The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  “Thanks. Hey, I want to ask you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why was Carl Purdy released? He was in jail for what, a day? What he was doing at that place was horrible. Those poor girls. The men were making them use heroin and sell their bodies.”

  “I know. I don’t understand it either. Obviously, Purdy has connections. A lot of these mobsters do. They pay bribes to public officials. That kind of thing has been going on since the beginning of time. Don’t quote me on that, though. I really have no idea how it happened.”

  “It’s not fair,” I said. “Purdy needs to pay for what he did to them.”

  “I agree with you. But you need to stay away from Purdy and his organization. They are very, very dangerous. They’re too big for the Black Stiletto.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” I coughed and sneezed.

  “You’d better get home; you sound terrible. But one more thing before you go.”

  “What?”

  “What’s your connection to the Japanese girl you rescued?”

  I was afraid he’d ask me that someday. I lied. “Nothing. She was in bad shape and seemed way too young to be in a place like that. And she was different from the other girls. She was the only Asian, I think. I just picked her up and took her outside.”

  John said, “I see. My boss wanted me to have a talk with the girl’s father a couple of weeks ago. Do you know him?”

  Oh my gosh! Soichiro! “Uh, no,” I replied.

  “He teaches Asian fighting techniques. Did you know that?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “I was just wondering, seeing as how you seem to know how to do that stuff. Karate. Judo. There aren’t a lot of people in this country who practice that.”

  “I learned mine somewhere else, John.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  I couldn’t help but ask. “So what did her father say? Was he grateful for what I did?”

  “I think he was. I asked him if he knew you, and he said he didn’t. He couldn’t imagine why you would rescue his daughter. It’s just as much a mystery to him as it is to the law enforcement people. Did you know Carl Purdy was extorting him for a lot of money?”

  “Ye—uhm, wasn’t that in the paper?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  Darn, he almost caught me! “Then I guess I didn’t know that. Are the police going to do anything about it? Or the FBI?”

  “The man can’t prove it. He paid Purdy in cash. We can see he made withdrawals from his bank, but there’s no way we can link it to Purdy. However, the man can try a civil suit, the burden of proof isn’t as challenging. I just hope Purdy doesn’t come after him in an act of revenge.”

  I felt a shiver when he said that. “Does Purdy do that kind of thing?”

  “Yes, he does. Sometimes it can be weeks, maybe months later, but he often gets even with his enemies. Usually before the trial date.”

  Soichiro would have to be warned. Then I forgot John could trace the call from his office! “Listen, John, I feel terrible, so I’m gonna hang up now. I’ll call you soon.” And I did. I didn’t let him say goodbye.

  I took a bus downtown, filled my prescription, and went home to bed.

  APRIL 28, 1959

  Dear diary, I have “tons-holes,” ha ha.

  Yep, yesterday I had my tonsils taken out. I was admitted to Bellevue Hospital on the evening of the 26th and had to spend the night. I couldn’t eat or drink anything after midnight. My tonsillitis had cleared up a week earlier, so Dr. Goldstein okay’d me for the surgery. The doctor who did the procedure was another nice Jewish man named Dr. Weinblatt. Yesterday morning they wheeled me into the operating room. Then the nurse put a mask over my mouth and nose and I had to breathe a sweet-smelling gas. I fell fast asleep! The next thing I knew, I woke up real groggy and woozy. My throat hurt like the dickens. The nurse gave me some ice water to drink, which made it feel better temporarily, but I knew this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park like everyone had been saying.

  The doctor let me go home yesterday afternoon. I felt like dog poo-poo, forgive my language. Freddie was real sweet and took care of me, though. He’d actually come to the hospital yesterday morning and sat in the waiting room while I had the surgery. He brought me one of those new Barbie dolls as a present! I love her! I never played with dolls much when I was a kid, but there’s something truly special about this Barbie. Freddie made me some oatmeal—which I couldn’t swallow—but then I had a popsicle. That felt good on my throat. Dr. Weinblatt said it might be difficult to swallow food for a day or two. He wants to see me in five days to check how I’m doing and take the stitches out.

  Last night I kinda wished John was able to call me. It would have been nice to hear him say some comforting words.

  Gee, I sound like a wimpy girl!

  APRIL 30, 1959

  I feel much better. I’m able to swallow food, although it needs to be pretty soft. I’m surviving on soups and oatmeal and spaghetti. I’m gonna go in to work tomorrow. My “tons-holes” are still sore, but it’s nothing compared to what it was three days ago.

  To celebrate my reemergence into the workforce, this evening I went outside to a pay phone and called John at home. I always surprise him when I call. He asked how I was, and I told him about the tonsils and all that. He told me he would’ve come to visit me in the hospital if he’d known about it. And if he’d known my name. I laughed at that. I told him he was sweet and asked why he manages to be so romantic when he doesn’t even know me. John said he’s “falling in love with my voice,” if you can believe that, dear diary! Well, for what it’s worth it made me feel good.

  “When are we going to meet for real?” he asked for the millionth time. “I promise no law enforcement action. I just want to talk to you.”

  I think he’s broken through my defenses, dear diary, ’cause it didn’t take me long to answer, “Okay. I’ll do it. But you have to wait until my throat is all better. Another week or two.”

  He said that’d be fine.

  “Where are we gonna meet?” I asked.

  “That diner?”

  I thought about that, but then I realized I really didn’t want him to know my identity. I’d meet him as the Stiletto. “No, it has to be a secret location. I’ll meet you in my disguise.”

  “All right. How about my car? I could park somewhere in a discreet and private place, and you can approach it at an agreed-upon time. No one will know. No one will see.”

  I had to ask. “How do I know it won’t be a setup, John?”

  “Come on, Stiletto, we’ve been through this a dozen times. I assure you it won’t be a set-up. You have my word.”

  “As a gentleman?”

  He chuckled. “I’ve never thought of myself as a gentleman, but sure, you have my word as a gentleman.”

  It was at that point I knew I had to meet him in person. “Okay, John. I’ll call you and we’ll set up a time and place. As soon as my throat is better.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart? He called me sweetheart!

  “You take care of yourself and get well,” he said.

  After I hung up, I felt my heart beating hard in my chest. That man does something to me! I’m already nervous about meeting him. I could always back out of it, but somehow I knew this time I’d go through with it.

  I wanted to sing as I walked back to the gym, but instead I hummed to myself because that was easier on the throat. The tune was that new hit song by The Fleetwoods, “Come Softly to Me.”

  Don’t ask me if that means anything significant!

  24

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  MAY 11, 1959

  I met John Richardson tonight.

  I can’t believe I’m writing this about an FBI agent, dear diary, but he’s a dreamboat!

  It happened like this. Last night I called him at home. He asked me if I’d recovered from having my tonsils out, and I told him I had.
Right on cue, he wanted to know if I was ready to meet him. I said yes.

  He suggested we meet in the Meatpacking District in lower Manhattan, specifically West 13th Street just west of 9th Avenue, north of Gansevoort Street. During the day it’s probably a very busy place—I’d never been there—but after dark it’s kind of a creepy, deserted area. John said he’d park his car, a black 4-door Ford sedan, in front of the Garibaldi Meat Company building at 10:00 p.m. tonight. He said the car would glaringly stand out to the criminally minded as a police or Fed car, ha ha.

  So I donned the Black Stiletto disguise, slipped out my bedroom window, ran across the roofs to the telephone pole I always climb down to the street, and made my way across town. During the winter I’d gotten used to wearing my trench coat over my outfit, without a mask, and then walking on the streets like any normal pedestrian. But now the weather was too warm for a coat. The Stiletto had to take her chances not being seen, just like in the early days! Moving any distance while sticking only to shadows takes some time, so I left the gym early enough to allow for delays. Crossing the wide avenues is always a challenge. I can’t use the intersections and crosswalks; that would be like a big neon sign pointing at my head saying, “Black Stiletto HERE!” Instead, I cross mid-avenue, between intersections, and take my chances by darting into the traffic and rushing to the other side. To anyone who notices me, hopefully, I’m just a flash in the night. Was she there or not?

  I reached the Meatpacking District at 9:45. First I went up and down the street and checked for other cars. There were a couple here and there, but they were empty and locked. I checked the roofs and windows for any signs of light or other indications of a surveillance team. Then I perched alone in the darkness of a doorway across from the Garibaldi building and waited. Yes, I was nervous. Butterflies bounced around inside my stomach. I’ve never been to a prom or school dance, but I imagine that’s how I would have felt if I had.

  At 9:55, a black Ford sedan pulled onto the street and parked in front of the building. The headlights against the building provided a momentary backlight, allowing me to discern the silhouette of the driver, the only person in the car. It was him. I recognized the outline of the hat. He turned off the car and doused the lights. I watched him for a few moments and saw the flick of a match and the ember of a cigarette. He rolled down the window and flicked ashes out the side of the car.

  It was now or never.

  I crossed 13th, approached the passenger side of John’s car, and tapped on the window. He reached over and opened the door, and I got in.

  Oh my gosh, I was sitting in the front seat of a car with an FBI agent. “Hi,” I said. Talk about being at a loss for words!

  “Hello. I’m glad you made it,” he said.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  He shrugged. “You’ve stood me up before.”

  “I have to be careful.” I looked around the car, although I don’t know what I thought I’d see.

  “I’m alone,” he said. “Don’t worry. Try to relax.” He held out his hand. “I’m John.”

  I removed my glove and shook his hand. Was it my imagination, but did I feel an electric charge when the skin of his palm touched mine?

  “I’m the Black Stiletto,” I said, and then I laughed. He did, too. It was obvious we both felt a little awkward. He offered me a cigarette, but I shook my head.

  “You gonna tell me your name?” he asked.

  “You know I can’t, John. I have to admit it’s very difficult to trust you. The law is after me. The police want to draw and quarter me. I’m on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. You’re one of them, John.”

  “I’m not going to turn you in. I have no intention of hurting you or getting you in trouble.”

  “I appreciate that. You’ll have to give me some time. Maybe we can meet like this again. After all, this is our first date.” I laughed. “You don’t expect a girl to reveal everything on the first date, do you?”

  He smiled. “I suppose not,” he answered. It was a wonderful smile, by the way.

  “So tell me about yourself, John. Where are you from? What do you like to do?”

  He shrugged. “I’m from Poughkeepsie. I’m an only child. My father is a lawyer and my mother is a housewife. They live in Florida now. I’ve lived in Manhattan since I was twenty-six. I started working for the Bureau when I was twenty-seven.”

  I wanted to ask him how old he was. He must have sensed it, for he added, “I’m thirty now.”

  “What do you do for the FBI?”

  “I’m a Special Agent in the New York City Field Office. It’s located on East Sixty-Ninth Street and Third Avenue. Our offices occupy the sixth through the fourteenth floors, as well as the penthouse. I’m on the seventh floor. I’m one of many agents. We report to Special Agents in Charge, and there are a few of them in our office. Some field offices around the country have only one SAC, but because New York encompasses a large population and territory, we have several.”

  “Do you carry a gun?”

  “Of course. Standard issue Model ten Smith & Wesson six shot thirty-eight-caliber with a four inch barrel.”

  I giggled. I really didn’t need that much information. “Do you have it with you?”

  He nodded. “Mind you, I don’t do a lot of field work. I’m mostly an administrator. I’m given a number of assignments to oversee. If the case warrants it, I’ll go out with other agents to make arrests and all that. I’ve never been in a firefight. I hope that never happens.”

  “Have you ever arrested anyone?”

  “Many times. But our jurisdiction is for federal crimes. If I saw someone breaking into a liquor store, for example, I couldn’t arrest him. That’s a job for the police. But if he was stealing the liquor and transporting it across state lines, then I could.”

  “Then why is the FBI after me?” I asked.

  “Because you’ve been involved with organized crime and Communists.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve been involved with the Cosa Nostra. My boss thinks that makes you an accessory to federal crimes. And there was that business last year with the Cuban spy. That’s federal stuff.”

  “For heaven’s sake, I’m on your side!”

  He held up his hands. “You’re preaching to the choir. If it was up to me, I’d tell the Bureau to lay off. The city police, on the other hand, they have a right to find you and arrest you.”

  “Do you think I deserve it?”

  He thought a moment. “I don’t condone vigilantism. It’s dangerous and it could get innocent bystanders hurt. That said, I think you’re doing a marvelous job. You’re a brave girl. And from what I can see of your face, you’re beautiful, too.”

  Oh, gosh, that did it! I felt myself blush and looked down. I don’t know how he could tell, though. My mask covers half my face—only the bottom of my nose, my mouth, and my chin are exposed, and of course my eyes are visible through the holes.

  “Flattery’s not gonna get you anywhere,” I said. “But thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Where did you learn all your fighting skills? Not to mention your ability to sneak around and break into places. What were you in a former life, a cat burglar?”

  I laughed. “Nope. Just an ordinary gymnastics student in school.”

  “You had to have taken lessons in those Japanese fighting techniques.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Most people haven’t heard of that stuff. How did you come across it?”

  “That’s a long story,” I said. “And personal. I think I’d rather not talk about me.”

  “At least tell me where you’re from. Oklahoma? Texas? Arkansas?”

  “How could you tell? Is my accent that bad?”

  He chuckled. “Well, you don’t sound like your average New Yorker.”

  “I’m from Texas. But I’ve been in New York since I was fourteen.”

  “Do you have family?”

  I held up my finger and wagged it. “Too personal.”


  Our conversation went on like that for about ten minutes. It covered mostly mundane stuff like New York sights, books we’d read, and movies we’d seen.

  We spent a total of twenty minutes in the front seat of his car, just talking, flirting a little, and him smoking a couple of cigarettes. He mentioned he should have thought about bringing something for us to drink and that next time he would. He asked what I like, and I told him I wasn’t particular.

  Finally, I felt it was time to say good night. I said I’d had a nice time and that I’d meet him again this way. We shook once more and he put his other palm on top of my hand. It was nice to be touched by a man again. It’s been quite some time since Fiorello, you know. Well, there was that Cuban, Rafael Pulgarón, but he doesn’t count, does he? I had a burning desire to kiss John, but I wasn’t going to be so forward. It wasn’t ladylike. Or Stiletto-like, ha ha. I think I was a little disappointed that he didn’t try it himself. Maybe next time? Anyway, I let him hold my hand for a few moments and then it was time to go.

  I got out of the car—and as soon as I did, a NYPD patrol car slowly rounded the corner on 9th Avenue. Its headlights hit me straight on and I froze. The car stopped and I saw there were two patrolmen in the front seat. My first thought was that they had been waiting all along to ambush me, but I could tell by their slow reaction they were just as surprised to see me as I was them. It took a second for me to snap out of it, and then I bolted around John’s car and ran west on 13th. The patrol car’s red-and-blue lights flashed on and it tore out after me. There weren’t too many places for me to hide. The buildings butted against each other, and I saw no accesses between them. The only thing I could do was run. I reached the Washington Street intersection and turned north. That was a mistake. Up ahead was 14th Street, and there were always cars there, no matter what time it was. To compensate, I moved as close as possible to the buildings on the east side of Washington, where I found a dark gap next to a loading dock. Just as I slipped into it, the police car rounded the corner. I didn’t know if they saw me, so I stayed perfectly still and prayed for them to drive on by.