The driver motioned me inside. I got in the backseat, closed the door, and said, “Just pull up to 10th Street and wait a second. I’m gonna have you follow another cab.” I handed him a twenty dollar bill. “This will get you started.”
“Okay, lady,” he said, and he did what he was told. We waited about a minute and, sure enough, Soichiro appeared coming out of 10th with his arm raised to hail a cab. I ducked down and said, “If that Japanese man asks if you’re free or not, wave him away. Don’t let him come near.”
“He just got a cab.”
I raised my head and looked. Another taxi had pulled up and he was climbing in.
“Okay, follow them, please.”
We drove up 6th Avenue, past 14th Street, past 34th and 42nd, and all the way to 59th, where Central Park begins. Soichiro’s cab then crossed 59th and entered the park on what they call the East Drive. My taxi did the same. We drove past the zoo, on up toward the boathouse and ponds, and eventually behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The driver went around the reservoir and up into parts of the park where I’d never been before.
We were headed to Harlem.
The road emptied out at 110th Street, the top of the park. Soichiro’s cab went through a yellow light and crossed the street before we could. They went straight into Lenox Avenue, still headed north.
“Try not to lose them!”
The driver must’ve considered it a challenge. He kept his eyes peeled on the back of the cab until the traffic light changed to green. He sped across 110th and zoomed ahead, finally catching up with Soichiro’s cab at 120th. I wondered where the heck Soichiro was going!
Finally, his cab turned right on 128th Street. My driver was good—he did the same but kept his distance. Hopefully the other driver didn’t suspect anything.
Then Soichiro’s cab pulled over to the curb.
“Wait, stop!”
My driver smoothly swerved over and halted. We were five car lengths behind.
“Okay, let’s wait here for a bit.” The meter was running up but I didn’t care.
Soichiro got out, leaned in to speak to the driver, and then shut the door. Apparently the driver was going to wait for him. Carrying the briefcase, Soichiro turned and went into a bar called Good Spirits. How original. It looked like a dive. I couldn’t imagine who Soichiro was meeting in there. He was paying $5,000 a month to a Negro? What was going on?
My gosh, dear diary, I didn’t see one white person on the street. Everywhere you looked there were Negroes. A few stared at us as they walked past the cab. The driver, who was also white, and I must have stuck out like full moons in a clear night sky. For a moment I thought about that cute couple I met coming out of the Village Vanguard a couple of months ago, and I wondered—what are they doing now? Are they in love? Do they live close by? Harlem is a big place, of course. I understand it was once a vibrant community, full of music and nightlife and history. Now it seems pretty run-down, the big city equivalent of the shantytown that was across the tracks back in Odessa. Most white people are afraid to come up to Harlem now. They think the Negroes are all crooks and killers. I know that’s not true. It’s like that Dr. King has been saying, the Negroes were handed a raw deal and it’s no wonder they’ve had such a hard time. Of course there’s inequality in this country! If there’s crime in Harlem, it’s because of the poverty, and if there’s poverty, it’s because of the inequality.
Anyway, a few minutes passed and Soichiro came out of Good Spirits. He went straight to the waiting taxi and got inside.
“Okay, we can go now,” I told my driver.
“You want me to continue following him?”
“Nah, but you can take me to back down to the Village. Christopher Street and 7th Avenue. I won’t be surprised if they take the same route.”
So that was my first venture into Harlem.
After I paid the driver, I got out of the cab and walked back to Studio Tokyo. I caught Soichiro just as he was unlocking the front door.
“Soichiro-san.”
He turned and showed no emotion at seeing me. “Sorry. Class canceled.”
“I know. Can I talk to you?” I asked.
Soichiro hesitated for a moment and then nodded sharply. I followed him inside and up the stairs to the studio. Once we were inside, we took off our jackets.
“You want tea?” he asked.
“No, thank you. Soichiro-san, I have something to say and I know you won’t like me saying it, but I’m gonna say it anyway.” I knew that sounded dumb as soon as it came out of my mouth.
He folded his arms and sat, Japanese-style, on the mat in the studio. I followed suit.
“I know you need money. I know you’re paying an exorbitant amount to someone in Harlem.” His eyes flickered with anger. I held up my hand. “Let me finish before you berate me.” He didn’t say anything, so I continued. “Look, I know someone who is willing to give me a lot of money to help you, and I will do this, especially if Isuzu is involved in something bad.”
His mouth dropped.
“Isuzu is your daughter, right, Soichiro-san?” I could swear his eyes welled up, just a little. He was seriously hurting. “Please tell me what’s going on. Believe it or not, I can help. I am your friend.”
After a long silence, he finally opened up and started to speak. “Isuzu just child when we come to America. Her mother—her mother dead.”
I kind of figured that, but it still took my breath away. “I’m so sorry, Soichiro. What happened to her?”
He answered with a heavy sigh. “Hiroshima.”
Oh my gosh. The bomb. “She was there?” I asked.
He nodded. “Isuzu and me—we in Tokyo to visit my parents. I was trainer in army, and was summoned to special recruiting center in Tokyo. Machiko couldn’t go on journey, she pregnant with second child. Tokyo being bombed, too, I thought it too dangerous for Machiko. I brought Isuzu to stay with grandparents outside city for few days while I worked. Then atomic bomb dropped.”
He was silent for a while. I didn’t know what to say. Eventually he continued.
“I took Isuzu to America when she turned eleven. We settle here. I have cousins in New York. They come here in ‘30s, before war. Now Isuzu fifteen. Sixteen in May.”
He still hadn’t answered my first question. “So is she in some kind of trouble?” Soichiro wouldn’t answer. Finally, I said, “Well, I know it has something to do with that bar in Harlem. Good Spirits. I’m going up there myself.”
Soichiro’s eyes widened. “No! Judy! Very dangerous! They—they kill you—or worse!”
I almost laughed. “What could be worse than killing me? Who are they, Soichiro-san? Tell me.”
Then it all came out.
Dear diary, it’s horrible. Isuzu somehow got involved with narcotics. Soichiro doesn’t know how it happened. Some black gangsters from Harlem are responsible. Once she was hooked, she started sneaking up to Harlem after school to buy drugs. Then one day she didn’t come home. For weeks, Soichiro didn’t know where she was. He reported her missing to the police, but they were no help. Finally, two Negro men came to visit him at the studio. They told him Isuzu was “safe” in Harlem. One of the men said she would continue to be safe as long as Soichiro paid $5,000 a month for six months—and then they would see to it that she came home. Soichiro had no choice but to deal with him. Then, in a new development, the gangster changed the terms a few days ago. Now Soichiro has to pay $10,000 for three more months before Isuzu can come home.
I was shocked. “Soichiro-san, that’s kidnapping and extortion! Why don’t you go to the police?”
He said Isuzu would die if he went to the cops. The gangster made that clear.
“Do you know where they’re keeping her?”
He shook his head. All he knew was that he had to deliver the payments to the man at that bar.
“What’s this crook’s name?” I asked.
“Purdy,” Soichiro answered. “Carl Purdy.”
I got up and said, “Don�
��t worry, sensei. My friend will take care of this. Isuzu will be home before long. I promise.”
This time Soichiro didn’t say or do anything to stop me. It was clear he was at his wit’s end.
I left him there and went back home.
Gee whiz, dear diary, I didn’t need to shoot that stupid film after all. I don’t need to be in a Hollywood movie to get a bunch of money for Soichiro. I just have to send the Black Stiletto up to Harlem and find this Carl Purdy character.
So that’s what I’m about to do now. Wish me luck.
16
Judy’s Diary
1959
MARCH 7, 1959
It’s early on the 7th, 2:00 in the morning. I just got back home from my excursion to Harlem.
I waited until 10:30 p.m. to go out. I took the 3rd Avenue bus uptown wearing my jacket over my disguise, my mask in the backpack. It’s a long way to Harlem from the East Village, and I figured the less time I had to appear on the street as the Stiletto, the better. You never know when an ambitious cop or a cocky mobster might decide to try and pick me off.
The bus let me off at 128th Street. I felt cold and alone. The streets were dark, wet, and nearly deserted. There didn’t appear to be many pedestrians out this late in Harlem. I saw a few Negroes here and there, especially farther west toward the center of the community. I hid in the shadows to don my mask and stuff my jacket in the backpack. Then I flitted from one dark entryway to the next, making my way west to Good Spirits. Crossing Park Avenue was no problem, but near Madison there was a group of young Negroes—male teenagers—loitering in front of a brownstone. I tried to avoid them, but they saw me and shouted.
“Hey, who the fuck are you? Where you goin’, lady? Why you wearin’ that mask?” Things like that. What, hadn’t they heard of the Black Stiletto? I tried to keep moving but they stood in my way, acting tough.
Then one of them said, “Hey, she white.” Then another one finally realized who I was. “That’s the Stiletto! The Black Stiletto!” Some of them hadn’t heard of me. I guess Harlem is its own little world, separated from the news coming out of the rest of the city.
“Look, she got a knife!” One pointed to the sheath on my thigh.
“You lookin’ for trouble, lady? You in Harlem now,” the big-talking leader said menacingly. He wasn’t much older than Clark, my protégé at the gym.
“Just let me pass,” I said. “I’m on a mission.”
“A mission? She on a mission!” He growled at me, “Not on our turf you ain’t.”
The rest laughed. One guy said, “Tell her, Sonny.”
Then “Sonny” produced a switchblade and flicked it open.
I didn’t want to get into a fight, certainly not before I’d accomplished what I came to Harlem to do, and absolutely not with these teenagers. I reckoned they were no older than seventeen.
“You don’t want to do that,” I said, but the group was already starting to surround me. The leader moved closer, the blade carelessly balanced in his hand. It was obvious they thought they were the neighborhood watchdogs, but they had no discipline or training for a real fight. Still, that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous.
When Sonny least expected it, I kicked the switchblade out of his hand. With the speed of a snake, I drew my stiletto, grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him toward me, whirled his body around to face his gang, and placed the tip of my blade against his neck.
The others gasped audibly.
“Now you nice fellas listen real close,” I said. “I’m gonna forget you drew a knife on me. You’re gonna let me pass and I’m gonna go about my business.” I looked at the kid who had recognized me as the Stiletto. “You had best tell your friends who I am.” I then addressed Sonny, who was trying his best to appear unafraid. I gave him a tiny poke with the knife, pricking the skin a little. “And you. Do we understand each other?” I asked. “Am I gonna have any more trouble from you? You’re a brave and handsome young man. I’d really hate to have to hurt you. Your name is Sonny?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Answer me!”
It took another little poke of the knife to get him to speak, albeit defiantly. “Yeah. Sonny,” he spat.
“Well, Sonny, you may not believe this, but I like you. I respect the fact that you and your friends protect your neighborhood. But I’m not here to make trouble for you. So you’re gonna let me pass and we’re gonna forget all about this, right?”
After a moment of glaring at me, Sonny nodded. I released him.
“You fellas are doing a fine job,” I said. “Keep up the good work.” And then I sprinted through them and crossed Madison Avenue. I looked back to see them still standing there, watching. I gave them a little wave and kept going.
Oh my gosh, my heart was beating a mile a minute! I hadn’t realized how scared I was until I was a good distance away. I had to stop in a rotted-out building façade and catch my breath. Standing there in the shadows, I breathed deeply and waited until my heart rate finally slowed. I was ready to move again, but then I heard a rustling behind me. It frightened the dickens out of me! A colored man was lying on cardboard, wrapped in stinky blankets. I can’t believe I didn’t sense his presence at first. Then I noticed there were two or three others next to him. Squatters. Homeless people.
“Gimme a dollar,” the first man said. “C’mon, gimme a dollar.” He reached a gnarly black hand out to me.
I took off. I don’t know why, dear diary, but that disturbed me more than the encounter with the young toughs. I know New York can be a rough place for some people, especially if you don’t have money; but I’d never been face-to-face with homeless people in the vicinity of their squalor. I didn’t like it.
Shaken but alert, I crossed 5th Avenue and was now on the block where Good Spirits was located. Its neon sign shone brightly in the darkness, telling one and all that they were open for business. Well, I knew I couldn’t just walk in the front door. There had to be an entrance in the back, but like on most streets in New York, the buildings butted up against each other, side by side. About a quarter of the way down the block I found an opening to the alley between 128th and 127th. Back in Texas, alleys behind houses were big. In New York, they’re tiny little passages between the backs of buildings. I don’t think people call them alleys here. Anyway, I slipped through the space and found myself in a dark, dirty, narrow pathway full of tall foliage, garbage, and junk. And rats. Yes, rats. They scurried out of my way as I moved forward. It was repulsive.
I reached the back of the bar, and sure enough, there was a door—and it was ajar. I heard jazz music inside, some of that crazy saxophone stuff that Negroes listen to. It wasn’t like the jazz Freddie played for me. This stuff sounded like the musicians were hopped up on those drugs they take.
Anyway, I crept to the door and listened carefully for any signs of movement. All I heard was the music, so I dared to peek in. It was a storage room, full of cartons of booze and other bar supplies. A door on the far side of the space was open, leading to the rest of the establishment. I stepped inside and slowly moved forward. When I got to the other door, I saw a small office to the left. The music was coming from there. The light was on, but it was empty. I slipped in and shut the door.
There was a desk and chair, a phone, a filing cabinet, and lots of paperwork in baskets. The walls were covered with framed photos of well-dressed colored men smiling for the camera. A couple of the same ones appeared in several pictures, possibly the proprietors with important customers. The source of the music was a record player that sat on a small table in the corner. A album sleeve stood upright on the floor against the table. It was Something Else!!!! The Music of Ornette Coleman. I’d never heard of him. The sounds coming out of that hi-fi were weird.
I started looking through the stuff on the desk. One thing that stuck out was a little tray full of business cards. They said, “Harlem Delight,” with an address on 131st Street and phone number, along with a silhouette of a woman’s body. I may be n
aïve, dear diary, but I was pretty sure it was an advertisement for a house of ill repute. You know—a brothel. I took one and put it in my pocket.
Before I had time to do anything else, I heard footsteps outside the office door. I froze.
Someone knocked. “Who’s in there?”
I quickly moved to the wall so that I’d be behind the door it if it opened.
What do you know!—it did. I held my breath.
The man on the other side of the door muttered, “What the hell, man—?” Then he came all the way in and went to the desk. I noticed a handgun sticking out of the back of his trousers. I knew as soon as he turned around to leave, he’d see me. I had to act, so I shut the door and stepped out from the wall. The man whirled around and nearly screamed when he saw me.
I drew my stiletto for emphasis. “Hush! Don’t say a word!”
That didn’t work. The man reached behind his back and pulled out the gun—a revolver. He squeezed the trigger just as I attempted an uraken—a back-fist blow—with which I hoped to knock the gun out of the man’s hand. Unfortunately, I managed only to jar his gun hand slightly to the right. The bullet discharged and hit the wall behind me. As he pulled the revolver back toward me, I released a mae geri—front kick—to that vulnerable spot between a man’s legs. Soichiro’s old trick he’d taught me worked again. The man’s expression suggested he’d just been kicked in the balls—which he had. He dropped the gun and fell to his knees, groaning and heaving in pain. I sheathed my knife.
More knocks on the door. “Hey! Rascal? Rascal, you in there?” It swung open and a second fella barged in. Before he could register what was going on, I twirled out of position and punched him hard in the stomach. He bent over with an “Ooompf!” I then clasped my hands together and clobbered him on the back of the neck. He dropped flat on the floor, out for the count.
Then all was quiet except for the music and the first guy’s moaning. He didn’t look like he was going anywhere, so I stepped out of the office and carefully snuck around the corner to peek at the interior of the bar. There were maybe five or six customers—older colored men—sitting with their eyes closed in front of half-finished drinks. They appeared to be so drunk they weren’t aware of what was going on. No one stood behind the bar. It must have been the bartender I’d knocked out.
The Black Stiletto: Black & White Page 10