OCTOBER 13, 1960
I have a lot to think about, dear diary. I learned some things about Michael today.
I didn’t have to be at HQ until noon, so I went to Bayard Street this morning. The black Packard was parked on the street again, except in another spot. My heart started to race when I saw it because that car emanates something sinister. I’ve felt it from the first time I saw it.
The convenience store across the street from the car was open and doing brisk business. I stepped over and the Chinese man behind the counter grinned and welcomed me in English. I bought a pastry and a small carton of milk and then stood and ate it in his vicinity.
“Nice day, yes?” the man said.
“Very nice,” I answered. “I like this neighborhood.” I really didn’t, but I wanted to break the ice with him.
“You live in neighborhood?” he asked.
“No, no. I have friends in the area.” I held out my hand. “I’m Sally.”
The man grinned as if he’d never had a friend before. “Joe,” he said. He timidly shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Joe. Is that a Chinese name?”
The man actually got my joke and laughed. “Joe,” he said again, and then nodded furiously.
I nodded at the sedan, which we could see through the window. “Say, Joe, do you know who owns that car?”
“Black car?”
“Yes.”
Joe’s English was pretty good. I hadn’t encountered too many shop owners in Chinatown that spoke it particularly well. Nodding, he said, “He come in here sometime.”
“He have a mustache and little beard?”
“What?”
I mimed painting my upper lip and chin. “Hair. Mustache.”
“Oh, yes, yes.” Joe then looked past me out the window. “There he now.”
I turned to see none other than Michael emerging from the steps leading to a basement apartment, walking over to the Packard, unlocking it, and getting in the driver’s seat.
“Go catch,” Joe said. “There still time.”
“No, I don’t need to see him. Old boyfriend.” I shook my head at the proprietor and made a yukky face. My new friend laughed and nodded as if he completely understood.
Michael started the car, pulled out, and drove away.
I finished my roll and milk, threw the remains in the trash, and waved at the Chinese man. “Bye, Joe. I’ll see you later.”
“Thank you, good day, Sally!” Big grin.
I crossed the street and slowly approached the basement apartment steps. It was broad daylight. People were everywhere. I had to look like I knew exactly what I was doing, so I purposefully went down the steps while I “searched” my purse for the keys to the door. At the bottom of the stairs, I was basically hidden from view. I knew basement apartments usually had a window in front that looked into a bedroom or living room, and this one was no different. The inside curtains were open. I slowly approached the window and peered inside.
It was a bedroom, and I could see on the right side of the room. A man lay asleep, and I recognized him as the passenger of the Packard when I first saw it. Dark hair. Mustache. Resembled Michael in a way. Who was he? And who was the sedan’s driver that day, the one whose face I never saw?
I got out of there quickly, once again bounding up the steps to the street and walking to the corner as if I lived there. As I rode the bus uptown, I thought about what I should do. Was this something for the Black Stiletto? Perhaps. Probably. But there was always the FBI. John would listen to me, but I didn’t really want to talk to him. I could call the public number and give an anonymous tip, but I’m sure no one would believe me. What would I tell them? I can just hear the response: “There’s a guy named Michael but maybe that’s not his real name and you think he’s a Communist spy? Why?” And I wouldn’t be able to answer. “My female intuition?” I’d say and they’d get a few laughs out of that. There was the license plate and the car. I could give them the number and say it was stolen or something. But would that really do any good?
Nope. It looked like it was going to be a job for the Black Stiletto after all.
When I got to HQ, something happened that was a gift from providence. Pure luck. Coincidence. I was in Mr. Dudley’s office delivering a bunch of paperwork, and I noticed the top page of the stack in my arms was a report concerning Kennedy’s use of government vehicles in New York. It listed a bunch of cars and their license plates, and it struck me that all of the numbers ended with the letter X. 337 24X. 594 65X. All like that. And they reminded me of the Packard’s license number: 358 22X. So I asked Mr. Dudley, “What is the significance of the X on these license plate numbers?”
He looked up from his desk and said, “That means it’s registered to the government, or an embassy, or individual diplomats. Why?”
“Just curious. There’s a car that parks on my block with one of those.”
Before I left the room, I memorized the phone number listed for the company that provided the cars to Kennedy. When I got to a spot where I could talk quietly on the phone, I called the number. When a nice man answered, I told him I was with the Kennedy campaign and wanted to find out about a car with a specific license plate that the senator may have used before and left something behind in it. The guy on the phone bought it, so I gave him Michael’s license plate number. After a moment, my new friend came back and said that it was impossible for Kennedy to have had the car. It’s been registered to the Soviet Embassy for three years.
I went back into the workroom. Alice did a double take at me and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“What?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think Michael is a Communist spy,” I blurted. I don’t know why I said that, but it came out. It didn’t matter—I trusted Alice.
She looked at me like I was nuts, but at first I think the idea scared her. She jumped a little when I said it. “How do you know that, Judy?” she asked me skeptically.
“I don’t know,” I stupidly answered. “Just a feeling.”
“I thought you were going to forget about him.”
“I have.”
“That’s not what it sounds like.”
After work I went home and watched the third debate on TV with Freddie. The two candidates were in New York, broadcasting from ABC Studios over on W. 66th Street. I think it went well. Freddie said he thought Nixon won it, but I disagreed. But then again, I’d probably say Kennedy won even if he hadn’t.
But I know this time he did!