The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  “Isuzu safe now,” he said. “In hospital. Need doctor attention for a while.”

  “Oh, that’s good news, Soichiro-san!” I replied. “When did this happen?”

  “Last night. Police found her. Brought her to hospital. They call me.”

  “That’s great. I knew it would work out. Did you tell them about Carl Purdy?”

  He hesitated and then nodded abruptly. “Hai!” he said in that forceful way that Japanese do.

  Then he turned to me and our eyes met.

  “Thank you, Judy-san,” he said.

  I swear there was a moment between us—an instant of understanding. It was then that I realized Soichiro is aware of who I am. He put two and two together. Or maybe he’s known all along. What-ever—Soichiro knows the Black Stiletto is Judy Cooper.

  I’m not sure how I felt about that at the time, but now as I sit in my bedroom writing this, dear diary, I am very pleased and comforted. The two men who mean the most to me—Freddie and Soichiro—both know my secret. As I wrote before, they are like surrogate fathers to me.

  Isuzu is safe. And Carl Purdy is behind bars. Life is good.

  22

  John

  HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING

  Today is March 10, 1959.

  The Black Stiletto made the news again yesterday, and I didn’t have a thing to do with it. I knew something was up when she asked me about Carl Purdy the other day. On the night of the eighth, she broke into one of Purdy’s whorehouses in Harlem. She incapacitated three very tough men—broke one guy’s knee and stabbed another one—and she rescued a fifteen-year-old Asian girl. The girl’s name is Isuzu Tachikawa, a Japanese immigrant. It’s a mystery why the Stiletto brought that particular girl out of the brothel. Perhaps she is someone the Stiletto knows?

  I made some calls, cashed in a few favors, and got pretty much everything the police have. They found out the girl’s father is a martial arts instructor, also a Japanese immigrant, who has a studio in Greenwich Village. That’s very interesting. I wonder if the Stiletto knows him instead of the daughter. I figure the police are smart enough to follow up on that. I learned the cops woke the Jap in the middle of the night to inform him his daughter was at Roosevelt Hospital. She’s severely malnourished and apparently a heroin junkie, but otherwise doing well. She will have to go through a rough withdrawal, of course. Police believe she was either kidnapped or lured into the prostitution business with promises of narcotics. The same is probably true with the other girls who were taken from the premises. They were mostly Negroes, but there were also a couple of Latin girls. They were all arrested on prostitution charges, but today the D.A. dropped them. They’re all being sent to medical facilities to help them with drug rehabilitation. Nearly all of them are runaways or were reported missing months ago. It’s all pretty incredible. As for Isuzu Tachikawa, her father told police he was paying extortion money to Carl Purdy, who was also arrested around five in the morning yesterday. I’ll bet that was a sight to see, waking him and his family up at that hour.

  Well, I thought that was going to be the end of Purdy’s Harlem empire, but I was astounded this afternoon when all charges against Purdy were dropped and the bastard was released after being held just a little over twenty-four hours. I found that hard to accept. The guy owns the building where the prostitution and drug dealing was going on. Wasn’t he caught red-handed? And then Chief of Police Bruen and the D.A. had a press conference and announced that evidence against Purdy was obtained illegally and there wasn’t enough to prosecute him. D.A. Wilcox looked pretty pissed off about it, as if it was Bruen’s fault. Bruen, on the other hand, seemed pretty smug about the whole thing. It’s the same old story. Purdy gets arrested for something, but then he’s free the next day.

  The reason I bring all this up is that today during the lunch hour, I left our offices at Sixty-Ninth Street and walked south on Third Avenue to get some fresh air and exercise. It was a cool but pleasant day. I found a busy pizza joint and decided to grab a couple of slices. As I stood at the front counter, I saw none other than Haggerty and Chief Bruen sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant. They, too, were having lunch, but they also appeared to be having a deep discussion. It looked to me like Haggerty was angry about something and Bruen was trying to calm him down. If you ask me, Haggerty’s always angry about something. I knew the two men were friends; there’s a photo in Haggerty’s office that features Haggerty, Bruen, and two other guys on a golf course. I suppose it’s good for the FBI to know what the police are doing, and vice versa. I got out of there before they spotted me.

  Then, two hours later, Chief Bruen and the D.A. held that press conference, and now Purdy is a free man.

  I must say I’m surprised.

  After the press conference, Haggerty was in a foul mood. He sniped at me again about the Stiletto and asked me about the progress of catching her. I told him I’d have a report ready at the end of the day, which I did. In it, I reiterated what I’ve said over and over in previous reports. I was trying to befriend her and get her to trust me. Eventually she could very well reveal her identity to me. Once that is accomplished, we could move in and arrest her. I dutifully turned in the report and filed one carbon copy at the office and one here at home in a personal file I’ve marked “Stiletto.” I’ve started compiling everything I have on her, and I keep these Dictabelts in a separate space.

  I pulled out the photographs Tom shot at the East Side Diner two days ago. She’d made me pretty angry not showing up for our lunch date, but Tom had been positioned at the front of the diner with a briefcase camera. He got pictures of everyone in the place. She called me later to apologize, but she claimed she was there. Once again she was flirtatious and sweet, so it was difficult to stay mad at her.

  I laid the photos out on the table in front of me and studied all the women that were in the diner. It was easy to eliminate the ones I thought were too old to be the Stiletto; there were only four other women in the place who were probably in their twenties. That’s excluding the waitresses, which I suppose is a possibility, but I kinda doubt it. Anyway, I studied the pictures of the four women. I remember one of them bumping into me outside the bathroom. She was tall, had dark hair—almost black—brown-green eyes, and was quite attractive. Very fit, too. Could that have been her? Was bumping into me her way of making contact?

  One other girl in the diner could be a suspect, too, but I’m leaning toward the one with dark hair. Maybe that’s her. Now I’m trying to place her voice when she spoke to me. Was it the same voice on the phone? Possibly.

  Damn, she’s gorgeous.

  Even though it’s pretty far downtown from the Bureau’s offices at Sixty-Ninth and Third, I may try to make it a point to shadow the diner when I can get away. If it’s a place she frequents, then there’s a good chance she’ll bump into me again.

  23

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  APRIL 4, 1959

  Sorry, dear diary, I’ve been busy and haven’t written in nearly a month. Well, busy isn’t the right word. “Lazy” is probably more like it. I just haven’t felt like writing, mainly because I’ve been reading a couple of books—Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote, and The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac. The first one came out last year and was a best-seller, and since it takes place in New York I wanted to read it. Actually it’s a collection of four stories. I’m not sure what I think about the main character in the first one, Holly Golightly. Like me, she’s really a country girl and she comes to the big city; but unlike me, she becomes a rather shallow society gal. Still, it’s very interesting. Peter Gaskin recommended the second book to me. Jack Kerouac is one of those “beat poets” you hear about. I already read On the Road and enjoyed it very much. Dharma Bums is his newest book, and I’m not crazy about it. Too much stuff about Buddhism, but I do like the outdoor travel sequences.

  I’ve also been reading more about Dr. Martin Luther King. He went to India during February and March and has been prea
ching about his experiences there. The papers here in New York don’t cover his talks much since he’s from the south; most of his activities take place down there. But the New York Times occasionally reports on what he’s doing and saying. Apparently a small book containing two of his sermons, called The Measure of a Man, will be published this month. I plan to read it. I don’t know why, but everything that man says touches me deeply. Is it because I grew up so close to the Negroes in Odessa? Is it because lately I’ve been involved with a number of the problems the Negroes here in New York are facing? Who knows? It doesn’t matter. I just admire the man. He’s very brave to be so outspoken on civil rights for Negroes. There’re a lot of white people who’d like to see him silenced.

  I saw the funniest movie last night with Lucy and Peter. It was called Some Like It Hot and it starred Marilyn Monroe, Jack Lemmon, and Tony Curtis. It was also pretty dirty! I was actually shocked by some of it, but it was still hilarious. Seeing two men dressed up like women was so silly. And I love Marilyn Monroe. What a beautiful and sexy woman. I’ve been told I can do a pretty good imitation, dear diary, but you know that already.

  There’s a debate going on in my head whether or not to phone John Richardson. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. Am I leading him on? Is he leading me on? Can I trust him? He’s so handsome and looks so sharp in that suit of his. I must like him or else I wouldn’t keep thinking about him. I suppose I’ll get up my nerve pretty soon and give him a call. Otherwise he’ll throw me over for his secretary, ha ha!

  APRIL 11, 1959

  I have a bad sore throat. I don’t know how I got it but I’ve had it for three days. I hate being sick. Freddie keeps saying I should go to a doctor and get some medicine, but I keep telling him it’s just a cold and it’ll go away. I have real low energy and actually had to take off work today. It hurts to talk, too. Freddie felt my neck under my jawbone and said my glands are swollen. He wants me to stay away from him so he won’t get it.

  There were two interesting stories in the paper today. The first was a really big one, something that could be very important. NASA, that organization that launches rockets into space, has announced the selection of seven military pilots who will become the first American astronauts. They’re called the “Mercury Seven,” because the name of the space program is called Mercury. Very soon, NASA will start sending a man up in a space capsule to orbit the earth. I think that is so amazing. It’s like all those silly science-fiction movies we’ve been watching are coming true. I wonder if they’ll ever send a man to the moon. Freddie has his doubts, but I think anything is possible. Scientists keep coming up with new advancements all the time. A hundred years ago, whoever thought man could fly in a plane? Or fight infection with penicillin?

  I think it’d be fun to go into space. I’d love to see the earth from above. I flew in those two airplanes to Texas in December, and I thought that was incredible. I can’t imagine being higher in the sky than those planes. There’s something romantic about the idea of astronauts. The newspaper had all the Mercury Seven’s pictures, and every one of them is handsome. I wouldn’t mind dating an astronaut! Unfortunately, I think they’re all married.

  The second item in the paper had to do with Carl Purdy. There was another big gangland gunfight, this time in Little Italy. Apparently it was between the Italian mob and the Negro mob. Four men died—all Italians. Franco DeLuca was quoted, “This is the work of Carl Purdy. He’s a menace to this city.” Right. As if DeLuca isn’t. Anyway, the gunfight had to do with narcotics. The Italians were about to receive a shipment of heroin from overseas and the Negroes intercepted it.

  Why can’t Carl Purdy and his gang listen to Dr. King? Why is there all this violence and crime? It’s no wonder the Negroes aren’t treated with respect. White people just think they’re criminals, lazy, or dumb. I know that’s not true. Look at some of those musicians like Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald. They’re wonderful! And in my opinion Dr. King is one of the smartest men in America. If he was white, he could be president someday, but I guess since he’s not that’ll never happen. There’s been a lot of talk in the news that a Catholic might be running for president next year—Senator Kennedy. I don’t understand why a person’s race or religion should make a difference in whether or not he could make a good president, but apparently it does. I’ve heard people on the street bad-mouth Kennedy and Dr. King for those very reasons.

  I’m rambling, dear diary. I must have a fever. I just lie here in bed and listen to the radio or play records. I wish Elvis would put out a new song. I’ve worn out my copy of “I Need Your Love Tonight.” Actually, I like the other side of the record even better. It’s called “(Now and Then There’s) A Fool Such as I.” I may be wrong but I think it rose higher in the charts than “I Need Your Love Tonight.”

  Ugh, I feel awful. I’m gonna try to sleep.

  APRIL 12, 1959

  Freddie talked me in to seeing a doctor this morning. You know, I’ve never seen a doctor since I came to New York. The few times I’ve been hurt, it was always Freddie who patched me up. The scar on my right shoulder that Freddie stitched up might look better if a professional had sewn it, but I think a wound like that would have aroused suspicion. So I have to live with a pretty ugly scar there for the rest of my life. Oh, well. And that bullet wound I got in Odessa—my Mexican friends’ doctor fixed that. I still don’t know if he was a real doctor or not. Luis told me he helped illegal immigrants, so he probably wasn’t.

  Anyway, this afternoon I saw this nice man named Dr. Goldstein. He was about fifty years old, I guess. Curly grayish hair, glasses, and kind eyes. I told him I’d had a sore throat for several days. He looked in my mouth, had me say, “Ah,” peeked in my ears with that funny instrument doctors use, listened to me breathe through a stethoscope, and took my temperature. I had 100.9 degrees! He said I had tonsillitis and an ear infection. Then he asked me when I’d last had a gynecological exam. (I had to look up the word to know how to spell it!) I said I didn’t know what that was. Dr. Goldstein was surprised. He told me what it was and I was shocked! It’s when a doctor looks up a woman’s—down there! I couldn’t imagine having someone do that. I never had it done when I was growing up in Odessa—maybe I was too young. And I certainly haven’t done it since I came to New York. Dr. Goldstein said it was something a woman should do at least once a year. There are apparently a lot of diseases and problems that could occur, like cancer or abnormal periods.

  So I let him do it.

  Oh my gosh, dear diary, I felt so embarrassed! I had to undress and put on a flimsy smocklike thing. A good part of my shoulder was visible, and he saw the scar. He asked, “My Lord, how did you get that?”

  I told him I was in a car accident when I was younger. He took a longer look at the scar and said, “It’s not very old, is it?”

  Doctors must be able to tell the age of a scar, so I didn’t lie. “It was last year.”

  “Did a doctor stitch you?”

  Then I did lie. “Of course.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say, he did a terrible job. Where was this?”

  “Look, Dr. Goldstein, could we just get on with the exam?”

  He realized I didn’t want to talk about it, so he had me lie down and put my feet in cold metal stirrups with my legs spread apart. The next thing I knew, he was touching me down there, spreading me apart, looking inside with cold instruments. I hated it!

  When it was all over he told me I could get dressed. While he made notes at a table, I went behind the screen and did so. After that I sat down so he could talk to me.

  “Judy,” he said, “I suggest you should have your tonsils out as soon as this infection clears up. They’re awfully swollen, so it’s a bit difficult to tell for sure, but I believe there’s an abnormality on the right one. It’s probably benign, but I’d like to make sure.” He wrote out a prescription for me and also the name and number of a surgeon who did tonsillectomies. (I looked up that word, too.) Then he said, “I hope you’ll make it a
point to come see me every twelve months. It’s very important for a woman your age to have regular gynecological exams.”

  “Okay.” What else could I say?

  He wanted to see me again in a week but to go ahead and make the appointment with the tonsil doctor in two weeks’ time.

  After I paid and left the office, which was on East 33rd Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues, I went to a pay phone. I don’t know why, but I had a sudden compulsion to call John. So I did.

  He was at the FBI office, so I didn’t want to talk long. A secretary answered this time and I told her “Eloise” wanted to speak to him. She asked me what it was regarding. I replied that it was personal.

  John picked up after a few seconds’ pause.

  “Hello there,” he said.

  “Hi, John.”

  “Er, Eloise?” He sounded confused.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “I’ve got a bad cold. And tonsillitis.”

  “Oh dear. You need to take care of yourself. It must be from all that running around at night you do. Oh, and by the way, congratulations on that business up in Harlem last month. I haven’t talked to you since then.”

  “Thanks. John, I have to get my tonsils taken out. I may not be able to talk for a while.”

  He laughed. “You’ll still be able to talk. It just hurts for a few days. And you’ll get to eat a lot of ice cream. Although in my opinion that ice cream thing is a myth. It actually produces more mucus in your throat, coats it with milky stuff that isn’t too good for the wounds. I’d suggest just drinking a lot of ice water.”