The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  I dragged the big guy into the bathroom and shut the door. He was breathing, so I know I didn’t crush his windpipe. He was lucky, if you ask me. After seeing the condition of those poor girls in the bedroom, I was angry. I wanted to teach the pimps a lesson they wouldn’t forget.

  The stairs creaked as I went down to the fourth floor. No bathroom there, but there were three doors, all closed. I listened at one and heard, well, you know what I heard. A man and a woman. The second door was quiet, so I opened it. Empty. The third room was also silent, so I opened that door, too.

  Oh my gosh, dear diary, I couldn’t believe my luck. A young Japanese girl sat on the bed, still and expressionless. Dressed in a nightgown, she stared straight ahead at nothing. I stepped inside and shut the door.

  “Isuzu?” I asked.

  She slowly turned her head to me. Her red, glassy eyes widened a little.

  “Don’t be frightened! I’m a friend of your father’s.”

  Her mouth opened to speak, but she couldn’t. I could see she was doped up like Ruby and Angela, just not as comatose. The poor girl looked undernourished and she had a thick wound on her lower lip, as if someone had recently hit her. I went and sat beside her.

  “Isuzu, I am a friend. I’ve come to get you out of here. Do you understand me?”

  She just looked at me with incredulity.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you. Can you hear me? Nod if you understand.”

  Isuzu started to whimper.

  “It’s okay, dear, it’s okay.” I put my arm around her and gave her a hug. “This will all be over soon. Trust me. Will you do that?”

  She didn’t know whether to nod, cry, or scream.

  “Can you walk?”

  No response, just tears. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  “All right, you wait here. Okay? Wait right here. Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming right back. Do you hear? I’m coming right back.”

  I got up, listened at the door, and opened it. Before leaving I looked back at her. She had her face in her hands.

  Then I went down to the third floor, where there were more bedrooms and a bathroom, the door of which was open. A young colored girl in a nightgown stood in front of the sink, looking into a cloudy mirror and putting on lipstick. Knowing she’d probably make a lot of noise if she saw me, I quickly rushed into the bathroom and shut the door.

  “Don’t scream, I’m a friend!” I whispered. She still yelped and backed away from me. “No, no, it’s all right! Hush, I’m not here to hurt you!”

  She wasn’t drugged, but she had that same look of undernourishment. Perhaps she was new to the premises and wasn’t a total junkie yet. She started trembling and asked, “Are you. . .?”

  “The Black Stiletto? Yes, I am.”

  “Whatchu want?”

  “How many men are here?”

  She looked too scared to answer me.

  “I won’t let them hurt you. Please tell me how many are in the building.”

  “Three.”

  “Is one of them a big guy?” I raised my hand to indicate his height. She nodded. That meant there were only two men left. I could deal with those odds. “Are they armed?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do they have guns?”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sheila.”

  “Well, Sheila, you’re not going to make any noise, are you? I’m going down there to beat the crap out of those guys. You’re not going to stop me, are you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good girl. Just stay put. The police might be coming soon. I don’t want you to get arrested, but if you are, you just tell them you were being kept prisoner here. Will you do that?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s true, isn’t it? They won’t let you leave?”

  “I can leave,” she said. “I just—I don’t really want to.”

  “Why not?” I pointed to her nightgown. “You like doing what you’re doing?”

  She didn’t answer, but I’m pretty sure I understood the problem. The girl didn’t think she had many other options in life. There was a roof over her head, and the drugs were a powerful incentive to stay put.

  “Never mind, Sheila. You just stay quiet, okay?”

  She nodded again.

  I went out the door and down the stairs to the second floor. A girl and a customer—both Negroes—were just coming out of a bedroom. She screamed. The man was in his forties, I think, and looked like an ordinary guy on the street. He was scared, too. Not playing nice anymore, I drew my stiletto, pointed it at them, and pushed them back into the room.

  “Quiet!” Then I addressed the man. “I’m not going to have any trouble from you, am I?”

  He raised his hands as if it was a stickup. “No, ma’am!”

  “Stay here and shut the door, both of you.” I left, but by then one of the men who ran the place was coming up the stairs. He had heard the scream.

  “Gloria? You all right up there?” he called.

  I sheathed the knife, crossed the hall, and flattened against the opposite wall. I hoped that when the man reached the top of the stairs he’d be gazing toward Gloria’s bedroom door, away from me. The footsteps on the stairs grew louder. He was almost there. Sure enough, he was focused on the couple’s door. When he stepped on the landing, I performed a fumikomi, a stamp-in kick, which is a type of side thrust used mainly against an opponent’s knee, thigh, or instep to break his posture. I aimed for the knee and probably shattered it. He crumpled in place and then started screaming like all get-out. The man fumbled with trying to draw a revolver from a holster strapped to his calf. I stopped him and shut him up by kicking him squarely in the face. Out like a light. For good measure, I took the gun and tossed it down the hall into a dark corner.

  That’s when the one remaining guy downstairs started shooting at me. He was at the foot of the stairs, gun in hand. I felt the bullets burn the air near my shoulder, so I immediately hit the floor, then rolled to the side, out of view. A bedroom door flung open; another colored girl saw me and screamed.

  “Get back inside and shut the door!” I shouted.

  I heard the man climbing the steps at a run. Couldn’t let him reach the landing; even though I’d practiced the heck out of disarming opponents, there was always a risk when a gun was involved. The odds were always in favor of the man who held a firearm. So I quickly drew the stiletto, flipped it, and grasped it by the blade with the maneuver I’d rehearsed hundreds of times. I then raised my arm, stepped into the space at the top of the stairs, and flung the knife at the charging gunman. Not waiting to see if it hit, I bolted to the right as he fired the gun again, barely missing me. But I heard him gasp; this was followed by a thundering crash on the wooden stairs. I risked looking. The man was rolling down to the bottom; he’d dropped the handgun midway. I quickly descended the steps to meet him on the ground floor. My stiletto had penetrated his right pectoral, just beneath the collarbone. I pulled it out and he screamed in pain. After wiping the blood on his shirt, I stuck the point under his chin.

  “You tell Carl Purdy I’m coming for him,” I hissed.

  I then cut a piece of rope from my coil, grabbed his wrists, and tied them together and to a post on the stairs.

  Time to grab Isuzu and get the heck out of there. I ran back up the stairs, past the sleeping beauty with the broken knee, and onward to the third floor. That’s when my right boot crashed through a weak point in one of the steps. I went down hard, striking my own left knee against the edge of the step just above the hole. Man, oh man, it hurt! There I was, clumsily splayed on the stairs with my leg dangling underneath the boards.

  “You all right?”

  It was Sheila. She stood above me—and she had a gun in her hand.

  “You’re not going to shoot me, are you, Sheila?” I asked, wincing with pain.

  “I called the police.”

  “Can you help me up? I promise
you I’m just gonna get my friend and leave.”

  “Your friend?”

  “Isu—er, Lotus Flower.”

  “She’s your friend?”

  “Are you gonna help me, or what?”

  By then, more frightened girls had emerged from bedrooms to see what all the racket was about. A couple of male customers, too. When they saw me, they skedaddled down the stairs, not stopping to reveal their faces. Sheila and another girl finally had the decency to get me out of my predicament. Once I was on my feet, I put weight on my injured leg and almost cried in anguish. I tested the knee by feeling and poking it; it hurt like the dickens but I was sure I didn’t break anything. I limped to the fourth floor and back to Isuzu’s room. She was standing in the doorway, looking a little more coherent.

  “Can you walk with me?” I asked her. “I’m taking you home.”

  Unfortunately, she was still too drugged to think straight.

  “Aw, geez, Isuzu,” I said. “Come on, let’s go.” With that, I put an arm behind her legs, the other around her back, and lifted her off her feet. She was as light as a feather, thank God. The strain on my knee wasn’t so easy, though.

  I carried that poor, frightened girl all the way down to the first floor. The other women in the building stood and watched me. They were either too scared or too brainwashed to move. Sirens grew louder. The cops were just outside the building, so I turned to speak to those young Negro girls.

  “Tell the cops what’s been going on here. Tell them that you are victims, do you understand? You’re victims. Those men did this to you. I’m sorry I can’t help you all.”

  With Isuzu still in my arms, I then turned to the front door and managed to unlock and open it with one hand. Two police cars were out front, their red-and-blue lights blazing. Several uniformed men immediately took positions and aimed guns at me.

  “Holy shit, it’s the Black Stiletto!” one shouted.

  “Put your hands up and don’t move!” another ordered.

  “Can’t you see I’m carrying someone?” I yelled back. “This girl needs urgent medical attention. She’s a kidnapping victim and she’s been forcibly drugged by the gangsters who run this bordello! I’m asking you to allow me to approach.”

  The cops hesitated. They couldn’t very well shoot me with Isuzu in my arms. I continued to limp forward, one step at a time.

  “I came here to rescue this girl. Her name is Isuzu Tachikawa. I’ve disabled three men—criminals—who ran this house of prostitution and narcotics. There are several innocent girls inside. They’re victims and drug addicts. They all need medical help. But please, call an ambulance. Help Isuzu first. I beg you.”

  The cops’ leader kept his gun trained on me. “Lay her on the sidewalk.”

  “You won’t shoot me?”

  “You’re wanted by the police,” he said. “We have to arrest you.”

  I heard more sirens in the distance. Backup was on the way, so I addressed all four cops.

  “I know you nice fellas are just doing your jobs. But I’m not the bad guy here. There is plenty of evidence inside the building that’ll bring down some serious gangsters. They’re involved not only with prostitution, but with narcotics and racketeering and who knows what else. I’m asking you to let me put this girl down and walk away. You know it’s the right thing to do.”

  The leader said, “You’re a material witness. Place the girl on the sidewalk. Now.”

  So I did. I gently laid Isuzu on the cold pavement. She was unconscious now, having fainted or passed out from the drugs. I then raised my hands and stood straight.

  “Remember her name,” I said. “Isuzu Tachikawa. Her father runs a martial arts school on Christopher Street called Studio Tokyo. Please let him know she’s safe.” The guns were still aimed at me. I swallowed. Dear diary, I’ve never been so scared in my life. “Now I’m going to walk away from here and you’re not going to arrest me or shoot me in the back. I know you won’t. You’re going to tell your superiors that you saw me, but I got away. That’s the truth, too. I got away. I know you’ll do the decent thing. I trust you.”

  And then, dear diary, I swear I did either the bravest or the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I turned and walked east—limped, rather—with my hands still raised. I fully expected the policemen to rush after me and put me in handcuffs. Or gun me down. But they didn’t.

  They didn’t.

  I’d made it twenty or thirty feet along the street when I dared look back. The cops had already rushed into the building. Not a single one remained on the street to see what I did.

  The Black Stiletto vanished into the night. And now here I am, nursing my knee.

  21

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  It’s still March 9, 1959, but now it’s evening. I’m exhausted and about to go to bed.

  After a few hours of fitful sleep this morning, I got up at the usual time to work in the gym. My leg still hurt like all get-out, but I did my best to plunge ahead. Over breakfast, Freddie slid the newspaper across the table. There was a surprisingly accurate story about the Black Stiletto on the front page.

  The headline was BLACK STILETTO BUSTS NARCOTICS DEN. The article related how the police raided a Harlem “narcotics den and brothel” last night after the Black Stiletto made its existence known to the authorities. The “crime fighter”—I think calling me that is a first!—apparently discovered the illegal enterprise, infiltrated it, and disarmed three men who were arrested and charged with a number of crimes. Two of the men were admitted to a hospital for “injuries.” It didn’t say what kind. Several women were also arrested on charges of prostitution, but District Attorney Barney Wilcox was weighing evidence of the women’s culpability. There was no mention of Isuzu.

  I thought of Ruby and Sheila and the other colored women I’d seen there. I hope they’re all right. I wish I could have rescued all of them. Maybe this experience will motivate them to stay off the drugs and get help. I don’t know a lot about those narcotics, but apparently it’s very difficult to kick the habit once you’re addicted. If they don’t kill you, they damage you for life.

  The article went on to say the narcotics den was part of a network of criminal enterprises allegedly owned by Carl Purdy, a Harlem man who has been arrested and charged for a number of crimes in the past, but he’s never been convicted of anything since he served five years in the early 50s for armed robbery. Purdy has been linked to several murders, drug trafficking, prostitution, protection rackets, and other gang-style crimes in Harlem, but according to D.A. Wilcox, the police have never found hard evidence against the man. However, Purdy was arrested at his home early this morning after the brothel raid. D.A. Wilcox said there was now “sufficient evidence” that Purdy was involved in last night’s operation. John had told me no one but the FBI and the police knew about Purdy. Well, the public is aware of him now!

  At the end of the article, Chief of Police Bruen said the Stiletto was a “criminal as bad as the gangsters” by taking the law into her hands, although one New York City police officer was quoted as saying, “The Black Stiletto isn’t the villain the press sometimes makes her out to be. Tackling these Harlem gangsters took a lot of courage.”

  So, once again, the Stiletto got some good press. I’m on a roll, ha ha!

  During work today, Mike Washington came to the gym to work out. I hadn’t seen him in a while and actually hadn’t missed him until he walked in. He looked like he’d recently been in a fight. There were bruises on his face and he had a busted lip. As usual, he was in a grumpy mood. I asked him what happened to him, and he replied that he got into a bar fight. I knew he was lying. He may have been in a fight, but it wasn’t in a bar.

  While Washington was using the rope pulleys, Freddie came down and saw him. Washington stopped to talk and the two men smiled and laughed as Washington told his story. I couldn’t hear everything, but he explained to Freddie how the fight went. He demonstrated some of the action by miming some punches. At the end
, Freddie slapped his friend on the back and went on. Washington continued working on the pulleys.

  Okay, maybe he’s telling the truth. I could be wrong, but I trust my instincts. My “lie detector” is pretty reliable. Whether or not he’s fibbing about the bar fight, I still think Washington is hiding something.

  I must say it’s a pleasure working with young Clark, the colored teenager I mentioned before. He’s making good strides in the boxing ring. I’ve taught him stances and how to move around an opponent, which is really one of the first things you need to know before learning how to punch. Clark’s starting to share more of his personal life with me. He says he loves books and reads a lot. That made sense—I took him to be a studious type of guy rather than a typical male who was interested only in sports. He says he’s learned how to avoid the bullies on his block, mainly by taking alternate routes to and from his apartment building. Unfortunately, once he’s on his street there’s no other way around them. He came in the gym with a busted lip recently and I felt so sorry for him. One of these days he’ll be able to defend himself. I hope. The Black Stiletto is tempted to go over to Avenue C and teach those white boys a lesson!

  After work I went to my karate class. I was very curious to see if Soichiro was any different after last night.

  It was very frustrating because he didn’t indicate that anything had changed. However, during the lesson he was back to the old Soichiro—no nonsense, emotionless, and focused. Well, that was different. It was the way he always was before Isuzu got in trouble. So I took that as a good sign. Still, I wanted him to acknowledge that she was safe.

  We went through the hour-long class without any talk of last night, although he did note my injured leg. He asked what was wrong and I told him I’d hurt it at the gym. He nodded with understanding and didn’t mention it again. As the lesson continued, though, he exhibited no inclination to go easy on that leg. Talk about pain! Then, at the end of the session, as I was about to go change into my street clothes, Soichiro offhandedly mentioned his daughter. He was standing next to me and looking in another direction, almost as if he wasn’t addressing me in particular.