“Yes and no,” I said. “She’s alive and in relatively good health, but she has a serious case of Alzheimer’s. Her memories are gone. She has the mind of a child. She lives in a nursing home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He looked away, toward the bedroom. After a moment he turned back to me and asked, “How in the world did you find out about me?”
“My mother left behind some diaries. You play a large part in one of them.”
Then he smiled. “I can imagine. So you’ve known for a long time that your mother was the Black Stiletto?”
“Not really. She kept it a secret my entire life. I just found out recently. And I want to keep her secret safe.”
He nodded.
“I appreciate it that you’ve done the same,” I said.
“It’s the least I could do,” he answered. He squinted and studied my face. “You know, I can see a resemblance. You have her eyes.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I look like my mom at all. I’m short and pudgy, and she was tall and gorgeous.”
“That she was. But I can tell you’re her son. Perhaps it’s the shape of your face. I know, because I’ve never forgotten hers.”
That prompted another awkward moment of silence. I looked around the living room and asked, “I’m astonished that you’re still here. Have you lived in this apartment all this time?”
“No. I got married in nineteen sixty-four. My wife and I moved to New Rochelle and raised two children, a boy and a girl. They’re grown now. I lost my wife to cancer nearly ten years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I kept the apartment, though. I own it outright. I knew it was a valuable asset, so I never sold it. My son Daniel lived here for many years. After my wife died, I couldn’t stay in our house in New Rochelle. I sold it and moved back to the city. Manhattan’s not the best place for an eighty-three-year-old man like me, but my health is good. I can still get around.”
“Well, sir, you look remarkable for eighty-three. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He lightly knocked the wooden arm on his chair. “So, how can I help you, Martin? Why did you want to meet me? Was it just curiosity?”
“No. Actually, I came for some advice. I want to keep my mother’s secret. Well, there’s someone here in New York who’s threatening to upset the apple cart.”
I proceeded to tell him about Johnny Munroe, his father Jerry, the film, and the extortion scheme. When I was done, Richardson nodded.
“I know all about that film and Jerry Munroe. I was there when it went down. Jerry Munroe was a scumbag. I’m not surprised he kept a copy of that film hidden. I just wonder why he never did anything with it before now. Is he still alive?”
“No. His son Johnny said he found it in his dad’s safety deposit box.”
“That’s puzzling. How long ago did he die?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, the world’s a better place without him. He was a child pornographer, you know. A real shit.”
“So I’ve read. He served time in prison, right?”
“That he did. I think he served twenty years or so and got paroled. I don’t know what he did with himself when he got out. I didn’t know he had a son, or a wife, for that matter. How old is the son?”
“I don’t know. From the looks of him on TV, he’s maybe a little older than me.”
“Must’ve been born before Munroe’s arrest. It’s ironic the father tried to extort your mother and now the son is doing the same to you.”
“Mr. Richardson, as you can understand, I can’t go to the police or the FBI. My mother’s secret would come out if I did. Do you have any suggestions on how to stop this guy? I don’t have the money to pay him off.”
“You wouldn’t even want to try. Extortion is a never-ending game. Once you paid him, he’d simply ask for more. And more. And more. That’s the way it works. No, you have to eliminate the threat at the get-go.”
“Can you help me do that?”
Richardson firmly grasped the arms of the chair, slowly stood, and then went to the kitchen. “Would you like some water?” he asked as he poured himself a glass.
“No, thanks.”
He returned and set his water on a coffee table in front of us.
“Martin,” he said, “your mother and I were. . . friends. But we lost touch and I never heard from her again. But I never forgot her, even after I was married.”
I could tell I’d touched something deep within the man’s spirit. It was obvious my mother’s memory was a source of pain for him. I cleared my throat and said, “I’ll understand if you’d rather not—”
He held up a hand. “No, I want to help. I owe your mother that much.” Richardson leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “You have Johnny Munroe’s contact information, right?”
I nodded.
“And you think you can get him to meet you somewhere?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Do you think you could sit across from him in a public place and put him on the spot?”
“What do you mean?”
“Confront him. Accuse him of extortion.”
“Sure, if that’s what it takes.”
“We’d need a public place where everyone feels comfortable.”
“Like, over coffee?”
“That’d work.”
The thought came to me quickly. “I know just the place, and so do you, Mr. Richardson.”
He quickly figured it out, paused, and smiled. “The diner.” He shook his head slightly and said, “I haven’t been there in years.”
“I saw it for the first time today myself. So will that work or not?”
The former FBI man considered it carefully and finally said, “It’ll do.” Then he leaned forward again. “All right. Here’s the plan.”
39
Judy’s Diary
1959
SEPTEMBER 18, 1959
Mike Washington was missing in action from the gym until today. He walked in with a slight limp, probably due to taking that tumble down the stairs the other night. After he came out of the locker room, dressed for a workout, I asked, “You all right, Mike? You’re limping.”
He glared at me and said, “It’s nothin’.”
Gosh, I wonder if he knows about me. Surely not. How could he?
At least now I know why my danger senses go haywire when I’m around him. He emanates the lifestyle he’s leading up in Harlem, working with Purdy and the Negro mob. I knew I should warn Freddie, but first I wanted more information.
It was cleaning day at the gym, a duty that fell on me. Washington had a regular workout routine—after using the wall pulleys, he’d box the speed bag and then spend time with the heavy bags. As soon as he started the pulleys, I knew I had a good half hour to “clean” the locker room. I had a little sandwich board I always put on the floor in front of the locker room door that said, “Caution—Cleaning in Progress.” That alerted the men that a woman was inside. Only rarely was I interrupted by a guy wanting to shower and get dressed, so I took my chance.
Gym patrons check out a locker key at the front desk when they enter, or they rent one from us as part of their dues. Washington always checked out one and I knew which was his. With one of my Stiletto lockpicks, I easily unlocked the door and opened it. His street clothes were in a pile inside. I went through the pants and found his wallet. It was stuffed with cash. I didn’t count it, but there was at least $200 in there. There was a state ID, no driver’s license, and a business card. It was identical to the previous one I’d picked up at the Good Spirits bar—an advertisement for Harlem Delight, only this time the address was the newer establishment on East 129th Street.
That confirmed what I already knew. I quickly put everything back the way I found it, closed the locker door, and made sure it was locked. Then I hurried through actually cleaning the locker room to get the task out of the way.
Wayne and Corky, a couple of the regular guys, were wait
ing for me when I came out.
“’Bout time you finished in there, Judy!”
“Yeah, Corky has to take a dump!”
“Wanna wash my back while I shower, Judy?”
Har har har. They all talk like that around me. It’s all in good fun; they don’t mean anything by it. Everybody there practically treats me like one of the boys—except Washington.
I found Freddie at the front desk. Making sure no one was within hearing distance, I said, “Freddie, I have some bad news.”
“What’s that?”
“Mike Washington is involved with Harlem gangsters that deal narcotics and run prostitution houses.”
“What?”
I told him how the Stiletto has been investigating the Harlem kingpin, Carl Purdy, and that I encountered Washington at the bordello the other night.
Freddie was shocked. “He can mess up his parole,” he said.
“I’ll say. And go straight back to jail.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, Freddie. No wonder I’ve been getting a bad feeling from him all this time.”
He looked uneasy. “I don’t see how I can ask him about it, Judy. I mean, I can’t just go over there and accuse him. I can’t tell him you told me.”
“No, you can’t.”
“It would reveal how you know.”
“That’s right.”
Freddie was silent for a moment. I could see he was mighty disappointed in his friend. “It just goes to show you never know someone like you think,” he said. “So what do we do?”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Try not to worry. Let’s just act like nothing’s wrong. We’ll keep an eye on him. And so will the Stiletto.”
“Judy, are you sure you know what you’re doing? Those are dangerous people.”
“I’ll take care of it, Freddie. I just have to figure out how I’m gonna do it. But I will.”
Freddie let me take off work for a while when Washington finished his workout. After the guy showered and dressed, he left the gym as if nothing was different. I followed him, in street clothes, of course, ’cause it was broad daylight. I did wrap a scarf around my head and wore sunglasses. I felt like Mata Hari, ha ha.
He walked through the East Village toward Astor Place and went down the subway steps to board the uptown East Side #6. I waited a few moments to make sure he was through the turnstile, and then I descended the steps to the station. A token got me on the platform. I quickly looked left and right and spotted Washington moving toward the southern end to board the back of the train. I stayed where I was but I backed against the wall in a huddle with other passengers so he wouldn’t see me.
The train arrived after a few minutes. I watched Washington get on, and then I did. We were a car apart. Instead of sitting, I stood holding a pole and looked straight through the windows of the car between us. I could barely see him sitting on a bench. I figured he was going to Harlem—I’d never ridden the subway that far. The #6 train is a local, so it stops at every station. It would take a while to get all the way uptown. He never changed to an express.
The train became less crowded the farther uptown we went. Eventually we were past 86th Street. Then 96th, 103rd, 110th. Washington finally stood and stepped off the train at 125th Street. So did I.
Once again, I was struck by the shortage of white people. I must have really stuck out. Colored men and women gazed at me like I was the odd man out. I suppose that might have intimidated most white folks, but not me. I don’t have a problem with it, never have and never will. We’re all just people, for goodness sakes.
Washington went up the stairs to the street. I purposefully stopped at the station window to buy tokens in order to get a few steps ahead. Then, I scooted up the stairs and came face to face with—
Mike Washington.
“What you doin’ followin’ me?” he growled.
That scared the living daylights out of me. I was flustered.
“Uh, Mike! Hi! Fancy meeting you h—”
“Cut the crap, Judy, why you followin’ me?”
“I. . . I’m not following you, Mike. I’m on my way to a thrift shop up here. I heard they have some good bargains on clothes.” I knew it was lame when I said it.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me. Did Freddie put you up to this?”
“Freddie? No! Mike, I wasn’t following you.”
“Go home, Judy. You ain’t safe here.”
“Mike, I—”
“Get outta here. You gonna mess everything up. Get back on the train and go home. This is Harlem. You don’t belong here.” And he turned and walked away.
I felt like a fool. Other people stared at me as they moved past.
Then it struck me. You’re gonna mess everything up. What did he mean by that?
Puzzled and frustrated with myself, I boarded the downtown express train and went back to the East Village. To tell the truth, I don’t think I’m any safer there than in Harlem.
40
John
HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING
Today is September 28, 1959.
My informant confirmed that Purdy gets the heroin in shipments from France. A Corsican syndicate is responsible. It’s believed they get it from a region overlapping the East Asian countries of Burma, Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam. The Bureau calls this area the “Golden Triangle,” because it’s shaped like one. The opium plants are cultivated and processed into heroin in East Asia and then smuggled into Corsica by sea or air. It comes to America almost always by ship, hidden in everyday items such as furniture, automobiles, food crates, and the like. The traffickers constantly vary the methods of transport so that no pattern is detected.
It’s also clear the Italian Cosa Nostra vies for the same product and is developing its own channels for smuggling the drugs into the country. However, their desire to do business with the Corsicans puts them in constant conflict with the Negro mob. We’re all prepared for a blood bath sooner rather than later.
The good news is the informant believes a major heroin shipment is coming from France in November, but we don’t know where the delivery will be yet. It’s supposed to be such a large quantity that Purdy himself is handling the details rather than passing it off to lower-level lieutenants. I told the informant it’s his top priority to find out the exact date, time, and location. It would be a coup to hit both the Negroes and the Corsicans at the same time.
As far as Judy Cooper is concerned, I haven’t heard from her. I’m not surprised. She was pretty upset with me. There hasn’t been any news in the papers concerning the Black Stiletto either, so maybe she’s taking my advice and giving it up.
I went downtown to the diner a few times at the end of the summer but never saw Judy. Lucy, the waitress, was polite but I could tell she knew I had upset her friend somehow. Today I went again after a long absence. I saw Lucy and talked to her. I told her I really wanted to talk to Judy and asked where I could find her. Lucy naturally hesitated to give me any information, but I told her I wanted to make it up to Judy and apologize for “what went wrong.” Lucy probably wanted to hear me say I was in love with Judy and couldn’t live without her, but I wasn’t about to say something foolish like that. Nevertheless, I must have convinced her I was sincere. She said I could find Judy if I looked in on the Second Avenue Gym at 2nd Street and Second Avenue, just a couple of blocks south. So I went down there, looked inside, but all I saw was a bunch of men working out and boxing in a ring. I couldn’t imagine Judy being anywhere around there. A middle-aged man at the front counter asked me if he could help. I asked for Judy, and he said, “It’s her day off. She’s out.” I asked, “Does she work here?” Then he got suspicious. I was wearing my Bureau “uniform” of a suit and hat—I probably smelled like a fed. The man didn’t answer me; he just asked, “Who wants to know?”
I held up a hand and replied, “Just tell her John came by.” Then I left.
I’m betting she won’t call me, so I’ll go back downtown again in a
few days.
Now, whenever Haggerty asks me about her, I should say I know exactly where to find her, but I don’t. But I suppose if it came down to saving my job—
41
Judy’s Diary
1959
OCTOBER 8, 1959
John came to see me at the gym today. I kinda figured he would, cause Freddie told me a guy in a suit and a hat showed up last week to ask about me. “He looked like a fed,” Freddie observed. I knew it had to be John. He’d found me. That did not make me happy.
I was working when he showed up. I didn’t notice him at first because I was in the ring with Clark. My trainee had progressed to uppercuts and roundhouses. The young man was getting pretty good for a light-light-lightweight. Anyway, I looked up and there was John, standing at the front counter next to Freddie. I thought my stomach was going to upchuck. I told Clark to take a break, and then I climbed out of the ring.
Freddie said, “Judy, you have a visitor.” The inflection in his voice questioned whether or not I really wanted to talk to the guy.
“Thanks, Freddie,” I said, and then to John, “Let’s go outside.”
He followed me out of the gym and before he could open his mouth I turned on him.
“What are you doing here? What gives you the right to come down here and expose me in the place where I work? How dare you!”
“Judy,” he said, “please don’t be angry. I had to see you.”
“Why? So you could arrest me?”
“No. I miss you.” That shut me up. “There, I said it.”
I didn’t know what to say, but I was still livid.
“Judy, it’s been months. Are you going to stay angry? Are we really finished? Is it over between us?”
“You’re a smart Federal Special Agent, John, you should be able to figure that out.”
“I thought. . . I thought since the Stiletto hasn’t made the news in a while that you might have given her up.”
“Not a chance. Just because I haven’t made the news doesn’t mean I’ve hung up the outfit. So your threat is still good? You’ll arrest me if the Stiletto continues her work?”
The Black Stiletto: Black & White Page 23