The Black Stiletto by Raymond Benson Read Free Book Online Page A

start anew in another city. New York wasn’t Odessa in any way, shape, or form. New York was like another planet, totally alien to anything I’d ever experienced. There were people everywhere, all kinds, of every race imaginable. Cars and buses and trucks and bicycles and lots and lots of people. And the buildings—they were huge and they were everywhere, towering over me like gods. It was overwhelming at first. I didn’t have the first clue of what to do when I got off that bus at Port Authority.
    I was fourteen, alone, with very little money. What the hell was I doing there?
    Needless to say, I had to mature early and quickly. I remember going to a tourist information booth in the bus station and asking about a hotel. I stayed in some fleabag joint on 42nd Street for about a week as I explored the city, trying to conserve what little money I had. Eventually I found my way farther downtown and started kicking around East Greenwich Village. Somehow the Bohemian nature of the area appealed to me. I pleaded homelessness and got a temporary place to stay at the YWCA on Broadway and set about looking for a job. I’d been in New York about three weeks and the money was nearly gone. Then one day I saw a restaurant on the corner of Second Avenue and East 4th Streetwith a sign on the window that said HELP WANTED . It was called the East Side Diner and was one of those places that served breakfast, lunch, and dinner, opened early, and closed late. I thought, what the hell.
    I went inside and the place was packed. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, so there were still customers eating breakfast and quite a few having lunch. There were two waitresses running back and forth like chickens with no heads. They constantly yelled orders to the short-order cook in the kitchen while dishing out sass to customers. “Where’s my eggs over-easy?” “Cheeseburger, hold the mayo!” “Are you done, mister? Sorry, my legs ain’t on the menu.” That kind of stuff. They even had one of those new jukeboxes, which I later found out was very unusual for New York diners. I’d never seen or heard one before. I remember the song that was playing when I walked in—it was “Cry” by Johnnie Ray and the Four Lads.
    One waitress, a pretty woman with blonde hair and a great figure, saw me standing by the door. She was probably twenty one years old or so.
    “You comin’ in, honey?” she asked.
    “I want to apply for the job.” I gestured to the sign in the window.
    “Oh. Honey, we’re really busy right now, as you can see. Can you come back after the rush? Say, two o’clock?”
    “Sure.”
    “I’m Lucy. What’s your name, honey?”
    “Judy.”
    “Okay, Judy, see you later.”
    I felt excited. Maybe I’d get hired and start making some money. I immediately liked Lucy. She had a thick New York accent and it sounded funny to my ears. Funny in a good way. Lucy didn’t seem to notice I was probably too young to work. I appeared older than I was. I suppose this is a good time to tell you,dear diary, what I look like. I was tall—still am—ridiculously tall for a fourteen-year-old. I’m not sure exactly how tall I was then, but now, at age twenty, I’m five-eleven. I was maybe an inch or two shorter when I was fourteen. So, yeah, I looked older. I had, and still have, dark hair—almost black—that comes down a little past my shoulders. My eyes are brown with flecks of green. My skin is pale—I used to get sunburned pretty easily. My legs are long, of course, and I’m fit. Since I did a lot of sports and all that gymnastics stuff, I was, and am still, well-toned. My boobs were growing fast at that time and were already something I noticed men stealing glances at. Today they’re a nice full size that fit a 36C cup. Lots of men tell me I’m attractive. Some say I’m beautiful. That’s nice, I guess. To tell you the truth, it makes me a little uncomfortable. The incident with Douglas put me off men for quite some time. That