The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes

by Raymond Benson

  “An investigation in L.A. can get expensive, Maggie. You sure you want to do this?”

  I told him I did, heaven help me.

  * * *

  Martin and I had dinner together on Saturday night, this time at Fleming’s Steak House in Lincolnshire. I told him that was way too expensive, but he insisted on taking me. He wanted to “make up” for embarrassing me at Kona Grill the other evening. I told him I wasn’t embarrassed and to forget about it. But we went to Fleming’s anyway. I’m afraid I allowed myself to indulge in the bottle of wine he ordered, and besides, that was the best way to enjoy the steak, baked potato, and vegetables. Everything was delicious. Well, the wine went to my head and my inhibitions went out the window, just like they’re supposed to when you drink wine. I ended up going home with Martin.

  His house probably needed a maid service to give it a once-over every couple of weeks, but it wasn’t the bachelor nightmare I was afraid it might be. It was actually quite nice. There were framed duplicates of the photos Judy has in her room at Woodlands, along with several others of Martin and his small family. Gina is an attractive girl.

  He lit a fire in the fireplace and then asked if I wanted another drink. I told him no, but he brought out some sherry that I sipped. Incongruously, there was a vintage Kennedy/Johnson campaign button on the coffee table. I asked him about it and he said it was his mother’s. He said he found it among her things and just happened to be looking at it and left it there. Martin had suggested earlier that we could watch a movie on DVD, but that never happened. As we sat on the sofa, one thing led to another, and he got up the nerve to kiss me. I kissed him back and before long we were making out.

  We ended up in his bedroom and I spent the night. I had been proceeding on the side of caution, but for some reason that night I simply wanted some intimacy and Martin was there. He was charming at dinner and he said all the right things when we were at his place. Perhaps I wanted to be seduced; it had been a long time since I’d been with a man. Despite my reservations about his past, I went ahead and made our relationship official. Whether or not it was a mistake, it’s too soon to say. I do know that it went well, it was a pleasant experience, and he was an adequate lover. Being the first time for us, of course it was a little awkward and we fumbled a bit, but in the end everything was fine.

  However, during the night, I woke up to hear him talking in his sleep. He was having a nightmare; that much was apparent from his distress. It was difficult to understand his words, but I clearly heard him say “Not you, Mom.” I shook him and he started violently. It took a moment for him to calm down and realize he’d been dreaming. I asked if he remembered what was so disturbing, but he said he couldn’t. I didn’t tell him he mentioned his mother.

  I suggested again that a therapist could be useful to him, and he admitted that he was planning to seek one out. I told him I could try to get a referral for someone in his medical network, but he preferred to find a doctor on his own.

  We went back to sleep.

  In the morning I didn’t immediately regret what I’d done, so I took that to be a good sign.

  12

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  MARCH 15, 1960

  Last night was a disaster, dear diary.

  It’s late afternoon and I just woke up a little while ago. This morning Jimmy took over at the gym for me. From behind my bedroom door I told Freddie I was sick. I slept all day.

  I got beat up again. Bad. I have a broken rib, I know I do. It was a good thing Freddie was already asleep when I got home last night or he would have forced me to go to the emergency room. I probably should have. Instead, I’ve wrapped my ribcage with that same stretchy wrapping they gave me a while back when I broke a different rib. I remember sticking the support wrap in a drawer somewhere, so I pulled it out. I’m sure if I went to a doctor he’d just make me wear it for a month or so, and I’ve already got one, so okay, I’ll wear it for a month or so. I’ve been down this road before.

  Other minor injuries—a swollen right eyebrow, another busted lip, a bloody nose, a black eye that’s on its way, and really sore forearms, hands, and thighs. Oh, and shoulders. And neck. Dear diary, my whole body hurts!

  But I’m alive.

  What hurts the most is the headline of the Daily News.

  “BLACK STILETTO DEFEATED!” in big, bold letters. Four photos accompanied the article. They were pictures of me lying in the middle of Pell Street, surrounded by innocent bystanders. In the fourth shot, the police had joined them. Yes, the police. An enterprising pedestrian must have had a camera I didn’t notice. I was a bit out of it at the time. There were no photographs of my assailants. They had all run off by the time the street brawl had become the biggest news story on the planet.

  Alas, it’s true. I was defeated. Of course, it was a couple dozen against one, but I didn’t think that would stop the Black Stiletto. I guess I have to know my limitations.

  Most of the article was inaccurate, as they usually are. The reporter especially got the last part wrong. It stated that I was helped up by two policeman, handcuffed, and thrown into a patrol car, under arrest. I was “humiliated and broken in defeat.” That’s not exactly what happened, or I wouldn’t be sitting at the kitchen table writing this now. And I wasn’t humiliated. I was angry. The bad guys ganged up on me. It wasn’t a fair fight at all.

  The evening started out with me going to my regular wushu lesson with Billy at the restaurant. I was feeling good about catching his father’s killer. I thought he and his mother would be very happy about it. But he met me outside and told me there would be no lesson and to meet him in a few minutes in our shadowy alcove across the street in the building under construction. I thought, uh-oh. Something had happened.

  Billy showed up nearly ten minutes later and apologized. He said we can’t meet for lessons anymore. He and his mother have to move out of the building. The Flying Dragons took over the restaurant and still claim his father owed the Tong $20,000! Pock Face’s arrest made the situation worse. Billy said his mother wouldn’t testify and forbade him to do so. She was threatened. And Pock Face was released! None of the charges stuck. Like the Italian Mafia, the Tongs had good lawyers and corrupt police and judges in their pockets. At any rate, Billy and his Mom were in a lot of trouble. If they don’t do what the Tong says, they’ll be killed.

  I was horrified. Somehow my fight with the killer put my friend in danger. I guess it made sense, now that I think about it. Why would the Black Stiletto be avenging the murder of Mr. Lee and his brother unless she had a connection to the family?

  “Who are these people? How can they have so much power? Don’t the police have any say in what goes on in Chinatown?” I asked.

  Billy rolled his eyes. “Not really. The Tongs pay no attention to white cops. There are more and more Chinese policemen in Chinatown, but it doesn’t really help.”

  “Do you know any more about the Flying Dragons?”

  “All I know is their leader is a guy named Tommy Cheng. The two men at the restaurant that night are a couple of his enforcers. I imagine the headquarters is on Pell Street. That’s where the Hip Sing Tong is, and the Flying Dragons are their little brothers.”

  “Where are you and your mother going to live?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Some dump. We’re thinking of going back to China to be with my grandparents. At least we’d escape the Tong, but we’d be poor.”

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” I said.

  He replied that he understood and that he wasn’t upset at me. His mother was, and she was also angry at him for talking to the Stiletto. It put their lives in jeopardy.

  I immediately said I would make it right, but Billy held up a hand. “No,” he said. “You must go away and forget about all this. I mean it. It’s now too dangerous for you—and for us—if you’re seen here. Ma’am—” that was the first time he ever called me “ma’am”— “I thank you for everything. I have enjoyed our time together. But I must say go
odbye. I am sorry.”

  That’s when I realized poor Billy was scared to death. The Tong had put the fear of God into him and his mother. For that, I was determined to take them all on. I wanted to find their little nest and fumigate them.

  But I told him, “All right, Billy. It’s okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I understand.” In other words, I let him off the hook. I thanked him for his lessons and paid him his last fee. Without him knowing, I slipped an extra $50 in the wad of cash.

  We shook hands and said goodbye. I could tell he wasn’t happy about what he had to tell me. He was genuinely upset. I might have felt bad about it myself, but somehow I knew—I know—Billy and I will meet again and I told him so.

  I waited until he was back inside his building before I emerged from our hiding place. Even though I’d just promised him I wouldn’t come see him anymore, I didn’t exactly say I wasn’t going to visit Chinatown. So just to make the evening’s effort worthwhile, I decided to take a stroll. Instead of heading north toward the Village, I went south to see what kind of mischief I could find. Maybe I wanted another scrap with a Tong member. I had felt so good the previous night. The Black Stiletto had trounced a really tough guy— a murderer—and handed him over to the police. My extracurricular activities hadn’t gone so well in a long time.

  But ego and arrogance were my downfall. I was cocky. Having an audience the other night went to my head. I know that now. I was stupid and I’m mad at myself for not paying heed to what I’d told Billy.

  There were a lot of pedestrians on the streets, as usual. I dashed between dark pockets of storefronts, step by step, along Bayard Street going west. I was seen. Fingers pointed. But I moved swiftly and didn’t give anyone time to engage me in any way. I found a few unlit spots where I could stand, catch my breath, and observe the landscape.

  I reached Bayard and Mott, the scene of my little scuffle with Pock Face and kept going south. By then, the buzz on the street was pretty strong: the Black Stiletto was in Chinatown. It must have been what I wanted. I hoped the Tongs would come out and play.

  And they did.

  Pell Street T-intersected into Mott from the east. There, a dozen toughs stood in the middle of the road, blocking any travel farther south. I either had to turn around and go north on Mott, or take the left turn onto Pell Street, which, from the intersection, looked clear of anyone but pedestrians. I chose the latter.

  It was a trap.

  As soon as I slipped to the sidewalk on Pell, more young Chinese men materialized out of the shadows in front of me. They’d been waiting. I looked behind me and the first mob had moved forward and now blocked the way out to Mott. I was surrounded by at least two dozen Tong members. Some of them carried weapons—clubs, bats, knives—but I saw no handguns.

  Dear diary, I’d been in precarious situations before and I’ve also experienced fear, but I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was then. My stomach was in my throat. My intuitive danger alarms were going haywire. My heart pounded and my adrenaline pumped. It was fight or flight, no question about it.

  I was the Black Stiletto! I could face all those hoodlums, right?

  They proved me wrong.

  Mustering up some bravado, I said, “You fellas don’t want any trouble, now do you?” I don’t know if they understood English or if they just didn’t want to reply. They just kept moving forward, squeezing me in, leaving me no way out.

  I drew the stiletto. “Stand back,” I threatened, but my words fell on deaf ears.

  The best route out of the situation was through the cluster in front of me on Pell. If I could get past them, I’d be at the Bowery and home free. There was no way they could outrun me. I could whip up a fire escape and fly over some rooftops before they knew where I’d gone. I just had to find an opening.

  So I attacked first.

  I think the element of surprise was on my side at the beginning. They hadn’t expected me to make the opening move. I ran at the thugs with the knife whishing back and forth. A few stepped back, allowing me some advancement. For a moment I thought I saw doubt on their faces. But then a couple of guys deftly blocked me, and I felt the excruciating blow from a club on my side. My blade struck some meat and I heard a cry, but I had no idea what happened next. It was as if a swarm of bees had descended on me. The stings came from everywhere at once. Fists, feet, clubs—the onslaught was overpowering. Before I knew it, I found myself curled in a fetal position and lying on my side in the street. The blows were a flood of agony, sharp and powerful, tearing me apart and rendering me helpless.

  Dear diary, I might have been killed. I remember crying out in pain and thinking it was hopeless—when I realized I still held my stiletto. In my mind’s eye I saw Soichiro standing in his old karate studio, berating me for not breathing or not concentrating or not doing something. It was the motivation I needed.

  I thrust my knife hand out and struck a calf. I swung it around in a curve, slicing ankles and shins. My targets yelped and retreated, but that didn’t stop the crush of anger directed at me. The torment unleashed on my body increased in intensity, and I was sure I blacked out. It must have been what had happened, because suddenly there were police sirens in the air. They had come out of nowhere and were loud. The assault died off and finally stopped altogether. I felt the oppressive huddle of the mob disperse. I was alone on the street, a battered rag doll that couldn’t move.

  Everything became a blur. I was aware of the nearby heat from a patrol car’s engine, and headlights illuminated my disgrace for everyone to see. Raising my head, I attempted to crawl out of the spotlight, but I heard a male Caucasian voice in my ear.

  “How bad is it?”

  I didn’t answer. I squinted at the man kneeling beside me. It was a young patrolman.

  “Can you walk?” he asked. “Do you need an ambulance?” “Help . . . help me up,” I managed to say.

  He did. My body screamed in misery as the broken rib made its presence known.

  “We’re getting you out of here,” the cop said. And with that, he snapped a handcuff on my right wrist. The other half locked onto my left, and suddenly I was in the backseat of the patrol car. Two young policemen got in the front, put on the siren again, and drove out of Pell Street.

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?” my new friend asked.

  “No,” I managed to whisper.

  I forced myself to sit up. We were traveling north on Bowery.

  “Are you sure?” the cop asked again.

  “Yeah.”

  “You could have been killed back there.”

  “I know.”

  “Stay out of Chinatown. It’s not for you.”

  I didn’t know what was going on. Were they arresting me? Were they taking me to the nearest precinct? Was the Black Stiletto finished?

  To my surprise, they pulled over to the side of the road. The cop in the passenger seat got out and came around to the back. He opened the door, leaned in, and unlocked the handcuffs.

  “Can you make it?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  I told him, “Yeah,” although to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure. He helped me out of the car and I stood unsteadily on the sidewalk.

  The young patrolman then explained himself. “I admire you a lot,” he said. “But Chinatown is no place for the Black Stiletto. It’s a different world. Even the police don’t understand it. Those Tongs are animals. Stay away, if you know what’s good for you. Don’t go back, okay?”

  “Thanks,” was all I could think of to say.

  “Take care of yourself,” the cop said as he got back in the front seat and slammed the door shut. The driver took off and left me alone.

  I breathed deeply, despite the pain in my side. Examining myself, I saw the blood all over my outfit. I wiped my nose and mouth and flung red goo onto the street. Thankfully, the cold air helped revive me. My senses returned and I had the strength to get out of the streetlight and scram. I limped east until I found a shadowy, isolated storefr
ont on a side street, and I fell to my knees. There, I rested and pulled myself together. I stayed there for several minutes until I talked myself into standing and moving on.

  It’s a miracle I made it home.

  13

  Judy’s Diary

  1960

  APRIL 6, 1960

  As you can see by the date, I haven’t written lately. I’ve been concentrating on healing and running the gym. Freddie’s a lot better and has resumed his managerial position, but with limited activity. I still do the grunt work and Jimmy helps out. He’s very sweet. The other day I was about to clean the locker room, shower, and toilets, which is always a disgusting chore. Jimmy offered to do it for me. I thought about saying no. Newcomers should not be subjected to that horrible job, but in light of my injuries, it was nice to take that one break. I also didn’t want Freddie examining me, so I asked Jimmy to take a look at my ribs. He would know if I’d cracked one. It was in the locker room. I pulled him inside during one of his workouts. You should have seen his face when I lifted my sweatshirt and exposed myself in my bra to him! I hated to startle him, ha ha. Anyway, he got over his shock, examined me, felt around where it was tender, and confirmed what I already knew—it was a cracked rib. Wearing the wrap was the best thing I could do.

  I couldn’t talk to Freddie. On the day after the Stiletto’s “defeat” in Chinatown, he got really mad at me. He almost started crying, he was so afraid that I’d get hurt. He said I should let it go, and that there is more to life than revenge. I told him I was sorry, but he blurted, “Do you know what a burden it is, knowing you’re the Black Stiletto?” That made me cry, and I shut myself in my room for a while. We haven’t spoken much since then.

  And then there’s the so-called defeat. That was the big news for a while. Several of the New York papers ran stories about my demise. The cops who took me away from the scene claimed that I “jumped them, grabbed a gun, and forced them to release me from the handcuffs, even though I was badly hurt.” I suppose they were covering their rear ends. So reporters speculated that I might be lying seriously injured in my Black Stiletto Cave or possibly even dead. “Have We Heard the Last of the Black Stiletto?” one editorial suggested.