I went back to the office, shut the door, and drew the stiletto. My first victim had just thrown up all over the floor. Gross. I kneeled beside him, careful not to step in it, and put the blade to his face. It was then that I recognized him. He was one of the regular subjects in the photos on the wall.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He just groaned some more.
I placed the blade across his neck. That got his attention.
“What’s your name?”
“Rascal.”
“Rascal what?”
“Rascal Jenkins.”
“Are you the manager?”
He nodded.
“I’m looking for Carl Purdy. Do you know him?” That got a reaction. His eyes grew big and he almost forgot his pain. “I take it that’s a yes. Where can I find him?”
Suddenly the man was scared, very much so.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked. He nodded. “So where do I find Purdy?”
He gave me an address and said that Purdy lived in a “big, nice house.” I looked up at the photos. “Is that him with you in a lot of those pictures?”
Rascal nodded again. Now I know what Purdy looks like. He’s in his 30s, I guess. Tall and handsome. Black as night. Has a three-inch scar at the left corner of his mouth that slides down his lower cheek and beneath his chin. His hair was straightened in the “conk” style that so many Negro men were doing, especially the musicians like Chuck Berry and Little Richard. In short, he looks like any of my old Italian gangster friends, only he’s a Negro.
I showed Rascal the business card I took off the desk. “What’s this place?”
He wouldn’t answer me. I had to prod him with the stiletto again.
“A place to meet girls.”
Just as I thought. “It’s a whorehouse?”
He nodded.
Then, as much as I hated to think it, a thought occurred to me. “Are there any Japanese girls there?” That question threw him. He furrowed his brow. “Well? Are there?”
He nodded. “One.”
It was all I needed to know, but I continued to ask more questions. “What’s this bar to Purdy?”
“He owns it.”
“Does he come in here?”
Rascal nodded again.
“It’s his office?”
“He uses it sometimes for business meetings.”
I understood. “So it’s a base for all of his activities? Narcotics, prostitution, extortion, theft, that kind of stuff?”
The guy was too scared to lie. He nodded once more. “It’s one of the places he uses. He has lots of places, all over Harlem.”
“Okay. You tell him the Black Stiletto is coming for him.” I picked up Rascal’s revolver and sheathed my knife. “Best not get up for a few minutes. I wouldn’t want you to be sick again.”
I left the office, walked back through the storeroom, and out to the alley. When I got to the street, I dropped the revolver in a drain and then ran east. It took another hour for me to get home, but I made it without incident. I figured it was too late to find the brothel tonight.
This calls for a solid plan of action. I need to scope out the territory and gather more information. I can’t just waltz into one of Purdy’s businesses without knowing what I’m doing. Of course, I did that tonight, ha ha, and that wasn’t so bad. Still, I imagine he’s got armed men stationed at the brothel.
I wonder if my friend John Richardson might be able to help. Surely he knows something about Carl Purdy. From what I gather, this Purdy must be a major player in Harlem. I bet the FBI has a file on him. Besides, I haven’t spoken to John in a while.
It was an eventful night, but the one thing that makes the most noise in my head is what Rascal said about the brothel.
I’d bet my left little toe that the Japanese girl there is Isuzu.
17
John
HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING
Today is March 7, 1959.
It’s been a couple of weeks, but I finally heard from the Black Stiletto again today. She called me at the office, so I immediately signaled my assistant, Tom, to try and trace the call.
At first she was apologetic about not being in touch. She said she’s been busy. I asked her if she meant she was busy in her personal life or busy as the Stiletto. She answered, “Both.” I wanted to keep her on the phone as long as possible, so I told her I hadn’t seen anything in the news about the Stiletto. She told me to wait and see, there might be something soon.
Then she asked me a surprising question.
“What do you know about a Negro gangster in Harlem named Carl Purdy?”
That floored me. Very few people out of law enforcement know who he is. I asked her how she knew about him. She wouldn’t say, but she wanted to know how big his organization is, how many men he has, what kind of protection he has, and what businesses he owns in the city.
I told her she’s playing with fire. I was honest and told her Carl Purdy is a very dangerous individual and that he’s the heroin kingpin in Harlem, although the Bureau and the city police have no concrete evidence against him that justified an arrest. The Negro mob is run similarly to the Italian mob—no one in the lower ranks will talk if he’s caught. Additionally, the Negro gangsters also bribe judges, politicians, and police, just like the Cosa Nostra. It’s difficult to make charges stick to Purdy’s soldiers. In answer to her questions, I said Purdy is most likely well protected, is armed, and never goes anywhere without bodyguards. His home is an upscale brownstone and is guarded. We know he owns a restaurant, a couple of bars, and several other residential and commercial buildings in Harlem. He is a very wealthy colored man.
I asked her what she was planning to do. She wouldn’t say; only that it had to do with a prostitution racket that Purdy was running. That made sense. Purdy has his hands in all kinds of illegal activities—gambling, bookmaking, prostitution. All that stuff funds the narcotics distribution operation.
There’s no question she’s walking into a serious situation. I tried to warn her.
By then, Tom held up a finger and mouthed the words, “East Greenwich Village.” I needed to keep her on the line a few more seconds to get the exact location.
I asked the Stiletto once again if we were going to meet in person. She asked me, “When and where, and how do I know it’s not a trap to arrest me?” My answer was, “Anytime, anywhere, and you have my word you’ll be safe.”
She hesitated a moment and then said, “I’ll see you at the East Side Diner at Second Avenue and 4th Street for lunch tomorrow at noon.”
Talk about a surprise! I asked, “In or out of costume?” She laughed and asked how she’d know me. I said I’d be wearing a brown suit and hat—the traditional Hoover “uniform”—and then she hung up.
I looked at Tom—the expression on his face said it all. The connection was broken too soon. All we know is that she used a pay phone in the East Village. Given the address of the lunch date, that clicked. Could it be she lives around there?
After glancing at my calendar, I cleared the way for me to have lunch downtown tomorrow. How will I know her? Is she leading me on? It’s probably not a bad idea to have Tom accompany me undercover and take photos of all the customers at the diner. Maybe it’s a place she frequents.
It’s interesting the Stiletto is looking into Carl Purdy. I’ve been telling Haggerty pretty soon that guy’s name will be all over the papers. Purdy will take a wrong step sooner or later and his little fiefdom in Harlem is going to crumble down around him. Haggerty, of course, scoffs and claims Purdy has nowhere near the power I think he does. He’s more interested in catching the Stiletto instead of the biggest narcotics lord in the city.
Whatever.
I typed another written report for Haggerty on how I plan to catch the Stiletto.
18
Judy’s Diary
1959
MARCH 8, 1959
Oh my gosh, dear diary, I can’t believe what I did today! I saw John
Richardson in the flesh, and he’s gorgeous! I did a bad thing, though. I didn’t reveal myself to him. It was probably a dirty trick, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t ever talk to me again—but he did.
So here’s what happened.
I got him to come to the East Side Diner for a lunch date, but I stood him up. Well, not really. I was there, but he didn’t know it. I felt bad that I had to deceive him, but I thought I needed to get a good look at him before I do something as risky as meeting him in person for real. I had to get a sense of who he was, what he’s like. You know, if I detected he was a bad person, I would have stopped calling him.
The good news is he seems to be a nice guy, from what I could observe.
The whole thing started when I called him at his office yesterday to find out some information about Carl Purdy. He was surprisingly candid and revealed some helpful stuff. I plan on visiting that brothel tonight, and now I feel better prepared. Then he hit me with the same old question of when I was going to meet him, so I thought—why not? I told him I’d see him at the diner for lunch today. Those were my exact words. “I’ll see you at the diner for lunch.” I didn’t say I’d meet him. But I did see him.
After we hung up, I called Lucy ’cause I knew today was her day off. I asked if she and Peter wanted to go to the diner for lunch. That way, there’d be three of us in a booth and if John showed up, he wouldn’t suspect anything. I’d just be one of a threesome. He said he’d be wearing a brown suit and hat; even though a few businessmen might go to the diner for lunch, I figured I could tell if a guy sitting alone was him or not.
Lucy and Peter were already there when I showed up, thank goodness. I knew Lucy likes to sit in a particular booth if it’s not taken; it’s against the back wall where there’s a mirror. She usually sits on the side facing the front window, so she can look out on the street. That’s good for me, ’cause if I sit across from her, I can see the entire diner by looking at the mirror to my left. And that’s how it was.
From the clientele already seated, it didn’t appear John was there yet. I didn’t see one single man in a business suit. There were a couple of men by themselves, but they weren’t dressed in suits. The clock on the wall said it was five minutes until noon, so it was still early. While I waited, Lucy, Peter, and I talked and ordered some food.
Someone put money in the jukebox and played Ritchie Valens’s song “Donna” and that new Frankie Avalon tune, “Venus.” I like Ritchie’s records, but I’m not too crazy about Frankie Avalon. He’s too much of a teen idol, more of a pretty boy than a rock-and-roll singer. I wouldn’t call what he sings rock-and-roll at all. He’s just like Fabian and Bobby Darin, they’re interchangeable! I miss Elvis.
Peter’s a terrific guy. Lucy’s lucky to have him. It’s so obvious that he dotes on her. He’s two or three years older and already established in a law firm of some renown. I hadn’t heard any more talk of marriage since New Year’s, but that sure changed today!
“Notice anything different about me?” Lucy asked. She was sitting with her elbows on the table with her forearms upright and the back of her hands toward me. At first I didn’t know what she was talking about. She looked exactly the same as the last time I saw her. Then the light hit the enormous rock on her finger and nearly blinded me, ha ha!
“Oh my gosh, Lucy! You’re engaged!” I squealed like a little girl. I grabbed her hand and pulled it closer so I could examine the huge diamond ring. “That’s beautiful!” I looked at Peter and said, “You did good, honey.” He blushed. “When did you pop the question?”
Lucy answered for him. “Last night. He actually got down on one knee. It was so romantic. I almost died when I opened the box.”
“So when’s the big day?”
Peter replied, “We’re talking about it. Maybe a year from now. We’d like to spend at least a few months engaged. I like the word ‘fiancée,’ and want to use it as much as possible.”
At that point I saw a man wearing a fashionable brown suit and hat enter the diner. He was tall, appeared to be in his thirties, and was very handsome. He scanned the restaurant as if he was searching for someone. I immediately knew he was John Richardson. I watched him in the mirror while Lucy started gabbing about the romantic dinner she and Peter had last night and how he had proposed. It went in one ear and out the other while I studied John. He took an empty booth by the window, scanned the diner once more, and then studied the menu. I felt bad. I wanted to slide out of my seat, run over to him, and say, “Here I am! I’m the one you’re looking for!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Sally, one of the waitresses, tried to take his order. I heard his voice and confirmed it was him. He was polite and said he was meeting someone, but he’d have some water while he waited. Every now and then he’d look out the window and watch the people on the street. He glanced at his watch. According to the clock on the wall it was five after.
When it got to be 12:10, I could see he was becoming a little concerned. He started making faces and drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Lucy and Peter kept talking about mundane stuff like where they might want to live once they got married. Right now they have separate apartments that are too small for the both of them. Our food arrived and we started eating, but I kept watching John in the mirror.
At 12:15, he finally placed an order. I heard the words, “I guess she isn’t coming, so I’ll have—”
It bothered me more than I thought it would. I realized then it was a mean thing I’d done. It was selfish. I wanted to know as much about him as possible without giving him anything in return.
All this put me off my food. Lucy asked me if anything was wrong. “Oh, I’m not that hungry, I guess,” I answered. I ate what I could, but I hated knowing I’d disappointed John.
Twenty minutes passed. We finished our meal and Lucy and Peter lit cigarettes. Apparently John was done with his lunch, too, for he asked Sally for the check. I watched him leave a tip on the table, and then he got up with the bill and paid for his meal at the cash register. Then he walked toward the washrooms, which are located on the other side of the place, next to the phone booth. As soon as he’d gone into the men’s, I said, “Excuse me a second, I gotta go to the ladies’.” I slipped out of the seat and took my time walking across the diner. I stopped to talk to Sally for a second, hoping John would be coming out just as I got over there.
Sure enough, I timed it perfectly. He opened the men’s door and stepped out as I was moving past. We bumped into each other!
“Oh, excuse me!” I said. “Excuse me,” he countered. We practically said it simultaneously. He smiled at me—most men do—and I smiled back. I took that very brief moment for my senses to detect anything about him that might raise red flags. There was nothing, but admittedly I didn’t have much of a chance to make a thorough evaluation. I couldn’t linger or he might get suspicious. So I went on into the ladies’ room.
When I came out, he was gone. It was terrible. I felt so guilty. I wanted to make it up to him. He had kept his end of the bargain, and I’d given him the brush-off. The three of us sat and talked a while longer and then Peter said he had to get back to work. After saying goodbye to my friends—dear Peter paid for my lunch despite my protests—I went to the pay phone at 2nd Street and called John at the office.
“Special Agent Richardson.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did you just get back?”
He was quiet a moment and then asked, “What happened? I was there and waited for you.”
“I know. I was there, too.”
“You were?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to do it, John. I just couldn’t. Please understand.”
“But I didn’t see—oh, well, there were several women in the diner, they just weren’t sitting by themselves. You were one of them?”
“Yes.”
“So now you know what I look like, but I don’t know what you look like.”
“I think you’re very handsome. And you’re a sharp
dresser.”
“Thank you. The Bureau insists we wear suits. And hats.”
“I feel bad about this. You have to understand I had to be sure about you. I have to trust you. Thank you for coming alone and keeping your end of the deal.”
“I understand.”
“You’re not angry?”
“No. I had a nice lunch.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Next time. I promise. We’ll meet. I have to figure out how it’ll work, but now I know I want to go through with it.”
There was a pause. “Next time, then.”
“So I can call you?”
“You’re in control, Stiletto. Eloise. Whatever your name is.”
I laughed. “Okay, John. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I hope so.”
Then we hung up. The phone call made me feel better. I suppose he’s not really angry. Perhaps a little perturbed, and I don’t blame him. So, next time!
But now the Stiletto needs to make another journey to Harlem.
19
Martin
THE PRESENT
I received a phone call from Johnny Munroe the day after I left that message on his voice mail. He was brusque and pushy. It’s understandable, I suppose. He told me he’d already received thirty-eight calls, all from crackpots.
“I assure you I’m on the level,” I told him. “I may be able to help you.”
“How?” he asked. “Your name is Martin Talbot and you live in Chicago. What qualifications could you possibly have? Unless you have firsthand knowledge of the Black Stiletto and her whereabouts, you can’t help me.”
“Okay, it’s obvious you have some information you want to keep close to the chest. I, too, have things I don’t want to reveal. We’re going to have to meet halfway.”
The Black Stiletto: Black & White Page 11