The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (17 page)

“Well, you should do that then. I believe everyone needs to do what they want, not what other people tell them to do.”

“Y-you do?”

“Of course! Tell your father that you're not him. You're
you
.”

Barry looked at me as if he'd never thought of that logic before.

I decided to change the subject. “Hey, are you registered to vote? Who do you think might be president this year? I follow Senator Kennedy. I think he'd make a great president. What do you think?”

Poor Barry thought I was nuts. We were a hundred feet off the ground and I wanted to talk about politics.

“I don't know,” he finally said.

“Can you believe it's 1960? A whole new decade is waiting for us. What's going to happen? You think we'll send a man to the moon?”

“I don't know.”

“I bet scientists come up with all kinds of new things. Maybe
they'll find a cure for cancer or heart attacks or strokes. You think that will happen, Barry?”

He didn't answer.

“Don't you want to be here when it does? Won't it be great to be able to tell your grandchildren that a man walked on the moon and you watched it on television? I bet it'll be on TV when it happens. Everything's on TV these days. Do you have a favorite show? I think mine's
The Twilight Zone
. Hey, it's kinda like the Twilight Zone up here!” I laughed, and then
Barry did too.

I continued to talk to him about dumb stuff, and eventually he relaxed. His terror subsided and he stopped shaking. I don't know how long I stood on that tiny ledge, dear diary, but I did it and couldn't have done it without the
Tai Chi
exercises. I don't know
how
Barry was able to stand there. His adrenaline must have been pumping the entire time. I was prepared to grab him if he started to fall; the only problem would then be who was going to grab
me
?

Finally, out of the blue, Barry said, “I don't think I can get back to the window. I'm too scared. I'm gonna fall.”

I noticed he used a different word. Falling was different from jumping. I took that as a positive sign and said, “Barry, if it'll make you feel better, I'm going to toss my rope up there to the roof. Then we can hold on to it as we make our way back. Okay?”

He got that frightened look in his face again and started to panic. I believe earlier Barry had been so full of despair that his mind couldn't comprehend the danger he was putting himself in by going out on the ledge. Now it was as if he finally realized where he was. “Whatever. Christ, help me. Help me!”

“Calm down, Barry. It's going to be okay. Take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?” While I kept that up, I unfastened my coiled rope and fitted the pulley hook on the end. “I'm going to throw it now, Barry. Here goes.”

I didn't want to break eye contact with Barry, but I had to. As I faced the opposite direction,
sideways
, if you know what I mean, I
aimed for a section of the roof directly above the fire escape and made an easy underhanded pitch. The hook hit and clutched the edge. Perfect. I turned back to Barry and gave him my end of the rope. “Here. Hold on to it. Feed the rope through your hands as we go.”

“I can't!”

“Look at me, Barry. See my eyes inside my mask?” He nodded. “Just keep watching them, okay? Look me in the eyes.” He did. Then I started moving along the rope toward the fire escape, leading with my
back
so I wouldn't break eye contact. I fed the rope, hand over hand as I went. “Look, Barry, see how I move along the rope? Take it one step at a time. I'm right here.”

It took us nearly ten minutes to move six feet, but I finally reached the point from where I climbed off the railing. “Barry, wow, I'm right above the fire escape! We've almost made it!”

At that moment, his right foot slipped. He started to toddle. His balance was not working in his favor. He was going to fall and we both knew it.

But he held on to the rope. Screaming, he wiggled and kicked as full panic set in.

“Barry! Stop! Don't move! Just hold on!”

And then he did fall. The crowd collectively gasped. But he gripped the rope and dangled below me. It was a good thing he was a kid and was relatively light. Still, it was a tremendous strain on my right arm as I held on to the line.

“Don't let go!” I shouted. “I'm going to pull you up.”

Instead, the fireman from the window climbed out, rushed to the edge of the fire escape, and grabbed the rope, too. If he wanted, he could reach out and touch Barry's shoes.

“Look, Barry, that nice fireman is going to grab your ankles. All right?”

The officer didn't wait for an answer. He wrapped his arms around Barry's calves and pulled him in so the boy could stand on the railing. He was safe. The fireman helped him down and the kid
promptly sat and put his face in his hands. Three other officers appeared on the platform and they all gave their attention to Barry. It was as if they'd forgotten I was still on the ledge.

Then the lieutenant with the megaphone broadcasted the order loud and clear, “Black Stiletto, come down immediately. You are under arrest. If you do not comply, we shall use force.”

At that, the crowd booed! It was incredible. I heard shouts of “She saved the kid!” “What's wrong with you?” “Let her go!” “She's a hero!”

At that point, I figured it wouldn't be prudent to come down, at least not in front, where dozens of police and newspaper reporters were waiting to make my life miserable. So instead of climbing down to the fire escape, I went
up
until I reached my pulley hook, the end of the rope, and the roof.

The megaphone blasted again, but I paid the lieutenant no mind. I shimmied up, stood, coiled my rope, and put it away. I waved to the crowd—and they cheered. Before the cops could send men around to the back of the building, I darted across, leapt to the roof of the adjacent building, and so on, until I found a fire escape I could use. The police were looking for me everywhere. My advantage was that the scene had attracted quite an audience. 4th Street was packed. I descended at 6th Avenue. Bright lights, traffic, and people—those three things served as my cover. I ran, dodged pedestrians, zigzagged across streets heading south and then east. No one pursued me. I made it home safely.

This morning the Black Stiletto was on the front pages again. The
Daily News
had a great picture of Barry and me on the ledge, surrounded by the spotlight. The headline was “Black Stiletto Saves Jumper.” The article said Barry was indeed despondent over his performance at NYU, but his father is quoted as saying that he loves his son and would never be ashamed of him. I hope that's true.

I think I did a good deed, don't you?

Time to go to the gym.

J
UNE 30, 1960

I had dinner with Michael tonight. He called the gym a couple of times and left messages for me, so I called him back and he asked me out.

Dear diary, I am smitten. I think.

He's the most
exotic
man I've ever known, even more than Fiorello. In fact, maybe he reminds me a little of Fiorello and that's why I'm attracted to him. Like Fiorello, Michael has an “Old-World” sensibility, speaks other languages, speaks English in a sexy foreign accent, and is handsome in a completely different way from American men. I don't know how to describe it. It's a “darker” handsomeness, the rare kind that reminds me of classical paintings and sculptures of Greek gods or even of Jesus.

While he's nice, there is definitely a wall around him, though. My crazy intuition's jury is still out. I don't feel the kinds of alarms I do when I meet a truly dangerous or evil person, but I do sense that there's something in Michael's past or background that was—or is— very unpleasant. He doesn't smile much. I try to tell jokes, but he doesn't get them. He takes things very seriously, and frankly, I'm not sure I can handle that. I like a few laughs now and then.
But
— he is most certainly attractive and he
is
nice and seems intelligent.

It's probably not going to develop into anything, but I might as well see where it goes for now. What else do I have to show for romance lately?

He took me to a Russian restaurant I'd never been to, and it's only a few blocks up 2nd Ave from the gym. I'd never gone in there because, well, it looked so
foreign
. I had a dish called beef stroganoff that was good—it had flat, wide noodles in a brown gravy with chunks of meat. I couldn't tell you what Michael had, but it wasn't very appealing to me. I started off with a beet soup called borsht, and I have to say I didn't like that too much. Michael spoke to the waiter in Russian. German is his native language, that's mostly what they speak in Austria, where he's from. So he speaks three languages that I know of. I don't think I could do that! He told me that a lot of people in America think he's either a Nazi or a Commie. I said that wasn't fair. I got the feeling he wasn't too happy with his decision of immigrating.

Our conversation at dinner was stop and start. There were quite a few periods of silence. That's another thing about Michael. He's not a big talker. I had to draw him out by asking him questions. At one point he asked, “When do I get to ask
you
questions about your life story?” He said it with one of the few smiles I saw all night, but I sensed he was a little annoyed. So I let the silences run their course. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't
uncomfortable
, just a little awkward.

Those eyes of his sure are intense. Despite the reservations I might have about Michael, that's what gets to me. His eyes have the ability to melt me. But in order for that to happen, things just have to warm up a little more, ha ha. (I can't believe I just wrote that!)

When we were done it was nearly 11:00. I drank a martini with vodka in it that was pretty strong, plus wine with the dinner, so I was a little loopy. He knew it, too, and probably could have taken advantage of me if he'd wanted, but he was a gentleman and just walked me home. We did have a dynamite kiss in front of the gym door!

He said he'd call me again soon.

I must have had a stupid grin on my face when I walked in, because Freddie said it looked like I'd enjoyed my date. He wanted to meet Michael, but I said to Freddie, “You're not my father.” I think that hurt his feelings. Freddie got up and went into his room. I knocked on his door and said I was sorry, I didn't mean it the way it came out, and that I'd been drinking. He said, “Never mind, I'm going to bed.” So I did, too.

J
ULY 5, 1960

Holy cow, Lyndon Johnson announced his bid for the presidency today. That throws a monkey wrench into the convention, which starts next week. It also came out that Kennedy might have something called Addison's disease. I don't quite understand what it does to you, but some of the politicians are questioning whether or not Kennedy is healthy enough to be president. I'm nervous! Johnson's okay, I guess. I like him better than Symington. At any rate, things are extremely busy at the headquarters. It seems like we hear news about the convention every few minutes, and it's becoming really complicated. I gave Jimmy a few of my days at the gym so I can spend more time volunteering.

Mitch and Alice and I went to a bar nearby on Park Avenue South last night where they were celebrating 4th of July. I can't help but feel like a third wheel when I'm out with them, so I invited Michael to meet us there. We had plans to watch the fireworks from the roof of the gym later. Mitch and Alice seemed surprised when he joined us a little late. They vaguely remembered him from the beatnik party, but they didn't say much to each other. Most of the time it was just me, Mitch, and Alice talking. Michael hardly said a word. I swear I detected some kind of tension between them. At first I thought Mitch and Alice might not like him because he's Austrian, but he's not a Communist or anything like that. After a couple of
drinks, we said goodbye to Mitch and Alice and took the 3rd Avenue bus downtown. That's when I asked Michael if there was anything going on with them, and he told me “no.” My antennae tingled and I knew he wasn't telling the truth.

“Are you sure?” I asked him. “You seemed tense around them.”

After a pause, Michael nodded and said, “When we were at that party, I overheard the man talking.”

“Mitch?”

“He was saying insulting things about Eastern Europeans, that they're all Communists. Not everyone in that part of the world is a Communist. And there are many people living as Communists because they
have
to, not because they want to.” He shrugged. “I didn't appreciate the things he said, that's all. I really don't know him.”

I told Michael I was sorry for bringing them together again, but he took my
hand
and said, “Don't worry. It's all right. I am also very shy around people I don't know. You notice I don't say much?”

“Yes.”

“I am shy. My English is not great.”

“It's very good, Michael! Gosh, it's better than my German!”

I suppose the trepidation I felt was empathy for Michael simply being uncomfortable. That would make sense. The only problem with that scenario was that I felt most of the tension at the table coming from Mitch.

Once we got to the gym, I introduced him to Freddie, and we all sat in chairs on the roof.

The fireworks were amazing, as always. This time they meant so much more to me now that I'm involved in the election. I felt more patriotic or something. I got chills, yet it was a hot night. Michael held my hand the whole time. When the fireworks were over, I walked him outside to the front of the gym and we kissed again.

More fireworks!

J
ULY 10, 1960