“Psst,” I whispered.
As soon as he turned around, I punched him in the nose. Before a second had elapsed, I’d grabbed his gun hand and redirected it. Another round discharged, as I expected it would. From there it was easy to disarm him, hit him one more time, and send him to Dreamland.
I turned back to O’Malley and said, “Now will you call the police?”
He nodded, his hands still raised. About two weeks after that, I was in the area they call SoHo, on Wooster Street between Spring and Broome. I was darting along from shadow to shadow, when I heard a woman scream. Pretty amazing that I heard it at all—the sound came from behind closed doors in an apartment above me. But I had an estimation of where it originated, so I stepped out into the street to look up at the building. I caught the movement of two silhouettes on a drawn shade over a window. A man and a woman. The body language told me all I needed to know—the man was threatening the woman with violence.
My lockpicks got me in the front door of the building. I ran up the stairs—three flights—and heard the couple arguing outside their door. She was hysterical, crying, “No, Jim, no!” I heard a slap.
I kicked the lock once, twice, and three times before the door flung open.
The couple stood there in the middle of the room, scared and shocked as all get-out. She was crying and obviously in a defensive position. The smell of booze was overpowering—the man was apparently a mean drunk.
I didn’t ask questions. I simply went up to the guy and delivered two jabs and a cross. He was down before you could count to three.
Turning to the woman, I asked, “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
Much to my surprise, the lady went to him, knelt by his side, and tried to revive him. She looked at me and shouted, “That’s my husband, you idiot. What did you do?”
I was dumbfounded. It was a situation I’ll never understand—how could a woman let her man treat her like a punching bag and then defend him? It was the same way with my mother, I saw it with Lucy and Sam, and there it was again.
“He has no right to hurt you,” I said.
She stood and pointed a finger at me. “Get out of here!”
I held up my hands. “Look, I’m just trying to hel—”
“I’m calling the police.”
She went to the phone on the wall and started dialing.
Fine. Let ‘em have their wedded bliss.
I left and was long gone before the cops got there.
By May, the newspapers were having a field day with the Black Stiletto. I read about incidents in which I allegedly took part, but was nowhere near. A couple of mob-related shootings were blamed on me. I had nothing to do with them. Some teenagers up in Harlem got hold of a gun and it accidentally went off. A kid was killed. They blamed it on the Black Stiletto, who had “shown up and tried to take away the weapon.” You wouldn’t believe the kind of dog poo I had to read about me. It was sickening.
Still, no one had managed to photograph the Stiletto. The police sketch from the Washington Square Park incident had stuck, so that was what every paper ran whenever I “made the news,” even if it wasn’t really me.
The police commissioner issued a statement saying the Black Stiletto would eventually be caught. I was a “menace, just as bad as the criminals I was pursuing.”
Maybe I was, but I hadn’t really done anything wrong from my point of view. One thing was for sure—the people didn’t agree with the press. They were talking about me in a different light. I heard ‘em, too. In the diner, on the subway, in the gym, and on the street the word was that the Black Stiletto was some kind of hero and the police should shut up and let her do her job.
My intention was to do just that.
19
Judy’s Diary
1958
JULY 6, 1958
Well, dear diary, we are up to date. I can now begin writing entries as they occur instead of reflecting back on what’s happened in the past. It’s been a therapeutic—sometimes painful—exercise to write all that stuff down. But now I can move forward.
I suppose you could say I’m in an unusual position for a single twenty-year-old woman in New York City. Most women in the workforce are either secretaries or waitresses, and all the others are housewives. I’ve learned a lot in my short life about how the world treats women. Basically, we’re considered inferior until it comes to childrearing, and that’s what men want us to do. Have sex with them and raise their kids. That’s it. Here in the big city, there’s a prevailing illusion that women have wondrous opportunities to get a higher education or advance in a career. But in the end it’s all the same—you work for the man, and by that I mean the male. It’s even worse back in Texas. I was young when I left Odessa, but I saw it even then. Women were the doormats of life.
Sometimes during the day when I’m not working at the gym or training with Soichiro, I take walks along Madison and Fifth Avenues. I see and hear the working women on their lunch breaks—smoking cigarettes and gabbing about their bosses, complaining about their pitiful pay, wondering if so-and-so will ask them to get married, and I just feel sad. I’d never survive in that kind of environment. I could never be an office girl, answering phones, taking messages, fetching coffee, having an illicit tryst with the boss, even though that’s what all the other women my age are doing. I don’t like to smoke, either, and it seems that’s a requirement to work on Madison Avenue. I tried it a few times and coughed my lungs up. Freddie smokes, so I’m used to the gym and our apartment smelling like cigarettes. That part I don’t mind. Heck, everyone I know smokes. Lucy and Sam do. I don’t think Soichiro smokes, at least I’ve never seen him. Maybe I’m wrong.
Those office ladies drink a lot, too, I’ve noticed. When they’re out at lunch, they’ll order one or two cocktails—sometimes three or four. If they’re with “the men,” they usually get completely plastered and go back to work that way because the guys do it. Me, I’ll drink when I want, and I’ve done so since I turned eighteen. Freddie and I often have a drink at night if we’re both at home. Lucy and I drink a lot when we’re out on the town together. But I can’t see drinking during the day, at lunchtime, when you’re supposed to be working. I guess that’s one of the many differences between me and all the other women I see around me.
One friend of Lucy’s—a girl named Rebecca—works in one of those Madison Avenue buildings. It’s an advertising firm, I think, or maybe a publisher. I can’t remember. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago she was in the diner crying her eyes out because her boss, with whom she was having an affair, informed her that he’d decided not to leave his wife. So she’s stuck working for him and dealing with a broken heart. She had to apply for a transfer and it might mean less money or a demotion. I felt sorry for her, but I also wanted to shake her and say, “Why the heck would you do that, knowing he was married?” I know I’m not in her shoes and sometimes people can’t help what their hearts tell them to do—look at me, I fell in love with a gangster, for Christ’s sake—so I suppose I shouldn’t be talking. The thing is, let’s say Rebecca got married to this guy, he’d probably continue to have affairs with his secretaries and she’d still end up with a broken heart.
I don’t want any of that. I’m happy where I am. I love working in the gym—and I’m probably the only woman in the city of New York, maybe the whole country—who can claim that privilege. The patrons at Second Avenue Gym used to give me a lot of “shit”—Freddie’s word, not mine—by making fun of me, saying sexually suggestive things, you know. But now they mostly leave me alone. I’ve become “one of the guys.” It’s great.
And then there are my nighttime activities as the Black Stiletto, a whole other side of me. A secret identity. Most people would think leading a double life is dangerous, and it is, but it’s just so exciting and fulfilling. I feel as if I’m contributing something to our society.
The only thing I don’t have is romance, but right now I think that’s something I can do without.
JULY 18,
1958
Something terrible happened last week, on the twelfth. Looking back on it, I probably should have played it differently, but no one has that kind of hindsight. Not even me, with all my heightened senses. All my acute hearing and intuition can’t keep me from making stupid mistakes.
The Black Stiletto was out on the prowl. It was about eleven o’clock and I was on First Avenue and 23rd Street. The sky decided to suddenly open up and let loose with a downpour. I mean, it rained hard. I had to find shelter, and the first mistake I made was to step into a bar. Full of people. I don’t remember the name of the place, but I thought—why not? They’re just ordinary folks, having a drink, and I was something of a local hero. What could be the harm?
And, at first, it was very pleasant. You should have seen the faces when I walked in. There were maybe fifteen customers. Dean Martin was singing something on the radio, or maybe it was a jukebox, but I doubt that—the East Side Diner was the only place in town I knew that had a jukebox. Anyway, most of the clientele were men. There were two women. Everyone was amazed to see me. Someone asked if I was the real deal, and I told him, “Yes, I am.” One guy asked me for an autograph. That was a first. I signed a paper napkin—To Joey, lots of love, the Black Stiletto. One woman was very excited to meet me. She told me she reads about all my exploits and cheers me on, and that I’m doing “good work.” That made me feel good. More than one person offered to buy me a drink. I had a Scotch and soda the autograph guy paid for. Then a man with camera came up to me, told me his name was Max, and that he worked freelance for the Daily News. Could he have a couple of photographs? I thought it would be all right, especially since no photos of the Black Stiletto had ever been published. I knew Max would make a lot of money for the pics, too.
So I posed for photos in that bar. Max took shots of me alone—standing on a table, sitting, holding a drink, displaying my stiletto—and he snapped some of me and the customers together. There was even one of me kissing the bartender on the cheek—I think I’d finished my drink by then and was feeling good.
All the photos appeared in the paper the next day. And the next. Then they got syndicated and picked up by every major newspaper in the country. I hope that photographer made a fortune, because for the last week those pictures have been everywhere. I thought they were pretty good ones, too. Unfortunately, they remind me of the trouble that came afterward that night.
So there we were, having a great time in the bar—a bunch of neighborhood lushes and the Black Stiletto—when in comes a policeman. I swear everyone in the joint froze. The cop did a double take at me and then drew his gun. He said I was under arrest. Everyone in the bar told him to leave me alone, I wasn’t hurting anyone. The cop insisted I was wanted by the law and he was going to bring me in.
The second mistake I made that night was to play along, humor him, and then try something sneaky. Maybe it was having the audience clearly on my side that gave me a false sense of security. I laughed, raised my hands, and told the crowd, “It’s all right, folks. The nice police officer is just doing his job. I’m going to cooperate.” There were cries of protest and even calls for me to run for it. I said, “No, I’m going with the nice policeman.”
The guy still had the pistol trained on me. I went to him, my hands still raised, and then I swiftly kicked the gun out of his hands. The weapon flew across the room and discharged, scaring the bejesus out of everybody. No one was hit, though. Anyway, before the cop could react, I performed a judo maneuver on him and threw him over my back and onto a table. Slam! Then I ran outside.
It was still pouring down rain. I should have started running south; I probably could’ve avoided everything else had I done so. But I looked up at the building and noticed scaffolding attached to the side, going all the way up the five stories. Everything above the bar was residential—apartments. My idea was to climb the scaffolding, get on the roof, and make my way west to Second Avenue over the tops of buildings. That was the third mistake.
So I took hold of the poles on the scaffolding and started to climb. By then, some of the bar customers had come outside to see where I’d gone. They didn’t notice me and I heard one guy said, “She must’ve got away.”
I reached the scaffolding’s second floor level, and something happened. My right boot slipped on the plywood that lay across the frame; it was just too wet. I tried to grab the pole, but it was also slippery and the friction between my glove and the metal wasn’t good enough. It was like hanging on to a noodle.
I fell. Landed on my right leg and toppled flat on my face, right there in front of the group—just as the policeman joined them. I howled in pain. I sprained my ankle badly; at the time I thought I’d broken it. The policeman told everyone to stand back. There were cries of “She’s hurt!” “Leave her alone!” “Call an ambulance!” “Is she okay?” But the cop—not a nice policeman, as it turned out—shouted at them to get back inside. They didn’t, but the group gave him some room.
He had retrieved his gun and pointed it at me. He told me to slowly unsheathe my stiletto and toss it on the pavement. I had no choice but to do so. Then, with the gun still trained on me, he moved closer and kicked me on my injured leg! That caused the crowd to protest even more, and it just made me mad. The policeman then removed handcuffs from his belt. He ordered me to lie face down on the wet sidewalk and put my hands behind me.
The crowd turned ugly. “No!” “She didn’t do nothing!” “Let her go!” “Boo!” “Stinking cops!”
With my stiletto on the ground in front of me, I continued to lie on my side, curved into a ball as I nursed my injured leg. The cop must’ve thought I was too hurt to try anything, so he didn’t repeat the order for me to lie on my stomach. He bent over me, ready to snap on the cuffs. I reached into my left boot and drew my back-up weapon, the homemade wrist dagger. Grasping the handle firmly between my right thumb and the side of my index finger, saber-style, I lashed out and sliced the back of the cop’s gun hand. That was my fourth and most serious mistake of the night.
The policeman dropped his gun and shouted. I leaped to my feat and clobbered him. I mean, I hit him hard on the side of the face and knocked the guy out. He went down, flat on his back. I picked up my stiletto and then I ran. Well, I limped. The crowd in front of the bar wasn’t sure how to react. Some of them cheered me on. Others were a little shocked, I think.
I got away and made it home in one piece, which was a minor miracle. It was a painful journey. I even managed to climb the telephone pole on 2nd Street and hobble across the roofs to the gym building and slip inside my bedroom window. Once I was out of my costume, I wrapped my swollen ankle. The next morning, Freddie took a look and rewrapped it. Ordered me to stay off of it for several days. It’s better now but it will probably take another week to get back to normal.
What isn’t better is my relationship with the NYPD. I’m now wanted for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Serious stuff.
The cops are really out to get me now.
20
Judy’s Diary
1958
AUGUST 1, 1958
I saw Tony the Tank today. He came in the gym to see me. I’d spent the last couple of weeks working out and nursing my sprained ankle. It was nearly 99 percent healed. I told Soichiro about the sprain and that I wouldn’t be in to see him for a couple of weeks. He tsk-tsk’d me but seemed to understand. I’m very close to obtaining my black belt. Probably in another month I’ll have it. I just want to make sure my ankle is in perfect condition before I go on.
Anyway, Tony came in the gym and I was in the middle of spotting Jimmy with some new free weights we’d just purchased. At first I didn’t recognize him—he’d lost a lot of weight. When he waved, though, I knew it was him. Suddenly all the memories of Fiorello that I’d swept under the rug came blowing back at me.
“Jimmy, I gotta see someone,” I said, and then I went over to the front of the gym where Tony was waiting. We embraced and went through the “how ya doing, long-time-
no-see” stuff, and then he asked if I had some time to get a cup of coffee with him. I checked the clock on the wall and figured I could take a break. I yelled at Freddie, who was coaching some young kids in the ring, and told him where I was going. He didn’t care, as long as I came back. I think he was always afraid of losing me, not only as assistant manager, but as his substitute daughter.
So Tony and I went to the East Side Diner. Lucy was working and she sat us at a booth near the jukebox. Tony put some money in and played some of the more recent hit songs for me—“Purple People Eater” by Sheb Wooley, “Yakety Yak” by the Coasters, and “All I Have to Do is Dream” by the Everly Brothers. Tony teased me about liking that music. He was more of a Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin kind of guy.
“You’re lookin’ good, Judy,” he said. I told him he looked fantastic, seeing as how he’d lost the weight. He was still heavy, but not as bad.
“Yeah, I hadn’t been eatin’ my usual amount of pasta and meatballs. And I been runnin’ all over the place, doin’ this, doin’ that.”
“Well, they say exercise is good for you,” I told him.
We had coffee and talked about how he’d been in California doing some work for the family and was finally allowed to come back to New York. All perceived transgressions forgiven. As he spoke, I was thinking there was something he was avoiding, an important topic he wanted to bring up. He was nervous and fidgeted a lot. My intuition read him like a book. So I finally asked him straight out, “Tony, is there anything special on your mind?”
He lit a cigarette and said, “Yeah.” He waited a few seconds and then said it. “Judy, the family’s reorganized. You know, there’s a new don and everything. What with all the organized crime hearin’s in Washington goin’ on, the family’s kinda on the run. Movin’ business west to places like Las Vegas and L.A.”
The Black Stiletto Page 14
