The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (21 page)

Mr. Dudley and Mrs. Bernstein are in charge of the Girls. There are eight of us. We've had a couple of meetings, but nothing much happened. We were told to get white gloves. They're part of the uniform, but the campaign couldn't afford to pay for them. Betty winked at me and told me she knew where we could get some for nothing. She said to meet her at the Waldorf after I finished at the gym today, so I did.

What a beautiful hotel! I'd never been in it. It's pretty fancy, like the Plaza. The hotel is on Park Avenue between 49th and 50th. I met Betty at the employee entrance on 50th Street. We walked across a checkerboard floor to a place where she punched her card for work—she was just going on duty—above which a painted mural on the wall proclaimed, “History Building Bright Futures.” We went up a few steps from there to an elevator. While we waited for it, Betty pointed out the hotel's loading docks right next to the bay. We rode the car to the 5th floor, where employees were running about like madmen. Betty explained this was where the men's and women's locker rooms, laundry facilities, and uniform room were located. They also had their own tailor who mended clothing on the spot. Down the hall was another place where they performed heavy cleaning on spots and stains. No one questioned my presence. They must have thought I was a new employee and Betty was showing me the ropes.

She took me in the uniform room and showed me stacks of white gloves in small, medium, and large sizes.

“Go ahead. Find a pair that fits,” she said.

The mediums were tight, like my black leather Stiletto ones, so I chose those. I then followed Betty into the locker room, where other women were getting dressed for work. It wasn't much different from our locker room at the gym. I felt a little self-conscious, but Betty said not to worry about it. She was on duty in the Grand Ballroom that evening for a function, so she put on a white shirt, a dark vest, chocolate-brown pants, a matching jacket, and of course the white gloves. She looked elegant and spiffy.

Betty didn't have to start for a few minutes, so she gave me a brief tour of the hotel. We went down a set of stairs to the 4th floor and into a long hallway with groups of red curtains on one side. She pulled open one set and I gasped. We were looking down on the Grand Ballroom. A massive chandelier dominated the ceiling, and the room was decorated in a red-and-ivory color scheme. White tablecloths covered dozens of tables and there were flower arrangements on each one. Betty pointed to the “boxes” around the upper half of the ballroom, where some VIP guests sit. The entrances to those are on the 5th floor.

We went down to the 3rd floor and saw a very pretty space called the Basildon Room. The ceiling was painted in what she said was a scene from Dante's
Divine Comedy
. I'm not familiar with that, but the picture was spectacular. Next door was the Jade Room, which got its name from the green streaks running through marble pillars. I thought I was in a museum.

The last stop on the tour was the banquet kitchen on the 2nd floor. Betty said the kitchens take up three floors of the hotel! Well, the kitchen was gigantic. Different areas specialized in certain food items; for example, the soups and sauces were prepared in one section, the bakery was in another, meats and main courses were down the hall. Another mural sported the slogan: “The difficult immediately, the impossible takes a few minutes longer.” Betty said that was
truer than I could possibly think. All along the way, the other employees were very friendly. I even got to take a little pastry from a tray in the bakery section. Yum!

Betty had to start work then, so she took me down to the ground floor to say goodbye. Completely dazzled, I made my way home.

A
UGUST 28, 1960

I'm still in shock by what happened last night, dear diary. I feel ashamed, angry, and frightened.

It's 5:00 on Sunday afternoon, and I haven't emerged from my room yet. Freddie knocked on the door, and I told him I wasn't feeling well. It was true. I've had no appetite all day.

The evening started with me getting drunk. I can't believe I did that—and
then I went out as the Black Stiletto
. What a stupid, brainless, idiotic, irresponsible, and
dangerous
thing to do! I could've been killed, and I may have seriously hurt a man, albeit not a very nice one.

The reason I got drunk? I was feeling sorry for myself. I know it's dumb because I really have no reason to feel bad. I have friends, I keep busy, I love what I do, and I'm proud of who I am. The fact of the matter, though, is that I'm lonely. Last night I particularly missed John and Fiorello. So I bought a bottle of vodka and made martinis. Freddie warned me not to drink more than two. I had five.

I don't think I'd ever been that drunk before. The evening proceeded to be a fragmented nightmare because I don't
remember
a lot of it! I recall being really looped in the kitchen, and Freddie telling me he was going to bed after watching Lawrence Welk. Then I was in my room, and it was spinning. I dropped on the bed and may have fallen asleep for a bit. The next thing I knew it was 10:30. I
thought
I didn't feel drunk anymore.

Then I got the bright idea to put on the outfit. The summer had not been a good one for the Black Stiletto; I'd gone out only a few times. I figured it was time to show her mask in public again.

What a mistake.

I remember the dash across the rooftops and going down the pole. As soon as my boots were on the sidewalk, though, I knew I wasn't in any shape to be the Black Stiletto. Besides having equilibrium problems, the alcohol had also deadened my otherwise heightened senses. No more amplified sound or intuitive lie detecting. Nevertheless, I didn't turn back and go home. I guess there's an ornery streak in me, and I let it take over.

There's a blank spot after that, for I suddenly found myself in the Bowery on the border of Chinatown. I had no idea how I'd gotten there. The only thing I can think is that my subconscious was operating my body. I realize that doesn't make sense. But apparently I crossed several streets and avenues, no doubt darted through pedestrians and traffic, and made it safely from 2nd Avenue to the Bowery without thinking about it.

But what
was
I thinking? I don't recall having the idea to go back to Chinatown, but there I was. Did my subconscious self guide me there? I felt a chill just facing that direction, and it was hot as heck outside. The Bowery is also a spooky place at night. There are a lot of bars, so the area is populated with bums and criminals. That's usually the first place I look when I go out as the Black Stiletto, so maybe I didn't have it in mind to return to Chinatown after all. I swear, though, I don't know what it is about that place that attracts me.

Nevertheless, I didn't enter Chinatown. I went south along the Bowery, and people were definitely surprised to see me. Some pointed and a few laughed. They didn't think I was the real thing. Someone said, “Is it Halloween?” To them I was just some stupid girl who dressed up in a Black Stiletto outfit. I suppose I wasn't moving as quickly as I usually do. I mostly give pedestrians just enough time to register that they've seen me, and then I'm out of there.

The sound of a glass or bottle breaking drew me to the wide-open door of a real dive, small, dark, smoky, and populated only by hardcore alcoholics. Inside two men were fighting around a single pool table. They were in their forties or fifties, but it's hard to tell1
with men who have been on the booze all their lives. They were shabbily dressed and drunk. Drunker than me.

One of them waved a broken bottle at his opponent. The bartender was on the phone, no doubt calling the police. It really did pop into my head that the two men could get hurt or injure the two other customers. I had good intentions when I ordered them, “Stop fighting, boys.” But I didn't sound like myself. My voice cracked and was weak. The fighters, the bartender, and the two audience members turned to look at me. It was just like one of those scenes in a western when a stranger walks into the saloon.

Then they laughed. Forgetting their animosity toward each other, the two fighters became comrades in arms to belittle the Black Stiletto. Actually, they didn't think I was the real thing, either. One of them accused me of being a “naughty girl” and dressing up in a party costume.

Dear diary, I don't know what happened after that. Another blank. Maybe I started it, that's not clear to me, but I got into a fight I don't recall. The next moment I remember, I was on my back on top of the pool table. My face hurt. One of the fighting men was
on top of me
, attempting to pull off my mask. He was saying, “Let's see what she looks like!” Luckily, the mask is secured with a knot I'm good at loosening, but other people would find difficult. I started to fight him off, but the other man helped hold me down. The struggle was serious, and blood from my face wiped off on the man's shirt sleeves.

And then I flashed back to that horrible Halloween night in Odessa, Texas when I was thirteen. When Douglas raped me. Was I about to experience that indignity again, this time with two attackers and maybe more?

The men whooped and hollered.

“Let's see what she looks like!”

“I'll get her boots off!”

As I wrestled with them, I noticed that one of the customers had closed the joint's door and stood in front of it. The man on top of me, who stank of booze, sweat, and a latrine, almost had the ties of
my mask undone. He pushed his lower body hard against mine, in between my legs. It hurt and it was revolting.

“The damn mask is tied on tight—”

“Cut it off!”

And, thank God, when the man said to “cut it off,” I thought of something sharp, which led me to remember my knife. My stiletto was still in its sheath on my leg. The men must have been so drunk that they either didn't see it or thought it was fake. I reached down, grabbed hold of the hilt, drew the blade, and plunged it into the man's stomach. He screamed. That startled the other guy so much that he jumped back, allowing me to push the stabbed man off of me. I leaped to my feet and stood beside the pool table with the stiletto pointed at the others, blood dripping from its edge.

The wounded man clutched his belly and curled up as he groaned and moaned.

“What did you do, girl?” the other creep said.

I turned toward the door and waved my knife at the guy standing there. He flew away like a bug, allowing me to fling open the door and run outside.

Then, dear diary, it was another blank. My next moment of consciousness was as I walked east along 2nd Street. I had run up the Bowery and headed home without realizing it. I looked at my hand. There was blood on it, but the knife wasn't there. I frantically reached for the sheath, relieved to find the stiletto snug inside. I hadn't remembered putting it away.

What had I done
? I had stabbed a man. I don't know how badly, but wasn't it in self-defense? Wasn't he trying to hurt me?

I told myself I'd had no choice. He wanted to unmask me. The other one was attempting to get my boots off. All the men in that bar wanted to abuse me. They wanted to rape the stupid college girl who dressed up as the Black Stiletto and recklessly showed up in the Bowery. They thought they'd teach her a lesson.

I had to stop them.

Didn't I?

S
EPTEMBER 7, 1960

Over the weekend huge crowds greeted Kennedy in Detroit. The press said they'd never seen anything like it. Both he and Johnson have begun the nationwide campaign, sometimes appearing together, but mostly separately. Mr. Dudley told me and the other girls that Kennedy will be in New York in October and that the Kennedy Girls will make their first appearance then as part of his entourage. I'm pretty excited about that! Will I get to meet him? Maybe even shake his hand? Gosh, what if he kissed my cheek or something? I understand he's been known to do that to ordinary citizens he meets. Will Jackie be with him? She's so gorgeous and elegant. I would like meeting her, too.

The Girls had to learn to sing a song. It's “High Hopes,” the one Frank Sinatra did, only the words are different. Sinatra apparently sang it recently at one of Kennedy's stops, and now the head campaign office is adapting it to be
the
campaign song. We had to spend a couple of hours with a piano player named Choo Choo—yes, that's his name!—and practice it. My favorite part goes—

Oops, there goes the opposition–KERPLOP!
K–E–DOUBLE N–E–D–Y

Jack's the nation's favorite guy
Everyone wants to back–Jack
Jack is on the right track.
'Cause he's got high hopes
He's got high hopes

Pretty funny stuff. We kept laughing and kidding around while we practiced and Choo Choo yelled at us. We finally got our act together and did it well.

Kennedy and Nixon have agreed to do some debates on live television. There will definitely be three, and possibly four. Right now Nixon's in the hospital for an injured knee that got infected. I don't know how that happened, but the newspaper said he would be out soon to resume his campaign. You know how I can “read” people? When I see Nixon on TV, I just don't trust him. Besides, I think if he became president, we'd just have more of the same kinds of policies we had while Eisenhower was president. Kennedy talks about all sorts of progressive changes, especially an “equal rights amendment” to the Constitution. He's very tough on Communism, too. People wonder if the Soviets will come over to Cuba and set up a base close to our country. Kennedy won't let that happen.

My work at HQ has increased since the campaign got under way in earnest. Some volunteers have left, but they've been replaced by a lot of new faces. Mitch and Alice are still there, as are Karen and Chip. Betty doesn't spend much time at HQ because of her job at the Waldorf, but when I see her we usually have our lunch together or go out in the evening to one of the restaurants for a drink. It feels very strange to me to be visiting those places in an after-work setting where businessmen and women congregate. I hear them talking about the stock market and politics and sports. No one seems to discuss books or movies much the way Lucy and Peter and I always did. Mitch and Alice do. They're what you call “hip.” That's a word the beatniks use if someone is “cool.” I think I'm “cool,” don't you,
dear diary? I hope so. I don't want to be “square,” which describes someone who isn't “with it.” See? I'm learning all kinds of new vocabulary!