The Black Stiletto by Raymond Benson

care. “Now, Freddie!”
    And so Freddie stitched me up. It hurt like hell—I guess I can say that word now, I’m a big girl. I drank a quarter bottle of Jack Daniel’s while he was doing it. By the time he was done, I felt great. It sure was ugly, though. I tried not to think about that as I put on a robe to cover myself.
    I still have that scar today. I’m still self-conscious about it and try to hide it—no bare shoulder dresses for me.
    Freddie made some scrambled eggs and bacon for me. It hit the spot. I was pretty looped and exhausted from the adrenaline rush, but I gave Freddie a hug and thanked him.
    Before retiring to my room, the idea came to me. It wasn’t a foolish notion wrought out of liquor, either. I meant it when I said, “Freddie, next I want to learn how to fight with a knife.”

7
Martin
T HE P RESENT
    I shut the diary at that point and sat there on the front stoop of the house.
    Dumbfounded.
    My mom? Boxing? Taking karate ?
    Holy shit.
    I glanced at my watch. The afternoon was gone. The last several hours had vanished. I was due back at the accounting firm where I worked in Deerfield long ago. My cell phone had rung two or three times while I was glued to the pages of my mother’s confessional, but I ignored it. I pulled it off my belt and checked the caller IDs. Yep, the office called twice and my daughter once. I listened to my voice mail messages—nothing urgent, the boss was just wondering where the hell I was. Gina had gymnastics practice that afternoon and wondered if I could pick her up at school later. Her car was in the shop and Carol—my ex—was busy.
    Gymnastics .
    Geez, did this stuff run in the family? I wasn’t athletic in any way. I was more of a pencil pusher, all my life.
    Come to think of it, Gina was very athletic and had been since she was a toddler. I remember my mom watching Gina closely with a smirk on her face. Was she secretly proud? Had she seenherself in her granddaughter? Now Gina was a senior in high school, having participated in every sport imaginable while she was growing up. She was also into the drama and acting thing, which was a little weird, so go figure.
    I called the office back and let them know I wouldn’t be back in today. Then I called Gina and left a message on her cell to say I’d pick her up at seven, as requested. Then I pondered what my next course of action should be. My brain was fried and I felt emotionally drained. I couldn’t think straight.
    Nevertheless, I had the presence of mind to decide I shouldn’t leave any of Mom’s stuff in that secret room. I had to get it out of there and store it somewhere safe.
    Hell, it had been safe where it was! I just didn’t want to leave it in a house that might someday be sold.
    I went back inside and down to the basement. Among the empty cardboard boxes that were still there, I found one that would work as a container. First, I lined the bottom of the box with the remaining diaries, the comics, newspapers, and the gun. I then carefully removed the costumes, mask, knapsack, and knife from the wall and placed them on top of the other stuff. The boots went on top. The lid closed, just barely. I locked the secret door with my keys, picked up the box, and carried it upstairs. There was some packing tape in the kitchen—I used that to seal the carton. The diary I was currently reading—1958—I stuck in my pocket.
    Making sure the house was locked and secure, I drove away and then realized I had no idea where I was going to put the stuff. I didn’t really want to take it home. I’m not sure why. It felt, I don’t know, somehow kind of sleazy. I still couldn’t get around the knowledge that my mother was famous—or rather, infamous.
    As I drove along Euclid Avenue toward Route 53, I passed the bank that was once my mother’s. We had closed all her accountswhen she moved into the nursing home, but I knew they had safety deposit boxes there. On an impulse, I turned into the driveway and