The Black Stiletto by Raymond Benson Read Free Book Online

what he said.
    “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
    “Didn’t you get a notice in the mail about the move?”
    “No. I don’t think so.” I couldn’t remember if I did or not. Besides, the lawyers would have got it. Maybe they didn’t tell me.
    “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to go to the Chase branch.”
    Jesus H. Christ.
    “Fine. Thanks for your trouble,” I said to both him and the female teller. She smiled at me, which sent a lightnin’ bolt down to my groin. I didn’t think I’d still have feelin’s there, but I did. Must’ve been the Italian in me. Nevertheless, I was too pissed off to respond in any way. I wanted to break somethin’.
    But I took a deep breath and calmly walked out of the building. Went back to 45 Wall Street. I don’t remember what it was in the fifties—in fact, I seem to recall the buildin’ was under construction the last time I was across the street—but now it was a tall high-rise apartment buildin’ complex with shops and stuff on the bottom. And a Chase Bank. So I went inside and did my song and dance yet again for a teller—this time a man; I’ll call him Four Eyes because of the thick glasses he wore—and after a few minutes of exchangin’ IDs and fillin’ out papers, it seemed I’d finally hit pay dirt.
    I followed Four Eyes through a door and down a corridor to another part of the buildin’. He talked me through the procedure, directed me into a vault containin’ what appeared to be a zillion safety deposit boxes. The guy had a different key, which he stuck in one slot.
    “Your key goes there,” he said, pointin’ to a different keyhole.This was different from what it used to be. In the old days, it just took one key to open the door. Now it took two—mine and his. I guess it was a minor marvel that my key still worked.
    “Do you need a private room, sir?” he asked.
    “Yeah.”
    I carried my box to a series of booths with doors. The banker let me in one and showed me a button on the wall. “Press that when you want to return the box.”
    “Thanks.”
    He left me alone and shut the door. I sat at a small table and eagerly opened the box.
    It was all there.
    Unbelievable. I breathed a sigh of relief.
    First I stuffed all the cash into my jacket pockets, and what didn’t fit I crammed into my trouser pockets and even inside my underwear. By the time I was done, I was pretty well padded down. Forty-eight thousand dollars. Back in nineteen fifty-seven, that was a hell of a lot of money. A fortune. Today, probably not so much. Still, it was enough to get me back on my feet for the time being.
    My beloved snubby Colt Detective Special and one box of thirty-eight special cartridges were there, so I loaded six into the cylinder, spun it once—it needed oilin’, that’s for sure—and snapped it in. The rest of the bullets I poured into one of the pockets with the money.
    I stood and made sure I didn’t look funny. Yeah, my pockets were bulgin’, but I didn’t think it would be too suspicious. I’d go straight to a hotel and regroup. Havin’ my money and revolver made me feel like the king of the world. I hadn’t felt this good since—well, way before New Year’s Eve of nineteen fifty-seven, that’s for damn sure.
    I pressed the button to call Four Eyes.
    Next on the agenda—the hotel, some decent food, and contactsome of the boys if I could find them. And then I had to figure out how to locate the bitch. The Black Stiletto. I’d waited fifty-two years to avenge my brother’s death. And by God, I was gonna get that woman. I wondered where she was. Was she alive? I hoped so. Was she still in New York? If she was still there, I’d find her. If not, I’d search every goddamned town in the country until I did.
    At least I knew her real name. That’d help.
    Judy Cooper.

5
Judy’s Diary
1958
    Dear diary, New York City wasn’t what I expected. Actually, that’s not true. Let’s just say I naïvely thought it would be easier to leave home and