The Black Stiletto: Black & White by Raymond Benson

Author:Raymond Benson [Benson, Raymond]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, pdf
Publisher: Midpoint Trade Books
Published: 2012-05-30T04:00:00+00:00

24

Judy’s Diary

1959

MAY 11, 1959

I met John Richardson tonight.

I can’t believe I’m writing this about an FBI agent, dear diary, but he’s a dreamboat!

It happened like this. Last night I called him at home. He asked me if I’d recovered from having my tonsils out, and I told him I had. Right on cue, he wanted to know if I was ready to meet him. I said yes.

He suggested we meet in the Meatpacking District in lower Manhattan, specifically West 13th Street just west of 9th Avenue, north of Gansevoort Street. During the day it’s probably a very busy place—I’d never been there—but after dark it’s kind of a creepy, deserted area. John said he’d park his car, a black 4-door Ford sedan, in front of the Garibaldi Meat Company building at 10:00 p.m. tonight. He said the car would glaringly stand out to the criminally minded as a police or Fed car, ha ha.

So I donned the Black Stiletto disguise, slipped out my bedroom window, ran across the roofs to the telephone pole I always climb down to the street, and made my way across town. During the winter I’d gotten used to wearing my trench coat over my outfit, without a mask, and then walking on the streets like any normal pedestrian. But now the weather was too warm for a coat. The Stiletto had to take her chances not being seen, just like in the early days! Moving any distance while sticking only to shadows takes some time, so I left the gym early enough to allow for delays. Crossing the wide avenues is always a challenge. I can’t use the intersections and crosswalks; that would be like a big neon sign pointing at my head saying, “Black Stiletto HERE!” Instead, I cross mid-avenue, between intersections, and take my chances by darting into the traffic and rushing to the other side. To anyone who notices me, hopefully, I’m just a flash in the night. Was she there or not?

I reached the Meatpacking District at 9:45. First I went up and down the street and checked for other cars. There were a couple here and there, but they were empty and locked. I checked the roofs and windows for any signs of light or other indications of a surveillance team. Then I perched alone in the darkness of a doorway across from the Garibaldi building and waited. Yes, I was nervous. Butterflies bounced around inside my stomach. I’ve never been to a prom or school dance, but I imagine that’s how I would have felt if I had.

At 9:55, a black Ford sedan pulled onto the street and parked in front of the building. The headlights against the building provided a momentary backlight, allowing me to discern the silhouette of the driver, the only person in the car. It was him. I recognized the outline of the hat. He turned off the car and doused the lights. I watched him for a few moments and saw the flick of a match and the ember of a cigarette.

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