The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (3 page)

“We don't have any.”

“Well, shoot, Freddie, why didn't you get me up? I'll run out and get some for you.” I poured a glass of juice and looked back at him. It was then I could see this was more serious than gas pains. Freddie was wincing and couldn't respond.

“Freddie?”

Then his expression changed for the worse. His eyes popped open and he gasped for air. One hand clutched the edge of the table as he tried to stand. He didn't get very far. I put down my juice and rushed to him—just in time to catch him as he toppled into my arms.

“Freddie!”

I gently laid him on the kitchen floor. He writhed in agony and was short of breath. When he attempted to speak, he merely made choking noises.

“I'm calling an ambulance!” I didn't want to leave him, but I had to. The phone was on the other side of the kitchen. I darted to it and dialed the operator. It seemed like it took forever to get connected to the right place, but I finally blurted out where they should come. After I hung up, I moved back to Freddie. He was breathing a little better, but his eyes were wet and there was absolutely no color to his skin. The immediate distress seemed to be passing, though.

“Try to relax, Freddie, an ambulance is on the way,” I told him.

All the time we waited, I prayed I wouldn't lose him. Not Fred-die—my substitute father, my trainer, my friend. I even cried a little, but I was careful not to let him see. I kept thinking about everything they were saying on the news about smoking cigarettes and how bad they can be. Freddie smoked a ton a day. Could that be the cause?

Well, dear diary, the ambulance arrived about twenty minutes later, which seemed like an eternity. I went downstairs to the front
of the gym to let them in. The fellows rushed upstairs with one of those stretchers on wheels. One of the guys asked me to wait in the other room, but I wouldn't leave. They checked Freddie's vitals and asked him a few questions, which he was surprisingly able to answer. Eventually they got him on the stretcher and carried him down and outside. I insisted on going with them in the ambulance. I threw on a pair of training pants and a sweatshirt, tennis shoes, and grabbed my purse. I looked like I'd just rolled out of bed—which was true— but it was no time for vanity.

When we got to the hospital, they wheeled him right into the emergency area. A nurse asked me if I was a relative. I explained that I was the only family Freddie had, even though we weren't related. She handed me a clipboard and ordered me to fill out some papers. I answered the questions I could and gave it back. And then I waited. And waited. And waited.

At one point I went to the pay phone and called Lucy. No one answered. She and Peter must have gone out to do something fun on New Year's Day. It was cold outside, but the weather was clear. I just wanted to speak to somebody. I didn't have anyone else's phone number with me or I would have called Jimmy or one of the other gym regulars.

I was there four hours before the doctor came out to talk to me. By then it was around ten o'clock. Dr. Montgomery was very young. I thought he looked like he was just out of medical school.

Sure enough, it was a heart attack. Dr. Montgomery said Freddie would have to stay in the hospital for a while, probably a few weeks! But he was stable and they'd given him drugs and stuff to make him comfortable. I asked if I could see him, but the doctor replied that Freddie was sleeping now. Dr. Montgomery suggested I go home and get some rest, too, and I'd most likely get to see the patient tomorrow.

So now I'm back at the apartment. I hadn't eaten all day. I feel pretty lousy. I'm going to make some eggs and then go to bed. I guess I'll have to close the gym in the morning.

Please, God, if you're really up there, please make Freddie better. Please, please, please!

J
ANUARY 2, 1960

It's been a long day.

I put a sign on the gym door saying we were closed “due to illness.” Then I took the bus to Bellevue, and luckily, I was able to see Freddie. First the nurse on his floor told me the doctor wanted to talk to me. So I was stuck doing nothing
again
, this time in a small waiting room. Apparently, the floor was dedicated to heart patients, because a lot of pamphlets and literature about cardiac emergencies sat in trays on the table along with magazines that were several months old. I didn't have to wait too long, though. This time a different doctor showed up. His name was Abramson. He was older and looked more experienced than Dr. Montgomery. He introduced himself and asked what my relationship to the patient was. I told him that Freddie's my landlord and employer, repeating that I was the only family he had that I knew of. The doctor nodded grimly, which I didn't take to be a good sign.

“How is he?” I asked.

Dr. Abramson didn't immediately say, “Oh, he's fine,” or “He'll be okay.” Instead, he made a shrugging gesture and rocked a flat hand back and forth to indicate “not so bad, not so good.”

“We're still waiting on all the tests, but Mr. Barnes definitely suffered a serious heart attack, what we call a myocardial infarction.” He went on to explain that a major anterior coronary artery was blocked. I didn't understand a lot of the medical terms, but he put it as plainly as he could. The crux of the matter is that Freddie's condition is severe enough to warrant a long hospital stay.

When I asked if he could operate, Dr. Abramson looked at me like I was crazy. “There is no treatment like that for this sort of thing,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. There's a lot about the heart we don't know.” I felt kind of dumb.

He told me I could go on to Freddie's room, but I shouldn't stay long and I had to take care not to “excite” him. What was I going to do, make him do jumping jacks? I told the doctor Freddie and I were like father and daughter and that it would do him good to see me.

Freddie didn't have his own room. A curtain separated the two sides, and an old man covered with tubes and stuff was in the first bed. I quickly skipped over that space and went around the curtain. Dear diary, I stopped breathing for a second. I had never seen big, strong Freddie look so pathetic. He was in bed, of course, and he had an oxygen mask on his face. There was a plastic tube in his arm that coiled up to one of those bottles containing clear liquid. His eyes were closed. There was a little more color in his complexion, but somehow he seemed smaller and older. I wanted to cry.

“Freddie?” I whispered. I moved to the side of the bed and gently placed a hand on his. “Freddie?”

His eyes fluttered open. When they focused on me, he smiled beneath the oxygen mask. With his other hand, he reached up and removed it.

“Hello, Judy.” His voice was soft and weak.

“Oh, Freddie.” I indicated the mask. “Shouldn't you be wearing that? You don't have to talk.”

He barely shook his head. “It's okay. I can take it off for a few minutes at a time. I have to eat, too, you know. They gave me breakfast this morning.”

I didn't know what to say. “It . . . it looks like you have good doctors.”

Freddie rolled his eyes. “They're all quacks when it comes to heart attacks. They don't know what they're doing. I just have to rest for, God, I don't know how long.”

“They said you'd be here for a few weeks.”

He nodded. “Judy, you'll have to run the gym. I won't be training anyone for a while. Can you take over?”

“Of course I can! And if the guys don't like me training them,
then tough cookies. Don't you worry about it. And I'll tell the regulars they should come visit you.”

Freddie winced slightly and said, “Wait a week or so before you do that.”

I laughed. “Okay, Freddie.”

He sighed heavily. “I'd kill for a cigarette.”

This time I shook
my head.
“I'm afraid that's not allowed.”

“I know. I have to quit. For good. It's gonna be hell. I'm not sure I can do it.”

“Sure you can, Freddie. I'll help you.”

“I have to limit my drinking, too.”

“That shouldn't be as difficult.”

“I'm part Irish. Didn't you know that?”

I laughed. “I don't think I did. But it makes sense.” After a little pause, I asked if he was in pain. He said, no, they'd got him on painkillers. There was a piece of paper on the tray by his bed where the doctor had written names of medicines he'll be taking. I copied them down so I could spell them correctly: quinidine and nitroglycerin. I always thought that second one was an explosive, like dynamite. What do I know?

After a while, I could see he was growing tired, so I left him alone. I didn't really want to go home yet. I thought I'd let him rest a while and then after I had lunch I'd see him again. Downstairs I called Lucy from a pay phone and told her what was going on. She offered to come up and sit with me, so I suggested we have lunch somewhere near Bellevue. And that's what we did. I can't remember where we ate, but it was a diner very similar to the East Side Diner. I wasn't much company, I'm afraid. Lucy told me not to worry. Freddie would be all right. Lots of people recovered from heart attacks and lived a long time. Yeah, maybe so, but I think
more
people
didn't
recover and an incident meant that their time on earth was now limited.

Lucy talked mostly about her and Peter and the wedding. It kind
of went in one ear and out the other. I was actually thankful when we got up to pay our checks.

I visited with Freddie for a few minutes again in the afternoon, but he seemed even more tired than before. I thought it best to leave him be. Surely he'll regain more strength as the days pass.

He'll be okay
.

I said that over and over to myself as I took the bus back to the East Village.

So a little while ago, I made myself some dinner and watched TV alone. It was strange being in our apartment without Freddie there. It made me very sad. The only thing that perked me up was something I saw on the news.

Today Senator John Kennedy announced his run for president. I like him. He's very handsome and he seems smart. I can't believe so many Americans don't want him to be president because he's Catholic. Why should that make a difference? Someone asked him if he was concerned about that, and Kennedy replied that the only thing we should care about is whether or not a candidate believes in the separation of Church and State. What a great answer!

After I cleaned up the dishes, I became restless. I needed to release some tension. I thought about going down to the gym and working out with the weights, but I also wanted some fresh air, even though it's cold outside.

Tonight the Black Stiletto is going to make her first appearance of 1960.

J
ANUARY 3, 1960

It's late at night. Actually it's early morning, 2:00 a.m. I just got back to the apartment and I'm hurt. I don't know how badly yet. My face is a real mess and every bone in my body feels broken.

The Black Stiletto slipped out around 10:00. I did my usual running-along-the-roof of the gym, hopped to the top of the next building on 2nd Street, found my favorite telephone pole, shimmied down, and I was on the street. No one saw me. It was cold outside, so I wore my warmer Stiletto outfit. I was equipped with the knife strapped to my leg, the small blade hidden in my boot, my rope and hooks, a flashlight, and my backpack.

I was angry about Freddie. I hated seeing him in that condition, so it made me want to take it out on a street thug or two. Would I find any robberies in progress? Someone trying to hold up a liquor store? I actually hoped I would. So I headed west toward the Bowery, which was always a hot spot for crime. Much of that long, north-south thoroughfare was pretty seedy. Unfortunately, it must have been too darned cold for the crooks to be out. They were all inside getting drunk. If I hadn't tied one on so spectacularly on New Year's Eve, I might've stepped inside one of the dives and joined them.

A little farther west was Little Italy. I darted from shadow to shadow until I found myself at Mulberry and Grand. For a moment
I felt a pang in my heart. I thought of Fiorello and how much I missed him. So much time has passed since we were together, but it also seems like yesterday. If it wasn't for Fiorello's death, there would be no Black Stiletto. It's ironic that he was my boyfriend and lover, and yet he was a killer, a Mafia soldier who took orders from criminals. I was naïve then.

Some of the Italian restaurants were still open. I smelled the rich food in the air and my stomach growled. The dinner I'd made myself didn't exactly equal a steaming plate of pasta and meatballs. As I hid in a dark doorway, I watched patrons leave the establishments, walk to the corner, and hail taxis. I might have been crazy to just squat there and shiver, but the street brought back warm memories.

Eventually it was time to move on, so I did. I went south, past Broome and Grand Streets, but there wasn't a crime to be found anywhere. I figured I'd give myself another fifteen minutes—because I was freezing my tail off—and then I'd head back home.

There appeared to be more activity on the streets south of Canal Street. I never spent much time in Chinatown except to go eat the fabulous food with Lucy or Freddie. It was a very different world, almost as if it is its own little country within the much grander city. Of course, that's what it is. A community that existed by its own rules and customs. It was intimidating in a way. I'm pretty sure all white people felt as I did—we were outsiders. The Chinese were happy to feed us, do our laundry, and take our money, but beyond that their lives were a mystery.

There were more restaurants in Chinatown than in Little Italy, and many were still open for business. The odors of egg rolls and cooked pork permeated the air and once again my tummy made rumbling noises. What would happen if I walked into a place and ordered some chicken and broccoli and fried dumplings to go? I now had more of a hankering for that than I did the pasta.