“Of course it hurts. That’s the idea,” I said. “You gonna tell me what I want to know or you want me to break the other one?”
“No, no, I may have somethin’. Just a minute. Please. Don’t hit me again.”
“I’m waitin’.” I didn’t want to let on I was feelin’ a bit of pain in my chest from all the excitement. Damn heart murmur.
He stood and went to a nightstand by his crummy bed. Opened a drawer with his good hand, reached in, and pulled out a couple of envelopes. “I might have somethin’ here from Judy. It’s really, really old.” Tony sat on the bed, pulled off a rubber band, and started goin’ through ‘em. I stood there and watched. I shoulda taken ‘em from him, but I didn’t. I was stupid.
Eventually he picked out three envelopes. I wasn’t sure what the hell he was doin’ at first, but he started tearin’ a strip off the top of each one. Maybe I thought he was gonna give me the pieces. I was dumb, ‘cause as soon as he’d torn corners off all three envelopes—he stuck ‘em in his mouth and swallowed ‘em.
“You piece of shit!” I shouted. I struck him several times with the cane and he rolled over onto the floor. I quickly grabbed the torn envelopes and realized what he’d done. He’d ripped off the return addresses and postmarks and then ate ‘em. I went through the rest of the letters, but they were from people I didn’t know. I took a card out of one of the envelopes. It was a birthday card and she’d written, “Hi Tony, I hope this finds you well. Will write more later.” Signed it “Judy.” The other two were handwritten letters. I read ‘em, but there wasn’t a single clue about where she lived when she wrote ‘em.
I beat Tony to death anyway and left his buildin’.
28
Judy’s Diary
1958
NOVEMBER 12, 1958
Something bad has happened, dear diary, and I’ll tell you about it in a minute. First, let me bring you up to date. I’ve been very remiss in writing!
The Black Stiletto kept a low profile through the rest of August, September, October, and the first half of November. I went out a few times and nothing happened. Didn’t see a single crime being committed. So I concentrated on getting my black belt in karate —which I did—and saving up money by working in the gym. Soichiro seemed to be more proud of me than I was of myself. I don’t think he ever had a female student like me before. After I was awarded the black belt in front of my class, he asked me to stay for a few minutes. When the other students had left, he broke out a bottle of Japanese liquor he called sake. He poured a couple of tiny cups for each of us, saying we should celebrate my achievement. The sake tasted sweet and sour at the same time, if that’s possible. It was good, though.
Another thing I did during the last three months was revise my disguise. It needed to be something I could change in and out of when I was away from home. Something portable. I also wanted something more appropriate for warmer weather. My first costume was perfect when the temperature was frigid, but it was a sweatbox in July.
The solution was simple—thinner leather. It also had short sleeves, but the matching gloves came up to the midway point of my forearms. Otherwise it looked exactly like my winter equivalent. Instead of tight leather pants, however, I opted for black leotards. I could wear them with a skirt or dress and they looked like colored stockings, which, in fact, they were. I found some shorter boots at Bloomingdale’s that worked perfectly. I could wear them with civilian clothes and no one knew any better. When all was said and done, I could keep my mask/hood and utility belt in the knapsack, which I could wear on my back just like a college student. I figured in the winter I could go back to wearing the trench coat over my warmer costume if I wanted to be capable of becoming the Black Stiletto at a moment’s notice.
Now on to the business at hand.
Yesterday I went to the East Side Diner for breakfast. I knew Lucy was working the morning shift, so I thought it’d be fun to go see her. Well, I was shocked as all get-out to see she had a black eye. A real shiner, as they call it at the gym.
“Lucy! What happened to you?” I asked her, but she didn’t want to talk about it. I let her serve my food, but she looked like she might cry. Someone put a coin in the jukebox and played that new song, “Volare.” I never can remember the name of the Italian singer who does it. Anyway, when I was done eating, she took a short break and sat with me in my booth. “Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?” I asked again. But I knew. It was the same old problem, rearing its ugly head.
“It was Sam, wasn’t it,” I said. She nodded as a tear ran down her cheek. I got mad. I started feeling my blood boil the way it does when I see an injustice.
“It was my fault,” she said. “I accused him of being with another woman.”
“And was he?”
“I think so. I found lipstick on his collar, and it wasn’t mine. And he comes home smellin’ of perfume I don’t use.”
“That bastard!”
“Still, it was my fault. I shoulda kept my mouth shut.”
“It is not your fault! He has no right to hit you. No matter what. The only reason he could have to hit a woman is if she’s coming at him with a gun or a knife.”
I hadn’t been out with the two of them recently. Sam and I didn’t get along anymore. I’d called him on his shenanigans once too often. If he knew I would be anywhere they were going, Sam opted to stay home. He and Lucy were living together now; had been for a few months.
Then, out of the blue, Lucy whispered, “Judy, I have to leave him.”
“I’ll say.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I have no place to go. My parents didn’t like me moving in with Sam, so they won’t let me come home. Besides, I wouldn’t want to. I want to stay here in Manhattan.”
“So find another apartment. You had one when I first met you.”
“I know. I’ll have to start looking. I’m not very good at that. I hardly have any time and not a lot of money, either. And if Sam found out, he’d kill me. I mean, really kill me. He’s very possessive. Won’t let me do anything without him knowing about it.”
“Sam’s a jerk,” I said. “Lucy, I’ve been telling you this all along. Leaving him will be the best thing you can do.”
“There’s. . . there’s something else.”
“What?”
“I... I met somebody.”
I blinked and then smiled. “You mean another man?” She nodded. “Well, talk!”
“His name is Peter. He’s—well, he’s got money.”
“Really! What’s he do?”
“He’s a lawyer. Works at one of those big firms on Wall Street.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“In here, if you can believe it. He was just having lunch one day with a colleague. Before he left, he asked me for my phone number. Well, he couldn’t very well call me at Sam’s place—”
“You mean your place. It’s your place, too. You live there.”
“Judy, you know what I mean. If another man called me and Sam knew, he’d wring my neck.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told him flat out I wasn’t available. But he came back the very next day and turned on the charm. Brought me flowers, can you believe that? So, on my break, we went for a walk. He’s so nice, Judy. I really like him.”
“So leave Sam and move in with him,” I suggested with a laugh.
“I can’t do that and you know it. Besides, Pete is an up-and-coming lawyer and everything. He wouldn’t want to live with a girl and not be married. It wouldn’t look good. Not everyone is as free-spirited as you or me, Judy.”
She was right. I hardly knew any unmarried couples who lived together. It just wasn’t done. I was unusual when I lived with Fiorello, and I guess Lucy is, too, with Sam.
“Well, you gotta do something, Lucy,” I said. “You can’t go on being miserable and getting beat up.”
“I am doin’ somethin’,” she said. “I am gonna leave, as soon as I find a new place to live.�
�
“Heck, Lucy, you can stay with me at the gym until you find a place.”
She looked at me with surprise. “Really?”
“Sure. There’s plenty of space in my room. We could put a cot or a floor mat or something in there for you to sleep on. As for all your stuff, that building is big enough. We’d find some temporary storage space.”
“Wow, Judy, that sounds great.” Then she got a worried look on her face. “Unfortunately, there’s Sam. As soon as he finds out, he’ll go berserk. He’ll kill me first, and then he’ll come over and kill you for puttin’ the idea in my head.”
“Let him try!” I scoffed. “I’ll go over there right now and kick his butt.”
“He’s not home. He’s on one of his binges.”
“Binges?”
“He gets drunk. A lot. You never knew this, I kept it from you. He gets drunk and that’s when he roughs me up. Then he leaves our apartment and goes and stays on his father’s yacht for a night or two to cool off and sober up. I think that’s where he takes his mistresses, too.”
“His father’s yacht ?”
“Yeah. His dad has money but won’t give any to Sam. I think that’s one reason why he’s the way he is. Sam’s parents live in New Rochelle. His dad is a member of the New York Athletic Club, and he keeps a small yacht anchored there on Travers Island. You ever been there?”
“No.”
“It’s real pretty. Sam’s taken me out on the boat before.”
I thought about this and asked, “Where exactly is the boat?” She told me Travers Island straddles the border between New Rochelle and Pelham Manor, overlooking Long Island Sound. Then I instructed her to get as much of her things in a suitcase and bring it to the gym after work.
Well, Lucy never showed up last night. She got off work at five o’clock, and I waited until eleven before calling her at home. There was no answer. I was a little worried but not overly concerned.
This morning, there it was in the newspaper. The Daily News reported that a woman had been beaten behind the East Side Diner last night. She survived, but was in critical condition at Bellevue Hospital. Didn’t give her name.
All of my crazy senses, that animal intuition of mine, told me it was Lucy.
And I was right.
LATER
I went to Bellevue to inquire about the “victim,” and found out she was indeed Lucy. She was in a coma, having sustained serious injuries. The assailant had beaten and clubbed her on the head. It was too early to know if there would be brain damage.
I was devastated.
The nurse asked if I was a relative. I told her, no, I was a friend. I wasn’t allowed to see her. She wouldn’t have been responsive anyway. According to the newspaper report, the police were looking for her roommate/boyfriend, Sam Duncan, for questioning; but otherwise they had no suspects for the crime. The police didn’t consider Sam a strong one because Lucy was attacked outside the diner, which wasn’t consistent with domestic violence.
I knew better.
Imagining Lucy’s ordeal reminded me all too much of what happened back in Texas. Douglas Bates. More and more, memories of that night returned to haunt me in my dreams. It came to me that the reason I was saving all my money was so I could take a trip back home to deal with my demons.
But first I had to deal with another one.
I went to Freddie and asked him about the New York Athletic Club. It turned out he had some connections. He’d met Sam before, so I told Freddie I wanted to find out who Sam’s father was and where he moored his boat. Freddie asked me why I wanted to know, but I made up some excuse. I told him it had to do with a surprise birthday party for Lucy. I hated lying to Freddie, but it was best he didn’t know what I was planning.
Freddie made a call and found out where Duncan Senior kept the yacht, which was named Carolina. I went up to my room to prepare. First, I studied a map of New Rochelle that was in a New York atlas I bought a couple of years ago, and traced the route I would take once the train dropped me off in New Rochelle. Then I made sure I had the necessary tools in my knapsack.
Now it’s time to go. Wish me luck, dear diary.
29
Judy’s Diary
1958
NOVEMBER 13, 1958
Late afternoon yesterday I rode the train from Grand Central to New Rochelle and then took a taxi to the New York Athletic Club. I asked the driver to pick me up in exactly one hour and promised him a big tip if he did. I also winked and blew him a kiss. He assured me he’d come back. By then, the sun had set. I walked into the Main House like I owned the joint. I’d been careful to dress appropriately in casual business wear. I had one outfit that worked—something you’d see the secretaries on Madison Avenue wearing. Anyone looking at me probably thought I worked in the office. It was dinner time, so most of the people there were in the dining room. No one bothered me. I went straight outside toward the Yacht House on Pomeroy’s Hill. I’d done my homework and learned that the New York Athletic Club formally created their Yacht Club just a year earlier, and a new marina had been built just in the past few months. That was my destination, but I needed to find a place where I could change clothes. Luckily, no one was outside.
Marina A had slips for about twenty boats. I found Mr. Duncan’s Carolina docked in one of them, but there was no indication anyone was aboard. At first I feared I’d made a mistake. What if Sam wasn’t inside? I almost turned around and went back, but then I heard a faint strain of music. My sensitive ears again. The melody was coming from a radio in the cabin. No question about it. So I put aside my worries and found a nice, secluded spot up the hill amidst the trees. I took off my jacket, blouse, and skirt, revealing the Stiletto costume I wore underneath. I folded the clothes neatly and put them in the knapsack. The mask and hood came last.
The marina was not well lit, but there was enough illumination along the dock’s walkway to expose me. I had to be careful, so I darted from object to object, staying in one place for several seconds before moving again. Standard commando tactics my brother John taught me when we played “Americans vs. Japanese” back in Texas. If the enemy only thinks he saw something and you’re not visible if he looks again, chances are he’ll forget about it.
Now a dim light shone through the Carolina’s cabin windows. Sam was on board all right. I don’t know much about boats, but I expected something bigger. When someone says the word “yacht,” I picture in my mind something huge, as big as a house. The cabin on this one was more like the size of my room at the gym.
A lamp on a ten-foot-high wooden post cast a bright circle of light on the pier in front of the Carolina. I didn’t like it. Would anyone see me if I stepped into it? I glanced at the Yacht House, up the hill, and the coast was clear. Still, I didn’t want to take the chance. How would I turn off the light? It was probably on a switch somewhere, most likely in the club house.
This is where all that practice throwing a knife came in handy. I spent hours—days—throwing knives at targets. I got to where I could hit them 99 percent of the time. Perhaps I could strike the bulb with the stiletto. However, if I missed, the knife might easily drop into the water. Even though it was shallow by the pier, I wouldn’t want to have to fish for it. Especially in the lamp’s spotlight.
Aw, heck, I thought. Go for it. I stepped on the pier and stood in the shadow just beyond the beam’s perimeter. It wasn’t the ideal angle from which to throw, but it was the best I could do without being bathed in luminescence. I drew the stiletto, raised my arm, held the blade between my thumb and index finger, and aimed.
Relax. Breathe.
Just like Soichiro taught me.
Concentrate.
As Fiorello instructed me.
Picture the outcome in your mind.
I threw the stiletto.
The bulb shattered, plunging the Carolina’s slip into darkness. The knife fell neatly but noisily on the wooden planks. I hoped it didn’t alert Sam to my presence. I waited a few moments, but nothing happe
ned. Moving forward, I retrieved the knife, sheathed it, and climbed aboard the boat as silently as I could. I tiptoed down the small stepladder to the cabin door and listened.
“Poor Little Fool” by Ricky Nelson was playing inside. Apparently Sam could afford one of those new transistor radios I’ve seen advertised. Forty dollars was too rich for my blood, but it’d be fun to have one.
I knocked on the door. Why do I always knock? Am I too polite? I don’t know! It just seemed to be the right thing to do. I’d hate to kick the door down and find the guy undressed or something. That would be too embarrassing.
“What? Who’s there?”
It was Sam, all right. He sounded scared. I decided to play with him a little, so I scampered up the ladder and hid around the port side of the cabin. The door opened.
“Someone there?” He stepped up on deck. He was shirtless, wearing boxer shorts and socks. “Dad?” Sam shrugged, turned, and went back inside. The door closed. I moved down the steps again, knocked, and ran around the starboard side of the cabin. The door opened again. “All right, who’s out here?” Sam bounded up the steps and wavered unsteadily on his feet. He was drunk. “Damn it. Is someone here?” He looked around the port side—nobody there. I stifled a giggle and then dashed down the steps and into the cabin. A bed had been pulled down from the bulkhead, so I dropped to the floor and slid under it. By then Sam had made a circle on deck, wondering if he was going nuts or not. Eventually he came back in and shut the door. I could see only his feet.
“Oh boy,” he groaned as he sat on the bed. As soon as he lay down, I rolled out from under and sprung to my feet.
“Get up, you creep.”
Sam screamed like a girl. He jumped and catapulted back against the bulkhead, kicking out with his feet at me as if I was a demon from the netherworld. Perhaps I was.
“The police are looking for you,” I said.
“I didn’t do anything!”
“No? You didn’t beat up your girlfriend behind the East Side Diner?”
“No!”
Once again, my intuition didn’t fail me. Sam Duncan was lying like nobody’s business. If he was really innocent, I’d be able to tell.
The Black Stiletto Page 18