So the young man stood at the curb with his arm up, you know, like he was hailing a taxi. Several empty cabs drove by, but none of them stopped. I felt bad for them. Since living in New York I’ve become much more aware of the prejudice that exists against Negroes.
When I was growing up in Odessa, I didn’t really think about it. Down in the south, we called them “colored.” I’ve been training myself to say “Negroes” because that’s more polite. The Negroes in Odessa all lived south of the tracks, not that far from where we lived, so I was used to seeing them. I knew a lot of white people in Texas didn’t care for colored people and I sometimes heard my brothers saying “nigger this” and “nigger that” but I never used that word. I knew it wasn’t nice. I’ve heard white people use that word here in New York and talk about Negroes as if they were less than human.
Thank God Freddie’s not that way. He lets Negroes come to the gym. When I first came to New York, I was under the impression that most gyms were as segregated as anyplace else. But a lot of boxers are Negroes, so I guess it’s not so unusual. In fact, all races come to the Second Avenue Gym. Whites, Negroes, Mexicans, and Latin fellas from Cuba or Puerto Rico. So I’m used to being around all sorts of skin colors. They’re all just people.
Anyway, as I watched that poor couple wait for a cab, I remembered everything I’d been reading in the papers lately concerning the civil rights speeches made by a Negro preacher named Martin Luther King, Jr. He’s always getting in trouble with white people. Actually, it’s the other way around. White people are always making trouble for him. I still remember last fall when he was here in New York promoting his book, Strive Toward Freedom —which I read, by the way—and he was stabbed in the chest at a department store in Harlem. The irony is that it was a colored woman who did it. They said she was a mentally imbalanced homeless vagrant. I understand she was committed to a state mental hospital. Dr. King survived, thank goodness. Anyway, there’s racial tension in all the cities, powder kegs ready to explode. I don’t blame the Negroes at all for the unrest. They’ve had a hard time all these years. All they want is to be treated equally. I understand it. Why doesn’t everyone else?
So I stood there in the shadows feeling sorry for those two young people, and then, from up the street, these three white men came walking. They were in their late 20s or early 30s, I guess. They looked like they were drunk or something, because they were talking loud and laughing, pushing each other, you know, acting tough. They saw the colored couple standing on the sidewalk and one of the men called out, “Hey, look at the niggers! Trying to get a taxi! Good luck, niggers!” I hate that word and don’t like writing it down, but that’s what they said. The men laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. The boyfriend tried to ignore them, but I could see the young lady was getting nervous as the white men approached. She pulled on her date’s arm and said, “Come on, let’s get the subway.” He saw the wisdom in her suggestion and nodded. So they started walking toward me, heading for the 7th Avenue subway entrance. But then the three troublemakers got in front of them.
“What you doing down here, boy?” one asked. “Harlem’s a long way away!” He said it like Harlem was some kind of ugly place. Unfortunately, because of the cold weather the avenue was deserted. There wasn’t anyone else around to stand up for the couple. The three men continued to taunt the pair, forcing them back against the building. One guy shoved the colored man. That’s when I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped out of the darkness and revealed myself.
“Stop it,” I said. “Leave them alone!”
The three thugs whirled around and, boy, were they surprised.
“Look, it’s her!”
“The Black Stiletto!”
They didn’t know whether to be excited about seeing me in the flesh or if they should be angry that I’d interrupted their fun.
“Why don’t you fellas run along and leave this nice couple in peace?” I said.
As for the young man and woman, they stood there wide-eyed and mouths open, half in fear and half in awe.
“Go on,” I prompted. “Get out of here.”
That’s when the leader of the trio took a step in my direction. “What are you, some kind of nigger lover?” he snarled.
Well, I didn’t like that one bit. I lost my temper. I moved in quickly and slapped the man across the face before he could react. I really hadn’t meant to start a fight, I just wanted to teach the guy a lesson, you know, like a teacher scolding an unruly pupil.
“Now turn around and go away!”
The man hadn’t expected that and his eyes turned red. “Why, you bitch!” he shouted, and he went at me, fists flying. I blocked the blows easily enough and then let him have a strong right hook on the jaw. He fell to the pavement.
Then one of the other guys produced a switchblade and flicked it open. He waved it menacingly at me, ready to attack.
I drew my stiletto, which, of course, was bigger and scarier. “You really want to play knives with me?” I asked him.
That didn’t intimidate him. He swished the blade back and forth and came at me without much finesse, so I effortlessly kicked the weapon out of his hand. He yelped in pain and jumped back before I could stab him. I wouldn’t have done it, but that’s what he thought.
The third guy must have been the smartest one, for he said to his humiliated comrades, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not gonna let some freak get the better of me!” the man blubbered. He charged recklessly. These punks were all bravado. They talked big and acted tough, but they had no discipline or training. I sidestepped the raging bulldog and he missed me. He rushed at me again, and this time my knee met his stomach. Oomph. Knocked the breath right out of him. He staggered for a moment and fell back into the arms of the third guy, who implored, “Come on, Wayne, let’s go!” Now he and the second guy were scared. They helped their gasping friend move away, and the trio disappeared down the avenue with their tails between their legs.
I turned to the couple, who stood shivering from fright or the cold, I don’t know which.
“Are you two all right?”
The young man nodded. “Thank you, miss.”
The woman also spoke. “Yes. Thank you. Are you really the Black Stiletto?”
I shrugged. “What time you supposed to be home?” I asked her.
“Midnight. In about ten minutes!”
“Wait here.” I stepped out to the curb, raised my arm, and whistled as loud as I could. A taxi stopped right away. The driver’s jaw dropped, and he stared at me like I was some kind of ghost. I reached into my backpack and pulled out some cash that I carry with me. Twenty dollars. That was more than enough. I waved the couple over and opened the back door for them. I gave the twenty to the driver and asked, “You don’t have a problem with taking these nice folks up to Harlem, do you?”
“No, ma’am!” he replied.
“Good. And be quick about it. I’ve got your cab number and I’ll know if they come to any harm. You understand me?”
The driver nodded, his jaw still hanging open.
The pair got inside and thanked me again. I shut the door and slapped the back of the car as if it was a horse. The driver pulled out into traffic and off they went.
That felt really good. Best twenty dollars I ever spent.
But that’s not what shook me up and caused my sleepless night. That came next, when I was on my way back to the gym.
It happened at Washington Square Park. There were a few people walking here and there, but mostly the place was deserted. It suddenly started to snow, and it was gorgeous. I’m not crazy about winters in New York, but when it snows something magical happens. I was feeling good after helping that couple, so I walked out into the middle of the park and let the snow fall around me. I wanted to dance and sing and twirl around, so I did. Some pedestrians stopped to watch and point. Yep, a Black Stiletto sighting! And what was she doing? Dancing with an invisible partner in the snowfall. They
must have thought I was nuts. I laughed aloud and waved. Some waved back.
And then there was a gunshot.
I felt the heat of the bullet whiz past my left side, too close for comfort. I immediately hit the pavement and lay flat, my eyes scanning the park’s perimeter for the shooter. A man in a heavy coat started walking toward me from underneath the arch. His arm was outstretched; in his hand was a gun pointed straight at me. As he moved forward, he fired again. The round splintered the cement near my head, spraying tiny chips of concrete across my face.
I got up and ran.
I didn’t know if he was alone or if he had friends with him. I wasn’t taking any chances. Although he missed me twice, I could tell he had experience with the gun. The weapon was some kind of semiautomatic.
Another shot hit a park bench just in front of me. I crossed 4th Street and dashed to Thompson Street. With buildings east and west of me, I was safer. I slipped over to an unlit closed storefront, crouched in the darkness, and watched my pursuer. He reached the south edge of the park and prepared to cross 4th. He was alone. Although he was too far away for me to know for certain, I was pretty sure I’d never seen him before. There was something about his demeanor, though, that said “gangster.” I had been around enough of those Mafia types when I was with Fiorello, I could spot them a mile away. I can’t describe it—it’s an attitude, along with the way they dress. And who else would walk around New York carrying a piece if he wasn’t an undercover cop or a mobster? This guy was no undercover cop.
As soon as he reached the T-intersection of 4th and Thompson, he halted. He peered down the street but didn’t see me. I was safely tucked in the shadows behind a line of garbage cans—and then my heart nearly stopped. I saw my footprints in the freshly fallen snow. The street and sidewalks were covered with a light dusting; my trail was in plain sight, leading right to where I squatted.
The gunman spotted the prints, too. From where he stood, he raised the firearm and shot three rounds—hitting one of the trash cans twice and shattering a storefront window pane behind me with the third. Shards of glass showered me. He continued walking toward my position with the gun pointed right at me. There was no place to run. I couldn’t attack him unless he was closer. If he kept his distance, he could take potshots at me forever, or at least until his ammo ran out. Seeing that he had a semiautomatic and probably packed spare magazines in his pocket, the odds were pretty good that he’d hit me sooner rather than later.
Well, I wasn’t going to be a sitting duck. I picked up one of the trash cans—it was full of smelly garbage—and I threw it at him. It made a terrible racket as it banged and bounced on the street. He shot at it reflexively, providing a diversion so I could stand, draw my stiletto, and throw it. It was a distance of thirty to forty feet, but I had practiced with targets at that range numerous times.
The blade struck him in the shoulder.
The man yelped. His gun arm jerked upward and he fired a wild shot, hitting the building behind me. He didn’t drop his weapon, though. I bolted to the side, for the creep immediately regained his aim and let loose a salvo of bullets. The shadows saved my life, for I rolled back and dropped into the dark basement entrance of a brownstone next to the storefront. There, I stooped and kept my head below street level. The gunman stopped shooting; I knew he was trying to see if he’d hit me. After a few seconds of nerve-racking silence, I heard his footsteps approaching. He stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped. I imagined his confusion—where was she? She was just here!
Then someone inside the building turned on a light. The illumination cast a glow over the entire sidewalk—and me, too.
All that time I spent in gymnastics paid off. I placed my hands on the sidewalk above my head, pushed off with my feet and propelled my body up and over, just as I had done years before on the uneven parallel bars. He was standing right there, his body perpendicular to mine. Keeping my hands flat on the sidewalk, I swung my legs at him, parallel to the pavement, and collided with his shin. He shouted in pain and fell, the gun discharging aimlessly one more time before he dropped it. I think I broke his leg.
I quickly got to my feet, kicked the gun several feet away, and stood over him. He rolled and writhed, holding his lower left leg, his face grimacing in agony. The hilt of my stiletto still stuck out the front of his right shoulder. Blood covered his coat.
The sound of approaching sirens filled the air. I guess all that gunfire attracted the cops. I didn’t have a lot of time. When they arrived, I wanted to be long gone. The city police would like nothing better than to capture the masked vigilante who they thought was such a menace. Never mind that she was one of the good guys.
I placed the sole of my boot on the man’s chest and put my weight on him.
“Who are you?” I growled through my teeth. His eyes were now full of fear. He knew he had lost the battle. “Why were you shooting at me? Answer me!” I dug the heel of the boot into his sternum. He winced and grunted.
The sirens grew louder. They’d arrive any second.
“There’s a contract … on you,” he muttered between gasps. “Big … reward.”
“A contract on me? From who? Why?”
There was a hint of a smile on his face. “DeLuca. For killing … his brother.”
Then it made sense. The new Mafia don, Franco DeLuca, wanted revenge for the death of his brother, Don Giorgio. But I didn’t kill him! Okay, dear diary, I wanted to kill him for giving the order to whack Fiorello, but the fat bastard went and broke his neck before I could do it. He was going to shoot me, and I disarmed him. I couldn’t help it if the don lost his balance, fell, and hit his head on a table. I even called for the ambulance. But I got the credit for his death.
My ears twitched underneath my hood. The sirens were really loud now. The patrol cars were just around the corner.
I pulled my stiletto out of the guy’s shoulder. He screamed. Sorry, mister. I then stepped off of him and started to run. I looked up—several pedestrians from the park stood on the north side of 4th Street and stared at me. Plenty of witnesses. Couldn’t be helped.
At that moment, two cop cars pulled around the corner, lights flashing and sirens blasting. I hightailed it south on Thompson and took a left on 3rd Street. I don’t think they saw me because no one chased after me. The cops were probably more interested in the guy lying in the street with a broken leg and knife wound.
I kept to the shadows, took my time, and slowly made my way east to Second Avenue and 2nd Street and the warmth and safety of my room above the gym. That didn’t mean I could sleep, though. I laid in bed the rest of the night, tossing and turning, and reliving the events of the evening.
Sometimes this crime-fighting business isn’t as fun as it’s supposed to be.
3
Judy’s Diary
1959
JANUARY 11, 1959
I thought I’d write a little this morning before I go to work in the gym.
Last night I went over to Lucy’s apartment to watch TV with her. I’ve been doing that a lot lately since she moved out of my room and got her own place. She’s doing much better now. Her injuries have healed nicely. She’s still a little emotionally fragile and she doesn’t want to testify at Sam’s trial, but the D.A. says there’s no case against him if she doesn’t. I told her she has to do it. She can’t let guys like Sam Duncan get away with beating up women.
She finally went back to work at the diner just last week. Manny put her on a part-time schedule for as long as she needs it, but she seems to be doing fine. I bet she insists on full-time work before the end of the month.
The good thing is that she’s been seeing a lot of that lawyer, Peter Gaskin. At the New Year’s Eve party she told me he might ask her to marry him but he hasn’t yet. I told her not to rush into anything. I know from my experience (very limited experience, ha ha) that the first month or two of a new relationship is pretty intense. Well, heck, she knows that. She’s been around the block more times than me. After all, she
’s six years older.
So I’ve been going over to watch TV with her. We like most of the same shows, although she’s not as big a fan of Alfred Hitchcock Presents as I am. We like the comedies like I Love Lucy and Milton Berle. Oh, and Candid Camera leaves us in stitches. The other night we watched a new western show that premiered called Rawhide. Ed Sullivan is still a staple, and I enjoy seeing the musical acts he has on his program. I usually watch that at home with Freddie.
Last night we were watching What’s My Line. During the commercial I picked up the Daily News and noticed that tired old police sketch of the Black Stiletto on one of the inner pages. The article said I was involved in all sorts of crimes in the city—burglary, assaulting people on the street, and even murder—all of which, of course, are lies. I felt my blood start to boil as I read that nonsense. The police commissioner was once again quoted as saying I was a “menace” and “dangerous.” The entire force had orders to catch me and, if they had to, shoot me on sight.
Gee whiz, the cops are after me, the FBI is after me, the Mafia is after me. I guess I’m not the most popular girl at the dance, ha ha.
“Crime’s getting a lot worse in the city,” Lucy said. She must have noticed what I was reading.
“I guess so,” I replied.
“Do you think she really helps or not?”
“Who?”
“The Black Stiletto.”
“Of course she does. I don’t believe a word of this. She doesn’t commit crimes, she stops them.”
“Are you so sure? Why would they print that if it isn’t true?”
I put down the paper. “Lucy, don’t tell me you believe everything you read in the newspaper.”
The Black Stiletto: Black & White Page 2