The Black Stiletto by Raymond Benson Page A

parked.
    They knew me at the bank. It didn’t take long to rent a large box. The carton fit neatly inside the bigger container and was then locked safely in the vault. I put the key on the same ring with the other two that had come in mom’s surprise package.
    As I left the bank’s parking lot, I felt the diary practically burning a hole in my jacket pocket. There was something I needed to do before heading back home.
    I had to see Mom.
    Turning the car around, I got back on Arlington Heights Road and headed north, through Buffalo Grove, and then turned east toward Riverwoods. Woodlands North was located on Deer-field Road, just east of Milwaukee Avenue.
    As I drove, something else hit me.
    Richard Talbot. My father. Had Richard Talbot even existed?
    I signed in, walked down the long hall to the Alzheimer’s Unit, punched in the code for the door—it was no secret, it was posted in plain sight—and went inside. Strode through the common room and into another corridor toward the dining room. Mom’s room was on the right.
    She was all alone, sitting in one of the chairs by her bed, just staring at the portable television. It wasn’t on. Her roommate wasn’t there.
    “Hi, Mom!” I said as cheerfully as I could.
    She looked up at me and wrinkled her brow. The raven-colored hair she once had was now grey and white, but it appeared as if it had recently been shampooed and styled. Her eyes were still a piercing brown with green specks, just as she’d described in the diary. Unfortunately, they looked at me blankly.
    “It’s me, Martin. Your son.”
    Her head moved back to the television. I’m not sure if she comprehended what I said or not.
    “It’s not happy,” she said.
    “What?”
    She didn’t repeat it.
    “What’s not happy, Mom?” I sat in the only other chair and faced her. “How are you today?”
    The woman who was once Judy Cooper merely sighed loudly.
    “Your hair looks nice. Did you go to the salon today?”
    She nodded, but it could very well have been yesterday.
    “How come you’re in here all alone?” I asked. “Don’t you want to go out to the common area where all your friends are? It’s almost time for dinner, I think.”
    “Is it?”
    “Yeah. Are you hungry?”
    “It’s not happy.”
    “What’s not happy, Mom? Are you not happy? This is a real nice place. Everyone here is very sweet to you.”
    She nodded and smiled at me. Maybe she did recognize me.
    I decided to go for it. I pulled out the diary and held it in my hands. Her eyes went to it, but she didn’t react.
    “Do you know what this is?” I asked her. I held up the diary and showed it to her.
    Her face remained expressionless.
    “Mom, what did you do in New York and Los Angeles before I was born?”
    She sighed again and shifted her long body in the chair. My mother had remained tall, but now she was terribly thin.
    They were risky questions. I’m not sure I even had the right to ask her. I didn’t want to upset her, but I had to know if any of it still meant something to her. “Do you remember?”
    “New York?” she asked.
    “Yeah. You lived in New York at one time. Remember?” Remarkably, she nodded. “Did you ever put on a costume?”
    There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Her brow creased.
    “Mom?”
    “He was late.”
    “What? What did you say? Who was late?”
    “Fiorello was late.”
    “Fiorello?” Who the fuck was Fiorello? “Who’s Fiorello, Mom?”
    “I was worried. That’s why.”
    “Why, what? Mom? Who’s Fiorello?”
    Geez. Was he a boyfriend? A lover? Oh my God, could he have been my father ? Was Fiorello “Richard Talbot”?
    “Mom, tell me who Fiorello is. Was he someone you knew?”
    She nodded and tears came to her eyes. “Can you tell me anything about him?”
    Mom tried to say something but was unable to do so.
    “Mom, Fiorello wasn’t my dad, was he?”
    And then, with surprising coherence, she looked at me and answered, “No, Fiorello was murdered long before you