“Do you still box?” I asked him.
Mike shook his head. “Not professionally. I just try to keep up with the training. Now that I’m out of—er, now that I’m here in New York, it’s nice to see Freddie again and find a nice place where I can work out.”
Freddie added, “You know, Judy, you’d be surprised by the number of private gyms that don’t allow Negroes, unless the gym is associated with professional boxing. They usually have to go to one of those ‘coloreds only’ gyms, but not here. Everyone is welcome at the Second Avenue Gym, regardless of race or creed.”
“I don’t see any other women here, Freddie,” I said.
Both Freddie and Mike laughed. “Judy, that’s different!” Freddie replied. “We’d really get in trouble if we started mixing genders in a gym. You’re the exception, of course. You work here!” He turned to Mike. “Judy’s quite a boxer herself. You should see her.”
“I never seen a woman boxing, much less working in a gym before,” Mike said. He still wouldn’t look me in the eye.
I told him it was nice to meet him and then I went back to my tasks. I watched the two of them; everything seemed okay. Freddie eventually shook Mike’s hand and the man left.
A little bit later I was able to get Freddie alone. “Tell me about Mike,” I said.
Freddie was honest. Mike Washington’s an ex-con. He just got out of prison. I asked what he was in prison for.
“Manslaughter,” Freddie said.
So maybe that was why I sensed something not quite right about him.
Freddie went on to say, “He pulled 15 years of a 20-year sentence for killing a crooked manager associated with the mob. The guy was white, so the jury gave Mike a tough sentence.”
“What were the circumstances? Why manslaughter and not murder?”
“It was complicated. The manager wanted Mike to throw a fight. Mike didn’t want to do it. So the manager had Mike drugged before the match. Mike still doesn’t know how he did it. He thinks it was heroin or something like that. So Mike was in no condition to win a fight. He went down in the first round. It was humiliating for him. The next day Mike went to the manager’s office and beat the crap out of him. He left the guy alive, though. The manager had to go to the hospital and he was there several days—but he died of heart failure or a stroke, I can’t remember which. The D.A. decided to charge Mike with murder, but it got whittled down to manslaughter. All the time Mike was worried the mob would come after him, too. But then it turned out the manager was ripping off the mob, so they left him alone.”
“So Mike spent 15 years in prison?”
“He did. Poor guy. I’m sure it was rough.”
“Prison can turn a man’s soul very dark, Freddie. Are you sure you trust this guy to come around here?” I had to ask it.
“He was my friend, Judy. We haven’t seen each other in 20 years, but yeah, I trust him. We lost touch for about 5 years before he went to prison. Our paths went in different directions when I joined the army. By the time I was discharged in ’45, he was already in jail.”
“Well, I have to tell you, Freddie, I get a bad feeling from him. I don’t know why. He seems nice enough, but—I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
“Mike’s been through a lot, Judy. I’m gonna give him the benefit of the doubt.” He then gestured toward the clock. “We need to finish the cleaning before we close unless you want to stay late.”
We? Ever since I started working at the gym, Freddie never lifted a finger to clean stuff.
“Okay, boss,” I said, doing a little kowtowing bow. “I’ll get right on it, sir!”
That made him laugh.
As I went back to work, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to keep my eye on Mike Washington.
7
John
HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING
Today is February 18, 1959.
I’m even more convinced that Carl Purdy is the new narcotics kingpin in New York City. For the past several years the Bureau was concentrating on the Italians and the French—the Corsicans, to be exact. It’s no secret the Corsicans are the leaders in smuggling heroin into the United States. But once it gets into the country, they don’t get involved in the distribution. That’s where Purdy comes in. Purdy and his network of Negro gangsters are single-handedly spreading this poison all over the city and beyond. The Italians certainly have their hands dirty, too, but it’s getting to where they’re number three on the food chain. Mob families like the DeLucas have lost a lot of clout. They want in on the distribution racket badly, and it’s caused a lot of trouble. Dead bodies everywhere you look.
I don’t understand Purdy’s mentality. The Negroes are all complaining about civil rights and equality, and yet Purdy sells that junk to his own people. He makes addicts out of everyone in Harlem, and what does that do? It’s a vicious cycle. Drug addiction breeds poverty and disease and death. It’s no wonder Harlem is becoming a ghetto. Once upon a time, Harlem was jumping. It was a place to be seen, to go out and hit the nightclubs. Now, no sensible white person would set foot up there. And whose fault is that? Carl Purdy’s, among other low-life gangsters.
We now know Purdy uses profits from brothels in Harlem to fund his distribution machine. These brothels are scattered all over the city, even below Harlem. They also serve as heroin dens. Purdy’s men get the prostitutes addicted to the heroin, and then they keep the women under control by dangling the drugs over their heads. It’s a despicable business. He also runs bookmaking, protection rackets, and the so-called policy racket, which is a gambling scheme similar to a lottery. It’s also called the Numbers Game, or bolita in Spanish Harlem. It’s played illegally from countless locations. I’m positive Purdy makes millions off the Numbers Game, which also funds his narcotics operations.
Finally, after months of preparation, I’ve finally authorized the placing of an undercover informant within Purdy’s organization. He will report directly to me. Haggerty is skeptical, of course. He’s never on board with anything I come up with. Haggerty puts me in charge of the narcotics task force in Harlem and then gives me crap about the cost of paying, regulating, and protecting the informant. What the hell does he want me to do? You’d think Haggerty was on Purdy’s side. Well, tough. The informant starts work tomorrow.
Haggerty’s also still hounding me about the Black Stiletto. Have I heard from her? What’s her name? Where does she live? When are you going to find out? I told him I haven’t heard from her since January. He told me it should be my top priority to catch her. Really? Top priority? How about catching Carl Purdy and the villains who are wrecking the lives of innocent Negro families? And probably the lives of a lot of white people too.
The last time I talked to the Stiletto, she told me she might agree to meet me if I did something about the negative press she’s been getting. I do have a contact at the New York Daily News. Maybe I should give Doyle a call. He owes me a favor. If I word it right, maybe she’ll ring me up to thank me. It’s worth a try.
8
Judy’s Diary
1959
FEBRUARY 20, 1959
Yesterday I had another session with Soichiro. We did blindfold practice again, and I’m getting better at it. This time he used a club, what he called a “blackjack,” that thugs and hoodlums sometimes use on the street to beat people. The object for me was to ward off his blows and disarm him if I could. Luckily, the blackjack was made of rubber, for he hit me several times before I got the hang of it. If it had been the real thing, I’d have a few broken bones and a concussion!
Soichiro is very graceful and can be extremely silent when he wants to be. He said if I could pass the exercise with him, then in a real-life situation I probably wouldn’t have any trouble. Most opponents aren’t as quiet. Men often make a lot of noise when they fight. But what if there is more than one attacker? If they’re coming at you from all sides, the sounds get all mixed up. Soichiro said he was teaching me to isolate noises in the darkness—to listen in “slow motion.” I s
uppose I’ve always been able to do this, I just never honed the capability with any strict discipline. By the end of the session, I was able to block his attacks and knock the club out of his hand. On a couple of tries, I actually got hold of the blackjack and took it away from him! He invited me to come to one of the lower-level classes so I could try my skill with several students at once. I told him I’d be up for it.
Despite all that, I still sensed that he’s worried about something. Before class started, I found him sitting in his office, staring at the wall. At first I thought he was asleep with his eyes open, if that’s possible, but then he turned and acknowledged my presence. Usually when I arrive, he’s already on the mat doing stretches or something.
“Are you all right, Soichiro-san?” I asked him.
“I am fine,” he replied bluntly. Again, I knew he wasn’t telling the truth.
Anyway, we had class without any other indication of his troubles. But then afterward he retired to his office without saying a word. Usually there’s a little bit of small talk between us. I know I’m one of his favorite students, even though he’s never actually said so. Soichiro keeps things close to his chest, which is a very Japanese thing to do. I went back in and said, “Soichiro-san, I can tell something is bothering you. I’m your friend as well as your student. You can trust me. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
He actually got mad and snapped at me. “Nothing wrong! See you next time!”
I said, “Okay, okay,” and I left. But I was determined to find out more.
That night, the Black Stiletto made her way over to Christopher Street where Studio Tokyo is located. It’s still winter and pretty cold outside, but not as bad as it was in January. It’s risky crossing the wide north/south avenues in full regalia, so I simply put on a coat over my disguise and left off my mask. Then I’m just a normal New York woman walking from east to west. When I got to the West Village, I removed and folded the coat, put it in my backpack, slipped the mask on, and I was ready.
The studio is on the second floor of a plain old building. There’s a pizzeria on the ground floor and apartments above it. I could see the lights were off. Normally students had to be buzzed in the front door on the street; as it was late and the pizzeria was closed, I used a lockpick to get inside. The door to the studio was a tougher challenge—it took five tries with different-sized picks to get it open. There was no alarm.
Dear diary, I hope you don’t think I’m being a snoop. I told myself I was doing the right thing. If Soichiro wasn’t going to let me help him, then I had to help him anyway—that’s the way I look at it. So I crept into Soichiro’s office, flicked on my little flashlight, and sat at his desk. I didn’t see the framed photograph, so I figured it must be in one of the drawers. They were locked. The lockpicks came in handy once again, and I found some very interesting items.
First of all, the framed photo. It was a family portrait of a younger Soichiro with a Japanese woman and an infant. Soichiro looked like he was in his late 20s or early 30s, and he was wearing a Japanese military uniform. I’m pretty sure it was taken in Japan, too. The woman was wearing a kimono, a formal one for dressing up. My gosh, I didn’t know Soichiro was married, if the woman was his wife. After all this time I thought he was a bachelor who lived alone.
There was one more picture tucked away in the desk. It was an unframed, wallet-sized school photo of a young Japanese girl. It was more recent, probably taken in the last five or six years. It’s hard for me to tell the age of Japanese people, but I would guess she was about 11 or 12. On the back was some Japanese characters scribbled in ink and the number 12. Maybe that was her name in Japanese and her age, as I suspected. I decided to open the back of the frame of the family photo to see if anything was written on the back. Sure enough, there were more Japanese characters. I didn’t know how to read Japanese, but there’s a guy who comes to the gym named Harry McBain. He reads and speaks Japanese. I could ask him what they said. So I looked around for a pen and some scrap paper, and I copied the characters as best I could. I then replaced the photo in the frame and put it and the school picture back in the drawer.
On top of the desk was a basket full of mail. I glanced at what was there; it consisted mostly of bills addressed to Soichiro Tachikawa. There were several from a realty company and I was pretty sure it was the one that leased the studio space to Soichiro. I opened up the most recent one.
It said Soichiro was three months late on rent and if the total was not paid by the end of February, he would be evicted.
That’s what Soichiro is worried about! He’s having serious money problems.
I carefully examined the other bills, did some calculations, and found that he owed something like $10,000 in rent and utilities. No wonder he’s not himself these days.
Rummaging through the desk again, I found a checkbook with a ledger. A lot of the notations inside were written in Japanese, but the numbers were readable and I could easily determine which column indicated payments and which one showed deposits. The money was flying out the door with very little coming in. Most curious of all was a payment of $5,000 at the beginning of the month. I went back to the previous month and found that he’d paid $5,000 in January, too. And again in December. I couldn’t read to whom it was paid, so I also copied those characters on my scrap paper. Who could this be? $5,000 a month? He couldn’t possibly afford it with all the bills and overdue rent.
There wasn’t much else in the desk that meant anything. However, I did find a public library card that had Soichiro’s home address on it. He lives on Charles Street, which isn’t very far away. I never knew that.
I carefully put everything back the way I found it, slipped out of the studio, made sure the door was locked, and left the building. Without my mask on and in my coat, I walked over to Charles Street. By now it was midnight, but there were still quite a few people out and about along Bleecker Street. New York is the city that never sleeps. It was dark and quiet on Charles, though, so I felt fairly incognito. I located Soichiro’s building, a brownstone of five floors, four apartments on each floor. Throwing caution to the wind, I stepped into the inner foyer where the mailboxes and call buttons were.
I found his box—marked “S. Tachikawa, I. Tachikawa”—it was apartment 10. That meant it was on the third floor.
Who was “I. Tachikawa”? His wife? His daughter? Another member of his family?
I stepped back outside and crossed the street so I could get a full view of the building. A fire escape structure adorned the front façade, so I figured there was another one in the back. Buildings in Manhattan are so close together. To tell the truth, I didn’t even know how to get back there. There must be a teeny-tiny alley and a gate somewhere, or you had to get to it from Bleecker or 4th. Then, again, I could just use my lockpicks if I had to get inside his apartment.
Before I made things too complicated for myself, who do you think turned up walking down the street toward the building? Soichiro himself. He was all bundled up in a coat and hat, but I immediately recognized him. I ducked into a doorway and stood in the shadows so he wouldn’t see me.
What was he doing out so late? Midnight in Manhattan is only for criminals, barflies, and Black Stilettos!
It took him a minute to get to the front door. After he unlocked it and went inside, I waited another minute or two—and just my luck—a light came on in a third floor window! His apartment faced the street.
This was my chance to see who “I. Tachikawa” was. Once again I removed my coat, stuffed it in the backpack, put on my mask, and crossed the street. Since my last appearance as the Stiletto, I’d picked up a pulley hook at a hardware shop—not as big as a grappling hook, but large enough to fit on a pole the size of a ladder rung. I quickly tied it on the end of the rope I always carry and then stood beneath the fire escape ladder that was attached to the second-floor grated landing. Normally from that level you would slide it down a track to the sidewalk. I needed a way to lower the ladder to me, and the rope a
nd hook did the trick. It took me three tries, flinging it up to catch the bottom rung, but I finally got it.
I felt very exposed there on the street, but luckily it was late and I didn’t see anyone on the sidewalk. I quickly climbed the ladder and made my way up to the third floor. Then, as quietly as I could, I crept over to Soichiro’s window to peer inside.
It was a bedroom, but it wasn’t his. It was too feminine, as if a teenaged girl lived there. There was a high school pennant on the wall, a lot of Japanese decorations, and a Western-style American bed with some stuffed animals on it. I wasn’t sure if Soichiro slept on a Japanese mat or not, but whoever lived in that room certainly didn’t.
It was very clean and tidy. In fact, it looked to me as if no one had been using it for a while.
The bedroom door was open; by crouching lower I could see across the room and into a hallway. At one point, Soichiro passed by the open door. I quickly shot back out of view. After a few seconds passed, I looked again.
I studied the bedroom some more and came to a conclusion. I could be wrong, dear diary, but I have a feeling the room once belonged to Soichiro’s teenaged daughter and that his wife was no longer with us. I don’t know why or how I suspect that, it’s just my crazy intuition. It was also obvious the daughter was not around. Soichiro was in the apartment alone. I don’t know how long he had lived this way, but the bedroom was just too tidy to indicate any recent habitation.
Soichiro suddenly entered. I froze, for if I had darted away I’m sure he would have seen the movement. He was carrying one of those miniature Japanese trees, what do you call them? A bonsai? He placed it on his daughter’s dresser and stared at it reverently for a moment.
The Black Stiletto: Black & White Page 5