The Black Stiletto: Black & White

by Raymond Benson

  They immediately shut up, turned to face me, and drew guns!

  “Whoa!” I said. I raised my hands. “I thought you said I’d be safe!”

  DeLuca said, “Put away your pieces, boys. This woman is our guest.”

  The men hesitated, but they did what the boss ordered. As soon as all weapons were in their holsters, DeLuca beckoned me with his hand. “Come forward, my dear, and sit down.”

  My dear? Geez.

  I slowly moved around them toward the chair. Tony winked at me. He had drawn a gun on me, too, but I figured he was just playing his part. I kept a good fifteen feet, and the empty chair, between me and the group. “This is as close as I’m getting.”

  “You surprised us, my dear, we didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I don’t like to be predictable. What do you want, Don DeLuca?” I figured I might as well be polite and address him the correct way.

  “I won’t take too much of your time. I’m very busy, too.” Yeah, he’s busy smuggling drugs, racketeering, and murdering. Can’t keep him away from his job, can I?

  “I wanted to thank you personally for bringing the heinous activities of Jerry Munroe to my attention,” he continued.

  I played dumb. “Oh?”

  “What he was doing is despicable in our eyes, a sin against nature and humanity. He will rot in hell. I am sorry we did business with him. Did you know we did business with him?”

  “The papers alluded to it.”

  “At any rate, we wash our hands of him.”

  “Glad to be of service. I didn’t do it for you.” DeLuca smiled, but he probably wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. Especially from a woman. “The guy on the phone said you had a proposition for me.”

  “That’s right. Are you sure you won’t sit down?”

  “I’m fine right here.”

  “Very well.” He put a cigarette in his mouth, and I swear—one of his sycophants lit it for him! Geez. “It seems we have a mutual enemy.”

  “We do?”

  “Carl Purdy. He runs a Harlem outfit.”

  “I know who you mean.”

  “Yes.” DeLuca took a long drag on his cigarette. “Mr. Purdy’s interests conflict with ours. We’d like him to—vanish.”

  “So would I.”

  “Then our goals are the same.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Are you asking me to get rid of Carl Purdy for you?”

  DeLuca shrugged. “For our part, we’re doing what we can; but the violence is escalating between our people and his. It’s unpleasant.”

  “You’re talking about the narcotics business.” DeLuca didn’t respond. “Why should I help you? I despise it. You have a contract out on me. Your men have tried to kill me more than once.”

  “My dear, as you are well aware, I was never happy with what happened to my brother and to Vittorio Ranelli.”

  “I didn’t kill your brother, Don DeLuca. He accidentally broke his neck.”

  For the first time, I detected venom in his voice. “While you were attacking him.”

  “Let’s get back to the point. Why do you think I can help you with Purdy?”

  “It seems you have an ability to get near him that we don’t have.”

  I looked him in the eyes. Even from the several feet away from him, I could tell he was being honest with me. He really wanted my help.

  “And what do I get in return?” I asked.

  “The contract on you will be forgotten.”

  “I’ve done pretty well eluding your boys so far.”

  “That you have. But you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. That becomes tiresome.”

  “I do that anyway. The cops and FBI are after me, too.”

  He shrugged again. “It’s the best I can offer. You wouldn’t have to worry about us anymore.”

  “Why don’t you just go into another line of work?” I asked facetiously. “No one needs heroin. It’s destroying lives. It’s killing people. Why not give it up?”

  He thought about his answer before he spoke. “The narcotics business is here to stay, whether we do it, or the niggers do it, or the French do it. It will become bigger than all of us. There is nothing you and I can do about that. I’m a businessman. It’s good business for us. That’s all I have to say about it.”

  You know, dear diary, I knew he was right. The narcotics plague would get bigger. It was only a matter of time before it was everywhere. If I took out one cog of the machine—Carl Purdy—would it really improve anything? Probably not. There would still be drugs. There would still be colored men and women struggling in poverty and getting addicted to the stuff. It wouldn’t be long before it also became the scourge of white people. I knew it would happen sooner rather than later.

  But maybe I could do one tiny part in the war against that evil blight. I’ve wanted to take out Purdy anyway, so why not agree to DeLuca’s deal? It didn’t mean I was gonna be the Mafia’s friend or anything.

  “All right, Don DeLuca,” I said. “You have a deal. I’ll see what I can do. But the contract on my head ends as of this moment.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that. Can we agree on a time frame for your part?”

  I didn’t really think about it. I just threw something out. “Give me to the end of the year.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. He held out his hand. “Shall we shake on it, Miss Black Stiletto?”

  I eyed the other guys and Tony and didn’t detect a trick, so I walked forward and shook the crook’s hand. Was it a deal with the devil? I’m trying not to think of it that way. Going after Purdy was on my own agenda, it was personal between him and me. If I could get the Italians off my back at the same time, then I suppose it couldn’t hurt to shake DeLuca’s hand.

  I left through the front door after a single, “Goodbye.”

  NOVEMBER 4, 1959

  Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear Judy, happy birthday to me!

  Wow. I’m 22!

  Freddie gave me a beautiful winter coat this morning! He knew I needed a new one. It’s cashmere with a mink fur collar. Beige. I couldn’t believe it. Later I’m having lunch with Lucy and Peter at the 21 Club. I’ve never been there. Should be lovely!

  Did I ever tell John when my birthday was? I can’t remember. Oh well.

  44

  John

  HOME DICTAPHONE RECORDING

  Today is November 13, 1959. Friday the Thirteenth.

  In just a few hours I’m going out on a risky surveillance operation.

  If the informant is correct, Carl Purdy will receive a tremendous amount of heroin from Corsica tonight. The handoff will be at a machine shop in Harlem, near the East River. The shipment is coming by truck. We know the drugs were smuggled into the States by boat, but we don’t know where the ship docked. Hopefully we can find out the smugglers’ disembarkment location tonight.

  The informant will wear a wire. I’ll be outside the machine shop in my car, listening and recording the conversations. The plan is to get as much evidence as possible for an indictment. I asked Haggerty for a team to raid the shop, but at first he refused. Said I didn’t have enough “cause” for the manpower. Then he reconsidered when he saw how much information I really did have, and decided to lead a backup team himself. I’m not particularly happy about that, but what could I say? Tonight’s operation will go as planned.

  Time to leave.

  45

  Judy’s Diary

  1959

  NOVEMBER 14, 1959

  I slept late today because I was out all night on Friday the 13th, and let me tell you—the events were appropriate to the date. I’m lucky to be alive. For that I am thankful, but I also feel as if I’ve had my heart broken all over again. By John.

  So much happened last night that I feel as if I could write an entire book about it. But I’ll try to be brief.

  It all started after work yesterday. Ever since Mike Washington caught me following him to Harlem, we’ve been avoiding ea
ch other. The few times we bumped into one another at the gym, it was awkward. He glared at me with hatred. Then, yesterday afternoon, I walked in and saw him in the ring with Clark. He was giving Clark boxing lessons. I don’t know why, but this made me furious. Freddie wasn’t around to stop me, so I stormed up into the ring and confronted him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just givin’ Clark some tips,” he replied.

  “That’s not your job. It’s mine.”

  “There ain’t no harm in me giving him tips, man to man.”

  I felt protective over Clark. Call it my mothering instincts or whatever, dear diary, but I wanted to scratch out Washington’s eyes.

  “He doesn’t need your lessons,” I snapped.

  Shocked, Clark looked at me and said, “It’s okay, Judy, Mike was just—”

  “No!” Poor Clark jumped when I barked. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. “Go on down to the wall pulleys,” I told him. “I’ll be there in a minute.” The young man looked back and forth at me and Washington, and then submissively climbed out of the ring.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Washington growled. “That boy needs a black man teaching him, not a white girl like you.”

  “What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you!” I turned on the guy, ready to go fist-to-fist with him right then and there. “Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you? I know you’re Freddie’s friend, but I don’t know why. You’re the most disagreeable person I’ve ever met.”

  He raised his hand, ready to make a fist out of it, but then he hesitated. We locked eyes for a few seconds. I was itching for him to take a shot at me, but then he shook his head. “Aw, forget it,” he said. Washington climbed out of the ring and headed toward the locker room. I stood there and attempted to calm down, but my heart pounded and adrenaline rushed through my body. Finally, after several minutes, I stepped down from the ring and went over to Clark. I apologized for breaking up his session with Mike. Clark did his best to say it was all right, but I knew he was disappointed in me.

  I tried to forget what happened and went on with my job. Later, though, as Washington was leaving, he and Freddie chatted for a moment. I couldn’t hear everything they said, but as Washington shook Freddie’s hand to say goodbye, I overheard him say, “See you next week, if I don’t die tonight.” They laughed as if it was a joke, but I knew better. You know me, dear diary, I can sense when people lie or tell the truth. I knew Washington wasn’t joking. Something was up.

  And it had to do with Carl Purdy.

  Later, after dark, I dressed as the Stiletto and wore the trench coat over my outfit. Without my mask, I hailed a taxi and took it to Harlem. I had the driver let me off on East 129th Street, a block away from the bordello I’d visited in September. Actually, I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. I was acting on gut instinct. Would Washington be there? If my hunch was correct, something big was going to happen and he was involved. If I didn’t see him after a while, I’d made up my mind to sneak in as I’d done before.

  I put on my mask and hid across the street in the shadows next to a decrepit stoop. The building was in disrepair and smelled of garbage. Homeless people probably used it as a shelter. I held my nose and waited, watching the front door of Harlem Delight.

  It wasn’t surprising that Sonny, the colored teenager who thought he was a tough guy, was standing guard outside. He had on a heavy coat and tugged on a cigarette. I thought of his sister, Ruby, and wondered what became of her. Had he helped her as I’d suggested? Apparently Sonny was still entangled in Purdy’s organization.

  Looking back, I’m not sure if I was lucky or not that Washington soon emerged from the bordello. He was accompanied by two other men. They said something to Sonny, and then they laughed, talked low, and started to walk east on 129th. Sonny remained in front of the brothel. I followed the trio, dashing between dark spots along the street. They crossed Madison Avenue and kept going until they reached Park. I managed to stay in pursuit without being seen, despite a lot of pedestrian activity on Madison. Where were they headed? I’d soon find out, but at the time I was starting to get a little nervous. We were in an area of Harlem that was pretty run-down.

  The trio turned right on Park Avenue and headed south for one block. Then they crossed Park and kept going east on 128th Street. Darting across the two-way Park Avenue was tricky, as it always is, but I did it without my prey noticing. It was at the other end of the street, close to Lexington Avenue, where they approached a large vacant building that appeared to be a warehouse of some kind. They went in through a door on its west side, but no lights were on in the windows. An old, rusted sign on the building read: L&S MACHINERY. I guess that meant it was once a machine shop, but now it was one of Purdy’s many properties in Harlem.

  Four cars were parked in front, including Purdy’s black Cadillac with the fins. Interesting. Something was going on inside, and I was determined to find out what. I moved along the shadows, circling the building to map out my exit strategy. As before, there was a tiny alley in back that no one in his right mind would want to walk through. There were two “regular” doors—the side door the men went in and the 128th Street front door, which appeared to be locked and boarded, as well as a loading dock on the Lexington side of the building. Its steel rolling overhead door was all the way down. The building’s windows were high with no fire escapes, so I figured the interior was one big space with a tall ceiling. Not good. There was only one way in or out.

  As I crept along the wall on Lexington—where there was way too much light from streetlamps for my comfort—I saw a familiar black, 4-door Ford sedan parked on Lexington, between 127th and 128th. I couldn’t believe it. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.

  John Richardson sat in the driver’s seat. Cigarette smoke spiraled out his window, which was partway down.

  What was he doing there?

  For a moment, I completely forgot about Mike Washington and Carl Purdy. I strode right up to the car and tapped on the window. I scared the heck out of him!

  “What the—?” he yelped. Dropped his cigarette, too!

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  He immediately put a finger to his lips and shushed me. “Damn it, Judy, you’re going to ruin it! Get out of here! I’m on a surveillance operation!”

  “I’m not going anywhere! You get out of here. This is my deal.”

  He turned away from me, leaned over, and opened the passenger door. “Get in, quick!”

  I didn’t want to, but I did. After I closed the door, he said, “Judy, I can’t tell you how dangerous this is for you. There’s a major drug exchange going down tonight. The SAC, my boss, he’s gonna show up soon and you can’t be here.”

  I started to protest, but he shushed me and pointed to a device in his lap that looked like a tape recorder. A cord stretched from the machine it to a plug in his ear. “I have an informant inside who’s wired up. I have to listen to everything that’s being said, so be quiet.”

  “I will not be quiet. This is between—”

  He quickly held up his hand as a worried expression crossed his face. The alarm in his eyes was enough to shut me up.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Shh.”

  He listened and then slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “Damn!”

  “What is it, John?”

  He checked his wristwatch and whispered urgently, “Things are going down a lot quicker than we planned. My informant’s in trouble and my backup team isn’t due for another fifteen minutes.” He held up his hand again to keep me from talking as he listened. After a moment he winced.

  “John? Tell me.”

  He looked at me and said, “Judy, I might need your help.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me. You know my informant.”

  “I do?”

  “His name is Mike Washington.”

  You could’ve knocked me over with a
peanut. “What?”

  “I know he goes to that gym where you work.”

  Then I thought the worst. “Does he know—? About me? Did you send him to spy on me?”

  “No. He doesn’t know about you. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve never told him. It’s just a coincidence that he goes to the Second Avenue Gym, Judy. I swear. In fact, I was worried about that once I learned it’s where you live and work.”

  “But how could he be working for you? He’s an ex-con! He was in prison for killing a crooked boxing manager.”

  John’s brow wrinkled. “What?”

  “It’s true. Freddie, you know, the manager of the gym—he told me. He was friends with Mike when they were boxers together back in the thirties and forties.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, it’s not true, Judy. Mike served fifteen years in prison, all right, but it wasn’t for manslaughter.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. He was falsely accused of raping a white woman.”

  “What?”

  “Frankly, he went to prison because of a racist white girl. Someone a lot like you, I’m afraid.”

  I was shocked. “I’m not a racist!”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. She was someone a lot like you physically. She could’ve been your twin sister. She looked just like you. Same age, same hair color, everything.”