The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (19 page)

I'm tired. It's not easy working the job at the gym and then going to HQ afterward, and I really don't want to think about Michael or Fiorello or even John F. Kennedy now. Good night and sweet dreams.

J
ULY 12, 1960

This evening I was caught doing Black Stiletto moves in the gym.

It was after hours (we close at 9:00) and I was in the middle of doing my workout, dressed in a leotard. The hanging bag serves as my opponent and I practice my
wushu
kicks and hand attacks on it, like I usually do. If I say so myself, I'm getting pretty good at my custom-designed Praying Mantis moves. I'm sure a Chinese
sifu
would disapprove of what I'm doing; it certainly isn't correct, but it's graceful and effective. I think. Of course, the hanging bag can't hit me back!

I remember clobbering the bag and thinking about how I miss Soichiro and his training, when I heard a noise behind me. I thought I was all alone in the place, so I whirled around to find none other than Clark! I haven't written about him in a while. The Negro teenager turned 17 recently and his body is becoming manly. With all the training Clark's doing, his muscles are getting bigger and he's improved with his boxing. Although he's a good school student and reads a lot, he says he wants to be a boxer. I've told him many times that it's good for him to do it for exercise and sport, but not for a profession. He's too
smart
to be a boxer.

At any rate, I was surprised to see him there. “What are you doing here, Clark? We're closed,” I said, a little out of breath.

“I fell asleep in the locker room,” he said. “I didn't mean to. I was so tired. I was up all night last night studying for an exam.”

“Where did you fall asleep?”

“On the bench in front of my locker! I took a shower, dried off, and just felt like lying down for a minute. Before I knew it, it was late!” His face indicated he was more surprised by
me
than by what he'd done. “What was that you were doing? I've never seen that before!”

He was right. No one at the gym had witnessed my
wushu
practice. They all knew I boxed and did
karate
, but I've kept my Praying Mantis endeavors a secret.

“Oh, it's just some martial arts stuff I've been practicing,” I told him.

“That wasn't
karate
, was it?”

“Uh, no, it's something I made up.” That wasn't a total lie, at least.

“Wow, it looked
incredible
. Can you teach me that?”

“Clark, I don't really know it myself. I guess you could say I'm developing my own technique, but it's not perfected. I couldn't teach it to someone else.”

“It looked perfected to me. It was really hard to follow your hands, they were moving so fast. You could really whup someone doing that!”

“You think so?”

“I know so!”

“Well, I hope I never have to. Come on, I'll unlock the door so you can get home. I don't know why you came to the gym if you didn't sleep last night. What was the test on?”

He told me it was geometry. I never had geometry before I turned my back on my education. Sometimes I wish I'd graduated from high school, but so far I'm doing all right without a diploma. I get by. Sure, it would be nice to have a million bucks and live on Fifth Avenue across from the Metropolitan Art Museum, but I don't. But I have a job I enjoy and I like my life as it is.

I think, ha ha.

After I let him out and locked the door behind him, I went back to the bag and continued my routine. It did feel good to get some positive feedback. I beat the living daylights out of that bag!

J
ULY 13, 1960

Two big things today, dear diary.
Big
things.

First, Kennedy got the nomination today! Hooray! He still doesn't have a running mate. The word at HQ was that he asked Symington to be the VP. Mitch predicted Symington wouldn't take it. I guess we'll find out tomorrow.

I'm taking off from work for the rest of the week. Jimmy doesn't mind. He likes having the hours. I'm happy to report that things are better between us. Does he still carry a torch for me? Probably. He gets a little moon-eyed when I'm around, but his behavior is appropriate. I helped spot him during his bench presses the other day, and he seemed all right with that.

The second big thing is what I really want to write about, and it's something that happened today at lunchtime. I'd left headquarters to get some coffee and something to eat, and I saw Michael on the street. He didn't notice me. I'd gone over to Madison Avenue, and there he was. He was leaning into the window of a black sedan at the curb, talking to the driver. I couldn't see the driver's face because I was behind the car, but I had a better view of a passenger in the front seat. I didn't recognize the man, but he reminded me of Michael. Another Eastern European? An Austrian? The driver appeared to be chewing out Michael for something. He kept jabbing his index finger at Michael, and I faintly heard angry words in another language. German? Russian? My acute hearing picked it up, but I didn't have a clue what it was. In hindsight, it did sound more like Russian.

I didn't want Michael to see me, so I stepped into a doorway of a building and watched from a better angle. The car was a 4-door
Packard Patrician. I had the presence of mind to memorize the license plate number—358 22X. I don't know what I'll do with that information, but at least I have it. Michael still blocked my view of the driver, but I could see the other man more clearly from my new position. He had wavy dark hair and thick eyebrows, like Michael, but he also had a mustache.

After a moment, the Packard's tires abruptly screeched on the pavement and the car sped away. Michael stood there watching it go, his back to me. I thought,
what the heck
, so I emerged from my hiding place and approached him.

“Michael!”

Startled, he swiftly turned around. I could tell by his expression that not only was he surprised to see me, he was also displeased.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I said. “What are you doing? Want to join me for some lunch?”

He spoke nervously. “I was, uh, on my way to the pay phone to call you, Judy, but I didn't know if you were at the gym or at the Democrat headquarters.” He pointed west. “It's just over there on Park, right?”

Liar
. “Who was in the car?”

“What?”

“That black car just now. Who were you talking to?”

“Oh, just friends of mine.”

I'd swear he was not pleased that I'd seen him leaning in that car window, but chose not to say anything about it.

“Yep. I took some days off since the convention is on.” I pointed to a diner. “I'm going to get some lunch. Care to join me?”

He nodded and followed me inside. We sat in a booth and I tried to make small talk before the waitress took my order. He didn't say a word except to ask for a glass of water. He was tense and angry, but was doing his best not to show it.

“Anything wrong?” I asked.

“No.”

“You seem upset about something.”

“Oh, I, uh, forgot my wallet. I left it at the apartment. Now I have to go back.”

“Where's your apartment?”

He immediately changed the subject. “Your Kennedy got the nomination.”

“Yeah, isn't that great?”

“I think of you when I see something in the news about him.”

Michael glanced at the door and lit a cigarette. There was no question about it. He was on edge and distracted. I tried a different tactic. “I enjoyed Saturday night,” I said in my best coquettish voice, which, I have to admit, sounds goofy.

“I did, too,” he replied.

That's all
? I know some men tend to shy away from girls after they've gotten them into bed. It happened to me with that stupid Mack, the first guy I ever slept with. He didn't want anything to do with me after he succeeded in getting in my pants. Was the same thing happening here?

“Michael,” I said, “I like you, but I want you to know I don't care for secrets. If you have something you need to tell me, please do.”

“There are no secrets,” he answered.

Liar
.

“No? I'm a big girl, you can tell me.”

“Don't you have secrets, too?” he asked, staring at me with those intense brown eyes. What the heck did he mean by that? For a moment I was speechless. Then, awkwardly, my food arrived and he stood. Right there in front of the waitress, he said, “Sorry, Judy, I can't see you anymore. Goodbye.”

He didn't stay to see my reaction. Without another word, he left the diner! Can you believe it?

The waitress, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, looked at me and said, “Honey, they ain't worth the trouble.”

I was a little in shock. Humiliated and angry, too. “Well, how
do you like
that
,” I said. The waitress put my sandwich and fries on the table in front of me. “I'm tellin' ya, he ain't worth it. Coffee's on the house if you want it, honey.”

That was nice of her. But can you believe that, dear diary? What kind of a brush-off was
that
? That was downright
mean
.

And besides being a total square, he's definitely hiding something.

J
ULY 14, 1960

There must have been some wheeling and dealing in Los Angeles today, because Johnson accepted the vice presidential nomination after it was originally thought he would refuse it. Tomorrow Kennedy will assuredly accept his nomination and we'll be backing a Kennedy/Johnson ticket come this November! Hooray! I've decided I'll probably continue in my volunteer capacity and work for the Kennedy campaign. It's not clear at this point if we'll move to a different office.

I've collapsed in my room after a long and busy day and decided to write a bit. The radio is playing the funniest song. It's called “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” It's pretty dumb but I kind of like it, although I liked “Alley Oop” at first but I can't stand it now. I think I'll turn it off and just play the new Elvis record. It's called “It's Now or Never,” and I love it. It's such a pretty song. The flip side is “A Mess of Blues.” As soon as I heard it was out, I ran to the record store on Bleecker Street and bought it. The only word I can use to describe the feeling of getting a new Elvis record is—
bliss
.

I'm still puzzled by Michael's actions yesterday. I haven't heard from him, of course. Today Alice asked me how it was going with him, and I told her I wasn't sure about it. I didn't outright say it was over, I don't know why, but I asked her again if she or Mitch knew
anything about him, and she replied that they first met Michael at the beatnik party, like me. She gave me Pam's phone number, of Ron and Pam, who hosted the party. I might call her and ask how they know him. Would that be rude? Truthfully, I'd forget that jerk if I didn't also think he's up to something.

I'll sleep on it.

J
ULY 16, 1960

It's a little after midnight and I'm just settling in for bed. I went out as the Stiletto tonight. It felt good to be stalking the streets again, but the outing was ultimately frustrating. I was looking for Michael, but, of course, that was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Today I called Pam from HQ—Kopinski is her last name—and explained who I was and that I was a guest of Mitch and Alice at her party. The conversation was strange. It went like this:

Pam: “Oh, sure, I remember you. You're real tall.”

Me: “Yeah. I wanted to ask you about a guy that was there. Michael Sokowitz?”

Pam: “Michael, was he the guy from Germany?”

Me: “Austria.”

Pam: “Oh, right. Yeah, I remember him. What about him?”

Me: “How do you know him, if you don't mind my asking?”

Pam: “I beg your pardon?”

Me: “How do you know Michael?”

Pam: “I don't understand.”

Me: “How come he was at your party?”

Pam: “I don't know. I thought he was friend of yours.”

Me: “No, I met him for the first time at the party.”

Pam: “He didn't come with Mitch and Alice? I was under the impression he was a friend of theirs.”

Me: “No, Alice says that's not the case. What about your husband? Does he know Michael?”

Pam: “Who, Ron? He's not my husband. We just live together.”

Me: “Oh, sorry.”

Pam: “That's all right. I don't think Ron knows him either, ‘cause I remember him asking me who the guy was.”

Me: “So you don't have any idea how he was invited to your party?”

Pam: “I guess not, but that's not so strange. Several people there were friends of friends. The party was open to anyone, really.”

I thanked her and hung up, more baffled than ever. Where did Michael come from, if Mitch and Alice and Pam and Ron didn't know him? He never gave me his address. I don't know where he lives. I don't have a phone number for him because I never thought to ask him for it. Michael always called me from a pay phone on the street, so it's unclear whether or not he even has a phone.

That's when I decided that tonight I'd go out as the Black Stiletto and try to find him. Dumb idea, right? A city with a couple million people in it, and I'm looking for one man without a clue where he'd be?

For the first hour or so, I was angry. Michael slept with me and then threw me away. Bastard. Was I some kind of American conquest for him? Does he do that to every girl he meets? I guess it's taught me a lesson. I shouldn't be so
amenable
with men I don't know well. My reputation is worth more than that.

So here I am, alone in my room. I suppose going out was good exercise for me anyway. The Stiletto hadn't made an appearance since I got that kid off the building. It also felt good because Kennedy accepted the party's nomination today in L.A. It was a cause to celebrate, and what better way to do that than to run across Manhattan rooftops, shimmy up and down telephone polls, and dart through pedestrians and traffic like some kind of Wonder Woman?