Secrets & Lies (25 page)

“You mentioned it before. So you're saying this DeAngelo guy is the leader of the Dixie Mafia?”

“Not at all. But he's a part of it. If the organized-crime network was a human body, he'd be an important organ.”

“A vital one?”

“Pretty vital. Taking him down would hopefully have a domino effect across America.” Barry lit a cigarette and rolled down his window. “Another thing. Recently a couple of these motorcycle clubs got into a feud, a very violent one. People are getting killed, and we're afraid civilians might get caught in the crossfire. Something has to be done to stop the war.”

“What are they fighting about?”

“Again, we have no proof, but we believe Casazza's people are doing business with an MC called the Heathens. These are some really bad boys on motorcycles, and I advise you to stay away from them. We think that when weapons leave the Port, the first stop is with the Heathens. Then, they and their connections distribute them. Okay, that's one side. Los Serpientes is a Mexican gang, they actually boast being connected to the big Mafias south of the border, so they're responsible of getting stuff to and from Mexico and America. The Serpents are also working with Casazza, but it's not in
weapons. We're not sure what it is, it could be narcotics, it could be counterfeit money, or both, or any number of things. From interrogation of guys arrested from both clubs, we know that they're fighting over territory, but mostly it's because the Heathens are trying to develop their own routes to Mexico, and that steps on Los Serpientes's toes, er, tails.”

“So, what's my first assignment?”

“There's a warehouse in the Port of L.A. that I've had an eye on for some time. I think it's one of the places the mob uses to store the guns after they're off the boat and before they're shipped to the Heathens. How would you feel about sneaking in and having a look? If you find guns, the D.A. could then get a warrant for probable cause—and believe me, the police can come up with some pretty creative probable causes—and then they'd raid the place. But if it turns out to be a false alarm, the D.A. doesn't want us playing our hand, tipping them off that we're looking for them. So we want to be sure before we send in the troops.”

“How well protected is it?”

“Not very. There are guys there, not very many, most likely armed, but they stay inside. When you get in, you'll want to keep pretty quiet as you look around.”

He offered me
350 for the job and I took it. We set a date for Thursday night, because I'm off work then and it would give Barry time to go to his D.A. pal. The police will assemble a small backup team for me, in case I get into trouble. Can you believe that, dear diary? How many policemen in New York would act as my backup? So it will be me, Barry, and two or three plainclothes cops on the mission. It sounds so exciting! I feel like I'm part of a secret spy ring and I'm actually working for the good guys.

Tomorrow is 4th of July and I'm spending it with Leo. Can't wait to see him. I also might have to ask him a little more about his work.

J
ULY
5, 1961

Last night was magical. Leo took me to a wonderful Italian restaurant in San Pedro, near the Port. Then, we went into the Port of Los Angeles and up to the top of a building they call Warehouse #1, one of the oldest and largest facilities. He had lots of friends who work at the Port since he's in the warehousing business. He controls some of the buildings there, but most of his properties are in the Wholesale District. Leo said Warehouse #1 was built in 1917, and it's on a rectangular piece of land that sticks out into the water. Big ships load and unload there. We went up to the roof to watch the fireworks over Los Angeles Harbor, and that was
amazing
. There were other people on the roof, too, mostly longshoremen, but I felt as if I was in a privileged spot. We sat in lawn chairs and drank beer. It was a lot of fun.

When I asked, Leo told me more about his business. It finally became clear to me that Leo's company works with union longshoremen and warehousemen and staffs warehouses, hiring them out to shipping or railroad companies. He also is a liaison between property managers and warehouse owners, and he leases buildings. He said things are changing with what they call “containerization.” Those are big, colored, rectangular blocks of steels that hold stuff, and the heavy machinery used to pick up and move them. Slowly, the container system will replace the old “break bulk” operations that have existed since seaport cities had docks. That's where they use cranes to pull pallets out of cargo vessels and load them onto shore. Sometimes Leo's work takes him down to the Port, which is why he has access there.

When I asked him if Sal Casazza has anything to do with his business, he said, yes. It's how Leo knows Sal.

“So you have to work with him?” I asked.

“Sometimes, but not him directly. Usually I deal with other people, but Casazza has a stake in what they do. So, being friendly to Sal at Flickers and so on, that's just business, Judy. I'm no mobster.”

I believe him, I think. He's still not telling me everything, but I don't think he's involved in what Barry was talking about.

As if the dinner and fireworks weren't enough, the evening ended up being even more romantic. He drove me home, which took over an hour, but when he pulled up in front of my building, he asked, “Would you like me to come up?” I suppose I was taken away by the evening's spell, so I said, “That would be nice.”

There were more fireworks in the bedroom, and that's all I'm going to say about that.

We fell asleep and he got up to leave around 5 in the morning. I asked him why he didn't stay for breakfast, but he said he had to be at work. So I said good-bye and went back to bed. I wasn't upset or anything. And I don't think I'll get pregnant. I still use the diaphragm, but that's not foolproof. The best thing is for the man to wear a rubber. That's what Leo does. Gosh, I sound like some kind of experienced courtesan, ha ha.

I sure do like Leo, but am I in love, dear diary? It's hard to say.

1961

J
ULY
6, 1961

Tonight the Black Stiletto made her debut fighting crime for the City of Los Angeles. It wasn't easy as pie, but I'm home and it's not even midnight.

The operation was on for 9:00 p.m., after dark, and when it was supposed to have been “quiet” at the warehouse. I drove to San Pedro following Barry's directions. Luckily the route was somewhat familiar after visiting the Port with Leo on the 4th. I parked my car on a side street off of Palos Verdes Street, a block away from the harbor. In the darkness, I put on the mask, removed the trench coat and stuffed it in my pack, and then made my way to the fence that surrounded Port property. My destination was a building not far from Warehouse #1, on City Dock One. The chain-link fence was easy to climb over, and it wasn't difficult to run between pools of shadow to keep out of sight. I was glad I didn't have to go to Terminal Island, the largest section of the Port, because the only way to get there was by ferry. All of the buildings were big and old, but I had no trouble locating the warehouse in question. At that time of night, it appeared that no one was around. I wasn't supposed to see Barry or the two cops, but they were out there somewhere, watching. When I was within rock-throwing distance of the place, I stopped to survey the
location. Luckily, the spot wasn't well lit, although there were two spotlights, one directed at the front and the other at the back of the building. My goal was one of the shadowy walls on the sides of the place, where there were also checkerboard windows. Barry was right—there were no guards or anyone watching the warehouse outside, but I could detect faint light through a few windows, originating from somewhere inside. Someone was definitely there. I risked dashing across an illuminated open space to the building. It was the only way to get there. A flash of black probably wouldn't register to anyone that might see me. I've learned from experience that people usually
don't
believe their own eyes.

I crouched against the side of the building and caught my breath. I was bathed in darkness; my own vision enhanced the starlight above to allow some degree of illumination, enough for me to discern everything. The stars reflected off the water, the harbor that emptied into the vastness that was the Pacific Ocean. There were trash Dumpsters and stacks of wooden pallets on the ground by the warehouse. Two cars and a motorcycle were parked nearby. They most likely belonged to whoever was inside. The checkerboard-shaped windows gaped at me like dozens of eyes. I have to admit I was nervous. This was all very different from what I'd done in New York. The warehouses in Manhattan were not as big as
this
.

I don't know why I thought of it, but in hindsight, I'm sure glad I did. Barry hadn't told me how long it would take before a backup force would arrive, so I wanted to make sure that any crooks inside wouldn't be able to flee. I drew my stiletto, went over to the cars, and punctured two tires on each vehicle. They wouldn't be going anywhere. Then I studied the side of the building to determine my best course of action.

Obviously, the top windows would be more difficult to reach, but the bottom ones, unfortunately, seemed to be too close to the men inside. I watched the light in the bowels of the building for a while and caught a shadow moving across it. By standing on the stack of pallets, I could put my ear against a pane and listen; I heard faint
voices. So that was a good reason to reject the ground floor. The top windows probably overlooked the entire interior, gymnasium-style, and one of them appeared to be already broken. The only way up there was to climb, so I threw the rope and hook to grab the eave of the roof, which didn't stick out very far from the wall. In terms of stories, the building was maybe four levels high. It was a high pitch, and the first try didn't make it. The hook came crashing down, but thankfully it didn't land on the Dumpsters, which would have caused a racket and blown the job. I had to be deadly silent for the plan to work.

Climbing the rope hand-over-hand was easy, although my arm muscles screamed at me a bit for not having used them like that in a while. The windows were approximately three feet square, and a little over half of the broken one's pane was still intact. A hole the size of a football occupied the bottom left corner. It was unapparent how the window got broken, as it was made of sturdy, thick glass. I needed to make the hole bigger, and while it'd be a tight fit, I thought I could then slip through. I could get away with maybe one bash on the glass; any more attempts would be too noisy. So I clung to the rope with one hand and formed a
karate Hiraken
, a perfect flat fist, concentrated on the invisible energy that existed between my arm and the window pane, and delivered a firm chop. My blow didn't shatter the pane, but instead formed a spiderweb of cracks across it to the other end, and made very little sound doing so. It was easy then to grasp edges of the glass sections, wiggle them free, and drop the pieces below me. Now the entire square was a big hole. Lifting my legs, I thrust them through the opening, hanging onto the rope as I went. Once I had slithered inside, I was able to perch precariously on the bottom of the windowsill. I released the rope—it remained hanging outside—and took stock of my surroundings.

It was indeed a long way down to the floor. I felt like an insect that happened to fly in through a very high broken window. The question was what I was going to do next. If only I could walk on the wall or ceiling like that fly! I was in an unsteady position; it
wasn't the most comfortable “seat” and I had to control my balance while I studied the situation.

Directly above me and spread across the upper building was a series of metal latticework trusses. The floor was covered with crates and boxes. A “wall” of them had been built between the front door and the center of the space, from where all the light was coming. I saw three men there. Two of them stood at a table working with tools. The other sat in a chair, reading the newspaper. Then I realized it—those weren't tools. The men were assembling rifles. I removed my camera from a pouch on my belt and, using my right elbow on the side of the window to anchor myself, snapped a few pictures. I didn't know how they'd turn out from that high up, but it was worth trying. I put the camera back and figured I'd done my duty. There were definitely guns in the warehouse.