Secrets & Lies (3 page)

“Martin, it's perfectly understandable why it upsets you to read them. Are they still locked up in the safety deposit box?”

“No, they're at my house. I never put them back.”

“Well, you should, so you won't be tempted.”

I put down my fork and wiped my mouth with the napkin. I took another long gulp of wine and stood.

“Where are you going?”

“Hold on.” I went over to where I'd draped my sport jacket over a chair, reached into it, and pulled my Mom's fourth diary out of the inside pocket. I went back to the table and set it in front of Maggie.
“They're all at the house except for this one, which I picked up before coming over. Maggie, I want to read it. I think I'm ready. There are still too many questions, too many—”

“Martin, I don't think it's a good idea.”

“I have to face it, Maggie. Come on, you know I do. You want to as well. Right?”

She narrowed her eyes at me and tilted her head. “Are you sure? Should you talk to your psychiatrist first?”

“And tell him what? He doesn't know about the Stiletto. ‘Hey Doc, better monitor me more closely because I'm going to read the rest of the Black Stiletto's diaries.' He'll have me committed.”

She snickered and shook her head. “I don't think he'd do that.”

“Let's do it, Maggie. We'll read it together. We can read it to each other. It'll be romantic.”

“Romantic is not the word I'd use, but if you really think you can handle it, then all right.”

“Awesome. Shall we start after I wash the dishes?”

“If you wish-es.”

That made me laugh. I felt better, grateful that there was someone with whom I could share the bag of secrets my mother had buried so long ago.

I knew the rest of the story would be a very rough ride.

1961

J
ANUARY
8, 1961

I've been lazy, dear diary. After New Year's I just didn't feel like writing anything in my new diary until I had something to say. Well, I don't really have anything to say
now
, ha ha, but I thought I'd better put
something
down on paper or I'd get out of the habit.

It's been business as usual at the gym. Despite the cold weather, the guys come in regularly for training and workouts. I expected to see Clark the other day, but he didn't show up. Maybe he's on winter break. I would have thought school was back in session by now, though. Freddie has been grumpy lately, not his normal self. I asked him about it last night at dinner, and he admitted that he wasn't very happy. Ever since his heart attack last year—gosh, it was around this time exactly a year ago!—he's had to cut down on his physical activity, and he doesn't like it. He used to get in the ring and box with the boys, do his own workouts and more training and lessons; but all that ended. Now he sits behind the cash register and watches everyone. No wonder he feels bad. It's like being kicked out of your own club.

For the first time, he also confessed to being lonely. At first I said, “What do you mean, Freddie? I'm here. You've got tons of friends.” But he shook his head and said, “I'm talking about a woman, Judy.
I haven't had a
date
in, well, longer than I can remember.” I felt embarrassed after that. Of course, he meant his love life. As long as I've known Freddie, he hasn't seen many women. So I asked him about it.

“I was engaged once,” he said. “It didn't work out.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want.”

“It's okay. It was a long time ago. It was when I was a professional boxer. Her name was Giulietta, spelled the Italian way, with a
G
. She was the daughter of a mobster who had a hand in the boxing business. Back then, the mob ruled boxing. They controlled everything. Still do, a little. You had to play by their rules. Anyway, Giulietta and I were sweet on each other, and her father thought he could use our relationship to maneuver me into some shady deals. I told you that story before, didn't I?”

“You once said they shut you out of your career because you didn't obey them, or something like that.”

“Giulietta's father wanted me to throw a fight, and I wouldn't do it. I was blackballed after that. Her father forbade her to see me, and the engagement ended. Basically, I was threatened with my life if I tried to contact her again.”

“Gee whiz, Freddie. That's awful.”

“So, I guess you could say I'm a little bitter about women.”

“It wasn't her fault, Freddie.”

“In a way it was. She went along with her daddy and ridiculed me for not playing the game. She turned pretty nasty.”

“Well, then, she wasn't the right girl for you. That's plain to see.”

He shrugged again. “Maybe so. Anyway, since then I've dated only sporadically. There was one girl named Virginia who I took out for a while. I don't know what happened; it just kind of fizzled out.”

“Well, we're going to have to get you fixed up,” I said, but Freddie held up his hands.

“Don't you dare, Judy. I mean it. I don't like being ‘fixed up.' I
hate blind dates, and believe me, I've been on plenty. Besides, I'm damaged goods. I've got a bad heart, I can't do anything strenuous. What good would I be to a woman?”

I knew what he was talking about. “Oh, Freddie. There are ways you can—” I felt myself blushing. “Freddie, talk to your doctor! Plenty of people have had heart attacks and still have a love life.”

With that, I got up from the table. I was too flustered to continue the conversation. It was like talking about sex with a father or uncle. Yuck.

In other news, Kennedy and his family will move into the White House soon. President Eisenhower cut off diplomatic relations with Cuba. I wonder if that had anything to do with those Cuban and Russian spies I caught trying to kill Kennedy and Nixon last October? It's so strange there was nothing much in the papers about those characters. Did the government cover up the plot? Why would they do that? Maybe they don't want to give anyone else ideas. I was tempted once to call John Richardson to see if he knew anything about it. But I decided I didn't want to talk to my FBI agent former boyfriend.

And that reminds me—the Black Stiletto hasn't made an appearance in a while. It's cold outside, freezing, in fact. That's never stopped me before, but when that icy wind blows down the avenues, it feels colder than it really is. Everyone here calls it “wind chill.” I never heard that term until I came to New York.

Big deal. The Stiletto can take the chill. I feel too cooped up. The sun is down. It's time to hit the streets.

L
ATER

It's nearly 3:30 in the morning and I'm miserable. I was frozen to the bone, so I took a hot bath and now I'm drinking hot tea. With my luck, I'll probably get sick.

I'm lucky I'm not dead.

Dressed in my outfit, I slipped out my bedroom window, climbed
to the roof, and ran across the tops of the buildings on 2nd Street, as I always do. The wind
was
strong and cold. I had the fleeting thought that maybe I should turn around and go back to the warmth of my room, but my stubbornness won that battle.

Down the telephone pole and on the street, I noticed the lack of humanity, and it was only 9:00 or so. Smart people. They weren't stupid enough to be out in the arctic wasteland like the Black Stiletto was. Nevertheless, I went on patrol and ran around the streets more for the exercise and to keep warm rather than to find crimes in progress. I didn't see anything but a few hapless souls all bundled up and hurrying for home. After nearly an hour, I'd had enough. Even though my heavy leather winter outfit blocked the worst effects of the cold wind, I still felt like an icicle. I was near Washington Square Park, so I turned east along 4th Street to head home. As I neared Broadway, I saw three guys outside a furrier's shop. One of them stooped and started working on the steel pull-down grate that covered the entrance. The other two appeared nervous, looking up and down the street. A white van idled directly in front of the storefront. I ducked into an alcove and watched them. I was sure they hadn't seen me; I tend to blend in with the night. Steamy breath issued from their mouths. I heard one of the standing men say, “Hurry!” and the crouching guy reply, “I got it.” The three of them raised the grate and then loudly smashed the plate glass window on the ground floor. No alarm went off.

The three men stepped through the broken window. A fourth man sat in the van while his buddies did the dirty work. I emerged from my hiding place, sprinted toward the back of the vehicle, ducked, and slithered along the driver's side. When I was directly below his window, I reached up and opened the door. Boy, was
he
surprised! I grabbed him before he could honk the horn or issue a warning to his friends, and I pulled him out to the street. I then used one of my invented
wushu
maneuvers that was a combination of what I learned in Chinatown and the
karate
I learned from Soichiro. I suppose it was a modified
Mawashi-geri
—roundhouse kick—followed
by circular punches. The fellow went down for the count. I left him there and moved around the van to face the building. The burglars had flashlights; the beams jerked here and there in the darkness inside. Otherwise, I couldn't see anything but dark shapes.

Maybe it was because I was cold. Perhaps I was out of practice and just wasn't thinking. It could be because I'm headstrong and impulsive. Whatever the reason, I barged in there without a plan of action. Dumb idea.

My vision is better than most people's, so I got used to the darkness pretty quickly. Only then did I comprehend how crowded it was in the shop. Racks of fur coats were on either side of me, blocking easy access to the sides of the place. “Hey!” one of them shouted. Flashlight beams swung in my direction and temporarily blinded me. My brain should have registered that there weren't only two. The duo was directly in front of me, but I didn't realize the third guy was off to the side, out of sight. I rushed toward the brightness as one burglar shouted, “The Black Stiletto!” Feeling cocky, I blurted, “No applause, please!” as I slammed into him and knocked him over. Not very elegant, but it worked. He dropped the flashlight and it skittered across the floor. I turned my attention to the other beam of light and struck the dark oval shape above it with my fist. The man yelped in pain as my knuckles crushed the cartilage in his nose. He, too, dropped his torch and curled up, holding his face. A swift kick to his chin sent him to Dreamsville. By then, the first guy had gotten to his feet, but he ran past me toward the broken window. I turned to chase him, but—
bam
! A gun fired from behind the rack of coats to my right. That third guy I'd forgotten about was back there. I swear I felt that hot bullet zip a mere inch or two from my face. My survival instinct kick-started like a motorcycle, and rather than attempt any kind of offensive maneuver, I had to save my life first. I fell to the floor and stretched as low as I could, figuring he'd either come out to see if he'd killed me or he'd run for the van.

He did the latter—and before I could get up and follow him, the burglar turned and fired another shot into the shop, cutting a parallel
line only a few feet above the floor where I'd flattened myself. Then he jumped into the passenger seat of the van. The other one that had run out of the store got in the driver's seat, and off they went, the tires screeching loud enough to wake the neighborhood. They'd left me with two unconscious gang mates, one inside the fur store and the other guy on the street.

Sirens pierced the frigid night.

I absolutely did not want to be caught, since the NYPD has standing orders to arrest me. They'd probably shoot me on sight instead. There
are
some good guys wearing the blue uniform; I know, because I've encountered some of them. But a majority of the police force believes I'm a criminal. They call me a
vigilante
in the press, and I guess in the minds of the cops that's a sin. But if what I'm doing works to some degree, why can't they accept it? I'm on
their
side, for Pete's sake.

Even so, the sirens' shrieks grew louder. There was nothing to do but get the heck out of there. I got to my feet and prepared to leap out of the broken storefront window, when I saw that a patrol car—lights flashing—shot past me in pursuit of the van. A few lights popped on in the windows of the buildings across the street, but there were no other cars. All clear.

I stepped outside and stood over the man I'd pulled from the driver's seat. He was groaning, starting to come to. As the cops' siren receded from me, I became aware of a different one growing louder. Backup was about to turn the corner at the west end of the street. I started to run—and the guy on the ground grabbed my leg! He was
strong
, too!