Secrets & Lies (26 page)

But then a darned
dog
started barking. He appeared right below me. Somehow it had spotted or heard me. The thing was huge, too, a German shepherd. I quickly grabbed the rope through the hole and wormed my way off the windowsill and hung outside; but not before I heard a man shout, “Look! Up there!” Then it became a race. I rappeled down the side of the building in seconds and hit the ground. I quickly jerked the hook off the roof, let it fall to the ground, then gathered up the rope and started running. I shot toward the road and got a good fifty feet away before one of the men let the dog burst out the front door. It galloped after me, and it was fast, too, barking like it was going to eat me alive. I didn't look back, but I didn't know where I was going. My car was some distance away, and there wasn't any place in sight that might protect me from the beast.

Behind me, I heard the man shout, “Get him, Ralph!”

Then a gunshot echoed on the street and the dog yelped. I dared to slow down and turn my head. Ralph ran, limping, to the dark safety of the side of the building. The man in front had stopped following us, not sure what had happened to his guard dog, but then he turned around and darted back to the warehouse.

One of the plainclothes cops trotted up to me out of nowhere. “I'm Sergeant Ross. Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “The dog all right?”

“Nicked his leg. I had to do it. He was three seconds away from tackling you. You'd be dead if I hadn't shot him.”

“Thanks.” Normally I would've felt bad about a dog getting hurt like that, but not this time.

I told Sergeant Ross what I'd seen inside and how many men were there. He got on his walkie-talkie and called it in. By then, though, the crooks knew they were in trouble, and they weren't going down easily.

The roll-up door on the building's loading dock opened a few feet. Gunshots erupted from the dark slot.

“Get down!” the cop shouted. We hit the ground as bullets sliced the air above our bodies.

The three gangsters then raised the door higher, bolted out, and ran for their cars. They jumped in one and started it—but they couldn't go anywhere, of course. The flop-flop sounds of the slashed tires shattered their hopes of a quick escape. The men panicked, poured out of the car, and jumped to the other one—but then they saw the tires on that one, too. With nowhere else to go, they started to run away. Sergeant Ross pulled a gun and shot at them. They fired back. Another plainclothes officer appeared from behind a building, and he fired a weapon at the running men. Then, like magic, two police cars pulled out from behind other warehouses with lights flashing and sirens blazing. They screeched to a stop close to the running men. Four cops piled out to the opposite side of the vehicle as the three gangsters shot at them. The policemen returned fire and hit one man. His body twisted grotesquely and fell to the ground. The other two turned around and retreated to the warehouse. The cops kept shooting, but the gangsters made it. Once they barricaded themselves inside, the cops stopped shooting. I went over to them and crouched behind one of the cars.

“Miss, you need to get out of here,” one of them said.

“Why?”

“There's going to be more gunfire.”

As if on cue, the gangsters started shooting at the policemen from the building's lower windows. The cops returned fire and the noise was deafening.

“Don't you need help arresting them?” I shouted to the man who'd spoken to me.

“No! Backup's on the way!”

So I waited until there was a bit of a lull in the gunfire, and then I ran back to the fence I'd climbed and clambered over it. I walked toward my car and found Barry's Ford parked around the corner. He sat in his driver's seat, smoking a cigarette with the window down.

“You done good, Stiletto,” he said.

“I could've been killed, Barry,” I said. “Where did those cops come from?”

“They were part of the team all along. They were hiding around the corners, just in case something went terribly wrong. Sorry about the dog. You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine. Now what happens?”

“The cops have called for more men and the guy who's bringing the search warrant. We have a friendly judge who signs the warrant ahead of time so the cops have it in hand. They'll get inside and arrest the other two bad guys—or kill them. They'll flush 'em out. Your job is done. Rick said you saw guns inside.”

“Rick?”

“Sergeant Ross. One of our plainclothes—”

“Right. I saw a lot of guns.”

“Okay. You go on home before the press gets wind of this.”

“Barry, that was a little more dangerous than I imagined it would be. I really could have been dog food.”

“I'll make it worth your while. Go on, let the police handle this. I'm getting out of here, too. Call me tomorrow.”

So I got in my car and drove home. There was something anti-climactic about the evening. The Black Stiletto went in and stirred up the hornet's nest, all right, but then the police arrived to fumigate and clean things up. I was used to doing it all myself.

Still, I felt good about what I'd done. Maybe it made a dent in Sal Casazza's operation.

J
ULY
30, 1961

Gosh, I can't believe my last diary entry was nearly a month ago. Time has flown by and it seems I haven't had a moment to myself except to sleep. First of all, I found a gym where I can go and exercise! I'd really been missing that part of my life. It's a small, grimy kind of place, so it's perfect, ha ha. It's in East Hollywood, closer to downtown L.A., on Sunset, in what is primarily a Latino neighborhood. It's creatively called “Gym” and is run by a Spanish guy named Luis. Some tough-looking men go there, but there were tough-looking men at Second Avenue Gym, too. I know how to handle myself. When I first joined, Luis asked me if I was in the right place. There were no other women there, naturally. I told Luis to watch me a minute. The first thing I did was get on the speed bag, and I think I impressed everyone. After five minutes of pounding that thing, all the men stopped what they were doing and came over to watch. They'd never seen a
girl
do that. From then on, they just accepted me. Some of them tried to come on to me, ask me out, flirt with me, get a little fresh. I had to lightly pop one guy in the nose for putting his hand on my rear end, but after that they all left me alone. I come and go as I please.

So I've been going to the Gym every day until I report to work at Flickers, which is usually 5:00. I get home around 1:00 in the morning, unless the show that night is something special and runs longer. I'm paid overtime if that happens. Charlie's real nice about that. I might have one or two nights off per week, so that's when I
try to see Leo, or I do something fun like go to a movie. The other night I saw
The Guns of Navarone
and it was very exciting!

Or I go out as the Black Stiletto and work for Barry and the D.A.

The morning after that first assignment at the Port, I learned from Barry that the three men in the warehouse were arrested. The one that got shot was all right. Twenty-four cases of illegal weapons were seized, so the D.A. was happy. Unfortunately, no evidence was found that linked the operation to Sal Casazza or Vincent DeAngelo, for that matter. They did discover that the arms were about to be sold to the Heathens Motorcycle Club. The more I hear about them, the more I hope I don't run into any of them. I've seen a few riding through town, though. They wear black leather jackets with all kinds of patches on them, like you'd expect. They're pretty scary-looking guys, and I don't like it that a couple of them have Nazi swastikas on their clothing.

The newspapers reported the raid and arrests, and the Black Stiletto was credited for helping the police. I was amazed to see that. Such an about-face from what I experienced in New York. For days after that, the Black Stiletto became big news on the West Coast. Photos of me that were taken before were now being published, and much of the skepticism that the real Black Stiletto had moved to L.A. had diminished. I don't know what the papers in New York were saying; I'll have to find out from Freddie. It's high time I give him a call or write. I'm afraid I've been neglectful.

I finally heard from Lucy. She said she forgives me for running out without saying good-bye, and that she understands. I guess she bought my “had to be with my man” story. She asked about Leo and how things were going. With her it sounds like everything is the same, except she and Peter don't have me around anymore to be a third wheel.

I haven't seen Leo at all. I've been busy, he's been busy. We managed to bump into each other one night at Flickers while I was working. There, of course, he treats me differently, like I'm just part of
the help instead of my lover. If that's what he is. I don't know anymore. Just when I'm getting fed up with his absence and think I'm not going to see him anymore, we'll connect and his charm wins me back. I do love being with him. He makes me feel good; he reminds me that I'm
alive
. So I'm taking it as it comes, dear diary. In the grand scheme of things, I've been in L.A. a little over three months. That's not very long.

I've done two more assignments for Barry. They were very similar to the first one. He uses me to sneak into a building—in two out of the three cases they were warehouses—and the third one was an auto-repair shop supposedly owned by one of the motorcycle clubs the Heathens deal with. The shop job turned out to be a false alarm, so nothing happened. I didn't find anything and the police didn't raid it. The other warehouse was just like the first. It was located near the Port, in San Pedro, and had a few more men inside than the first one. I had no trouble getting inside and finding a cache of guns, and I was able to skedaddle without anyone knowing. The police raided the place and arrested the men.

Right after that I saw Sal Casazza at Flickers. He and his hoodlum bodyguards sat at a table and barked orders at the waitresses as if he was the King of Persia. Two new fellows have been showing up with him recently. I know them as Mr. Faretti and Mr. Capri. They're younger, probably in their thirties, and look more like Italian businessmen than tough guys. They're very friendly with Casazza, so I figure they're now a part of his crew.

Anyway, usually Casazza is pretty decent to the staff, including me, but that night he was in a foul mood and wanted everyone to know it. When he got up to go to the bathroom, I corralled him and asked if he was “feeling all right.” He snapped at me, saying, “Of course I'm all right! Why do you want to know?” I put on my best sexy hostess act and put my arm around his Humpty Dumpty body. “Sal, is something wrong? I hate to see one of my favorite customers in a bad mood. Tell Judy what happened.”

Ha ha, he kind of melted. He looked flustered and said, “Oh, well, I just, I just lost some money in a business deal. Not a big problem. Happens all the time. Sorry if I'm taking it out on anyone.”

I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “There,” I said, “I hope that makes it better.”

He brightened and said, “It certainly does, my dear. Thank you.” Then he went on to the bathroom. I think he was embarrassed.

So apparently my work with Barry is doing some good. Chip by chip, we're making a dent in Sal's organization.

It's good staying busy.

T
HE
P
RESENT

Gina still hadn't arrived, so I sat in horror and watched the television story about Betty Dinkins. Her grown son had found her body and called the police late last night. She hadn't answered the phone or been seen since the night before. That was the day I'd spotted her on the street and left that letter in her mailbox.

The news show didn't have a whole lot of details, so the anchor spent the time interviewing people from her neighborhood. “Well, she must have really been the Black Stiletto if someone wanted to kill her.” “Maybe an old enemy wanted revenge.” “I don't believe there ever was a Black Stiletto.” The anchor reiterated that Betty Dinkins had a million-dollar deal for a book and that her son was supposed to write it. And now this had to happen to her.

I was pretty freaked out. The police would certainly find my letter, if she kept it. I didn't put my real name on it. Would they have handwriting analysis that could identify the writer? I didn't think so, they couldn't be that advanced. There was no way they could trace me, and I was leaving on a plane in two hours. Surely, I had nothing to worry about.

Then I felt my heart freeze as I realized—I'd written that stupid letter on Empire Hotel stationery.

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. I breathed a sigh of relief. Gina had arrived, we'd go to breakfast, and I'd get the hell
out of Dodge. I went to the door, opened it, but my visitor wasn't Gina. There were two of them, men wearing long trench coats.