The match began. Billy and the other boy circled each other once, and then went at it. Their arms and hands flew at one another, slapping and hitting, almost as if they were playing patty-cake as fast as they could, but with intense aggression. Then, suddenly, there’d be a leg and another leg and a kick and punch and kick and punch and a punch and—you get the idea. The other boy broke through Billy’s defenses once and landed a blow on my friend’s chest. I could tell it hurt, but Billy barely flinched. He deftly blocked a second attack and “grinded” his opponent’s arms away—and then he swiftly shot his right hand forward and hit the other boy’s face. Apparently Billy got points for that. His mother applauded. Round one ended. It appeared that Billy won it.
The fight continued after a brief break. The other boy managed to hit Billy a couple of times on the shoulder. They continued to block each other, and then Billy’s opponent moved in closer and his attacks became fiercer and lightning fast. I was amazed that Billy could keep up with him, blocking the whiplike thrusts and slaps as if he knew what was coming. Before you knew it, the round was over. The other boy won that one.
The third round began like the first with a lot of sparring that landed no targets. No points for quite some time. But after deflecting his opponent’s assault for over a minute, Billy suddenly smacked the boy on the jaw. He didn’t stop there; he kept assailing his target so fast I could barely follow the movements of his arms. I felt the audience lurch forward in their seats—this was an exciting match!
And then—just when the bout reached a fever pitch—it was over! The two boys saluted each other with fists to palms and then stood at attention as Lam Sang and his assistants tallied the score.
I thought it was a slam dunk, and sure enough, Billy won!
I watched him return triumphantly to the bleachers and sit with his team. I felt proud and happy for him. His mother stood and said something to the other women. They smiled and nodded congratulations. His mom stepped down to the floor and made her way toward the front door.
Billy’s opponent looked angry. I followed him with my eyes as he resumed his seat on the other side of the bleachers.
And that’s when I saw Pock Face.
He stood next to the bleachers. Although he was a young man, he wasn’t a member of any team. He was dressed in street clothes. I quickly scanned the faces of the other boys, but didn’t see Blue Eyes.
Pock Face wore a scowl. He must have spotted Billy’s mother, for he strode across the gym toward the entrance and crossed over to our side. He caught up with her near the door. She looked frightened when he approached. He gestured for her to come closer. When she did, he leaned in and spoke into her ear. She nodded furiously, as if apologizing for something, and then she hurried out the door. The poor woman was terrified.
Pock Face stood where he was for another minute or two until the next match began, and then he left.
That was my cue. I politely excused myself as I made my way down the bleachers to the floor and went outside. I looked up and down Mulberry, but I didn’t see him. At first I was angry that I let him get away, but then I looked straight across the street and saw the guy. He was walking west through Columbus Park to join a group of boys who were smoking and laughing around some benches. Tong members, I was sure of it. So I went to the corner and crossed at the light. I nonchalantly entered the park and stopped to buy a hot dog from a street vendor. With my food, I wandered near the cluster of hoodlums and sat on an empty bench. I felt safe. It was broad daylight. The weather was cold, but it wasn’t snowing.
Pock Face smoked a cigarette with his buddies and then moved on. He continued west to the other side of the park. I got up and followed, but when I got to Baxter Street, the western edge of the park, I stopped. My prey had crossed the street and stood on the other side in front of a brownstone. There he huddled with two other young Chinese men. I had to keep going south on the park side so I wouldn’t be conspicuous. I needed another excuse to stop, so when a Caucasian woman came toward me with a big German shepherd on a leash, I went, “Oh, what a beautiful doggie!” She stopped and let me squat and pet the animal, but all the while I kept Pock Face in view. I made time-killing conversation with the woman about how I wanted to get a dog. Just when I ran out of things to say and sensed that she wanted to move on, Pock Face headed south. I said goodbye to my new canine friend and kept going.
Then, the gangster abruptly stopped walking and bounded up the steps of a brownstone at the southern end of Baxter Street. With a key, he opened the door and entered the building.
I got you! I thought.
Now I know where one of the killers lives, and the Black Stiletto will pay him a visit tonight.
Wish me luck, dear diary.
10
Judy’s Diary
1960
MARCH 13, 1960
It seems like every time I come home from one of the Stiletto’s adventures, I write that I “escaped with my life.” Tonight—earlier this morning—was no exception—but I came out the victor.
Around 10:00 I put on my outfit and slinked to Chinatown. I had no idea if Pock Face would be home or out with his gang. My effort could have been futile, but I had to give it a shot. I found a shadowy spot in Columbus Park, right across from Pock Face’s brownstone on Baxter Street. It was still cold out, so I told myself I’d give it an hour and no more. If I didn’t see him, I’d try again another night.
I remember sitting there on a park bench thinking I was nuts. There I was, decked out in my leather outfit—a costume, according to the papers—sitting in below freezing temperature, at night, in a deserted park, watching a house where a Chinese gangster may or may not live, and hoping I could exact some justice for a teenage boy I barely knew. How many twenty-two-year-old girls in New York City did that kind of thing? How many other smart and attractive young females in Manhattan spent their days boxing and learning karate and wushu and then spent nights prowling the metropolis wearing a mask and looking for trouble, when they could be dating men, getting married, and having babies? Okay, forget those last two things, but the dating men part would be nice. It’s been a while since John and I—you know—dear diary. But I didn’t have any prospects. Not a single possibility. I loved all the regulars at the gym, but I couldn’t see going out with any of them. Plenty have tried. I didn’t think it was right to mix business with pleasure. I learned my lesson with that chump Mack. Actually, the guy at the gym I think is the most attractive is Jimmy. He may not be the brightest man in the world, but he’s fit and muscular and he’s very sweet. He looks fabulous in boxing trunks. But he’s a Negro. Can a white girl date a Negro? I don’t see why not, but I’m sure most people think it’s something taboo. Maybe one day in the future it will be acceptable for races to mix, but right now it would be asking for a whole lot of woe.
That was the kind of stuff going through my head, dear diary, as I sat in the cold darkness and felt sorry for myself. Then all of a sudden the brownstone door opened and Pock Face emerged. I knew it was him. He was wearing the same winter coat he’d had on earlier. No hat.
He headed across Baxter to the park, in my direction.
I hopped off the bench and hid behind a tree. Should I confront him right there? Or was it better to follow him to see where he went? Maybe he was going to the Flying Dragons’ headquarters. I thought it might be useful to discover its location.
The young hoodlum crossed in front of me and moved east, stopping momentarily to light a cigarette. I stayed on his tail, darting from trees to shadows, until he reached the other side of the park and crossed Mulberry Street. From there he turned north. That’s when I realized I hadn’t thought the evening through. I’ve been guilty of that in the past and I’ve got to stop it. I need to get better with planning.
There were more people out than I liked, making it more difficult to follow him. I stayed on the park side of the street, watching him stride with purpose to Bayard, a one-way street going east. There, he turned right. I had no choice but to n
avigate around some shocked pedestrians and run across Mulberry. Fine, so the Chinatown newspapers would report a Black Stiletto sighting. Whatever, at that point I had committed myself to the task.
When he got to the intersection of Mott and Bayard he must have sensed something, possibly the surprised reactions of pedestrians behind him, for he stopped and slowly turned. He caught me standing ten feet away. Our eyes met. He stood his ground and beckoned with his hand for me to come closer. And, dear diary, we had an audience of about twenty people. Even drivers of cars or taxis passing by on Bayard could see us. It was going to be a very public encounter.
Fine.
I took the initiative and attacked first. I ran at him and performed a Tobi-geri—a jump kick—by leaping into the air and striking him with a side thrust from my left leg—but I sensed he was ready to block the blow, so in mid-jump I changed the maneuver to a Nidan-geri—a double kick. That’s when you leap as you would with a jump kick and strike the opponent’s torso with one foot, but then you sort of jerk your body upright in midair and slam the guy’s face with the jumping foot. You have to leap quite high to accomplish it.
My strategy worked. He indeed blocked the first kick, but didn’t expect the second one. My boot slammed into his cheekbone with such force that he cried out. I landed badly because of my split-second decision to alter the maneuver. I fell to the pavement on my side, but I rolled with it to deflect a full impact. Pock Face’s legs buckled and he landed on his behind!
He recovered quickly, though, performed some kind of circular kick with his legs parallel to the ground, and got me right in the stomach. It hurt, but it could’ve been worse. My opponent didn’t have the kind of balance and leverage he needed to back the attack with the power it needed.
We simultaneously got to our feet. He moved in and launched an onslaught similar to what he did that night in the restaurant. His arms and fists snapped out at lightning speed, hitting me in the face and shoulders. It took a few seconds of getting the stuffing knocked out of me before I remembered some of the blocking moves Billy had taught me. Lo and behold, they worked. My newfound prowess surprised Pock Face. I could see it in his eyes. How did she learn to do that? Why isn’t she on the ground, howling in pain? What am I doing wrong?
His puzzlement worked to my advantage. He hesitated and then I let him have it. I remembered what I’d seen at the tournament and applied the graceful-yet-shockwave style arm and hand attacks with what I already knew in karate. The result was, well, something new, I think. Pock Face tried his best to block me, but everything I did wasn’t on his radar. Several of my blows hit their targets and caused considerable damage. He retreated as I moved forward without stopping the barrage of punches and kicks. I felt invigorated. If it was a tournament bout, he would’ve already stepped out of the ring and I’d be the winner.
He whirled around and took several steps backward to put some distance between us. There was a brief respite. Only then was I aware of the growing audience that surrounded us. It had doubled in size. I didn’t understand the murmurs and shouts, but I didn’t need subtitles. Some people shouted for us to stop. Others cheered us on. It was grand entertainment, and only in Chinatown.
I’d been afraid he’d draw his handgun, but for some reason he didn’t. Perhaps he wasn’t carrying it. But the switchblade he suddenly flicked open was long and sharp and certainly not inconsequential. He swished it around and lunged at me. The spectators moved farther back for fear of being accidentally slashed.
I deftly spun and avoided the thrust, but Pock Face had made a big mistake. He had chosen to have a knife fight with the Black Stiletto. There was no way he was better than me with a blade.
I drew my stiletto—and everything Fiorello taught me came rushing back. The dance you do in a knife fight was very different from the steps you make in karate or wushu. I knew the moves; Pock Face didn’t even know the music.
Like miniature swords, the two blades whooshed back and forth, occasionally striking the other with scrapes and clangs. At one point my stiletto struck his hand. Blood spurted, but he kept hold of the switchblade. Pock Face then saw an opening and he lurched at me with his entire body. Fiorello’s training paid off in spades. I performed a split-second twist of the trunk while continuing to bolt forward—awkward and doable only by someone fit and lithe like me—and his blade missed me by less than an inch. By then he was at my side, his momentum carrying him past. All I had to do was fling the stiletto as if I was throwing it at the ground, and the knife punctured the back of his thigh. He screamed and went down hard.
I kicked the switchblade away from him and then dropped onto his back with my knee in his kidneys. That took most of the fight out of him, but he struggled to buck me off. No such luck. I grabbed an arm and pulled it behind his back and up across his shoulder blade. He grunted in agony.
“Stop squirming or I’ll break it!” I spat.
With my other hand I took hold of the rope at my belt, looped it around his wrist, and successfully wrapped it around his other arm. It took nearly a minute to hogtie him, but when I was done, Pock Face was helpless, lying on his stomach with his hands and feet secured together behind him.
Only then did I look up at the throng around me. All Chinese. All dumbfounded. Completely silent and in shock.
I nearly gasped when I saw Billy among them. He stood in the front and watched me with eyes wide and jaw dropped. I nodded at him and said, “Call the police.” He didn’t move. “Hurry!” The boy jumped and rushed to the pay phone a few yards away on the corner. I watched him pick up the receiver and then I stood and addressed the audience.
“Go home, the show’s over. The police are coming, and unless you want to be witnesses and give statements, you better get out of here!”
No one moved. Either they didn’t understand me or they weren’t about to miss any more excitement.
“Fine,” I said. “Just make sure you get the details right. The Black Stiletto took down the murderer of Mr. Lee from Lee Noodle Restaurant.” I pointed to Pock Face. “He was the killer. He killed Mr. Lee and his brother!”
Billy returned. I said to him, “Tell the cops everything. You’ll have to identify him as your father’s killer.”
The boy stared at me like I was asking him to do the impossible.
“It’s the only way,” I insisted.
Finally, he nodded, just as we all heard the sirens.
“That’s my cue to leave.” I sheathed my knife, and then, on a whim, I saluted the audience with the fist-to-palm gesture. Most of them acknowledged it with smiles and small bows.
Then I ran home and here I am, safe and sound.
I feel good.
11
Maggie
THE PRESENT
I suppose I should have felt devious for having my boyfriend—can I call him that yet?—investigated. The thing is, I do like him. But there are some awfully suspicious mysteries about his mother that I think he knows about. I wouldn’t want to get more involved if there was something, dare I say criminal, in their past? I have to be honest with myself. I’m too old to mess around with serial dating. I’m in my forties and I have a busy, productive practice. If I’m going to invest my time in something that might develop into a relationship, I want to be somewhat confident that I’m making a good decision.
I explained this to Bill Ryan when I went to see him last week. He told me women have prospective boyfriends checked out all the time. It was nothing new. That made me feel a little better about what I was asking him to do. Bill is a former cop, probably fifty- or sixty-something. A little heavy, not too bad. I’m not sure why he retired early, but now he’s a private investigator. I know him through my networking group. We meet once a month for breakfast in Highland Park. I hired him because I thought he’d be considerate, reasonable, and, most importantly, discreet.
Today he called and asked that I stop by his office in Northbrook. He had me sit in front of his desk and he went over what he’d discovered so far.
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br /> “I started with Illinois, because it’s easier to begin in the present and work backward,” he said in a gravelly voice that might have been comedic in a different setting.
“I looked into Judy Talbot’s records and also searched for information about Richard Talbot, the father. Public records are all straightforward. They moved into that house in Arlington Heights in 1970. Prior to that, she and little Martin lived in two different apartments, both in Arlington Heights. Her first records in the state begin in late 1963. Then they were in Ohio for a few months. Then they were back in Illinois until 1965. For some reason they went to St. Louis, Missouri, for a few months, and then they got another apartment in Arlington Heights, Illinois, from 1965 to 1969. So far, I haven’t found anything on any Richard Talbot. Military records from that period, especially if they involve the Vietnam War before it escalated into the conflict we know, are pretty hazy, I’m afraid. But I’ll keep looking.”
“What kind of work did she do?” I asked.
“That’s the funny thing,” Bill said. “She has no employment records. Zilch. Not in this state, anyway. Tax returns showed she earned around thirty grand a year up until the New Millennium. Her profession on her return was listed as ‘consultant,’ whatever that means. After that she lived on savings until she was near poverty. The house was all paid for. Her current bank is Village Bank and Trust, and she has no money in any accounts now. That’s why she’s in a nursing home. I’m trying to get statements prior to the ones from Village Bank, but that’s hard because banks in Arlington Heights turned over a lot since the sixties. In the sixties and seventies, thirty grand a year wasn’t too shabby. Her credit rating is clean.”
“So what was she consulting? Who was sending her money?”
“That’s the next step.”
“You mean Los Angeles,” I said. “Martin told me he was born there and they came to Illinois when he was a baby.”
The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes Page 7