,” I said. Apparently someone's bright idea was to turn me in.

What was I going to do? I did have my trench coat in my backpack, so if there was a place I could unmask and put on the coat without anyone seeing me, I could probably hobble home. But how was I going to explain that to my audience? How did Clark Kent do it? On the other hand, if I tried to get home in my complete outfit, the cops could see me, I could be followed, no one would leave me alone, and no telling what else.

It must have been providence in action, for at that moment a taxicab traveling from east to west on 2nd Street stopped and let out some passengers, right there on the corner where we were standing.

“Please hold that cab,” I said to my benefactor. He stepped to the passenger window and spoke to the driver. He then motioned for me to come. Carrying my boot, I shuffled to the car. My friend opened the door for me and I climbed in the back seat.

“You all right now, miss?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you so much.
Gracias
.”

He smiled. “You're welcome. Be more careful next time.”

“You said it.”

I shut the door and then looked at the driver. He was staring at me with his mouth open.

“Yeah, I'm the Black Stiletto, and I hurt myself. Can you take me to the corner of 2nd Street and 2nd Avenue? I realize that's only three blocks.”

“Sure.”

As we drove, I counted what money I had on me. Exactly twelve
dollars. The fare and tip wouldn't be more than a couple of bucks. I then got my trench coat out of the backpack and struggled to put it on. When he pulled over at our destination, I gave him the entire amount. “I'd like you to close your eyes. Please.”

He saw the money and said, “Okay.”

“Please don't watch me. As soon as I get out of the car, I want you to cross 2nd Avenue and keep going. Don't look back. Deal?”

“Okay.”

Then, as smoothly as possible, I removed my mask and stuffed it into the boot I was carrying. I opened the car door and stepped out on my good foot. To anyone on the street, they would have seen a normal young woman wearing a trench coat emerge from the taxi. I watched the driver, and he kept his word and didn't look at me. The light turned green and he drove across the intersection as I'd asked.

No one paid any attention to me, even though I sort of hopped onto the curb. I was just another pedestrian, albeit one with a bad limp. It wasn't far to the gym's front door, but on one leg it seemed like a mile. I used my keys to unlock the door and went inside. Nobody had followed me. My secret was still safe.

So that's why I'm mad at myself. I went out for a stupid reason. Clark was just fine on his own. It was none of my business. I shouldn't have butted in. Look what it got me for my trouble. A sprained or broken ankle. Tomorrow I'll have to go to the doctor or hospital and get it X-rayed.