“I want to see Tommy Cheng,” I announced. “Business.” Silence. Several of them glanced back and forth at each other.
My vision zeroed in on one guy I knew—my old friend Pock Face. He was in one of the booths, and I swear he was snarling at me.
“Is someone going to answer me? Where can I find Tommy Cheng?”
A fellow in Pock Face’s booth, sitting with his back to me, slowly stood and turned. He was in his twenties, had an Elvis-style haircut, and a scar above his left eye. The suit he wore was perhaps a size too large, but he definitely managed to project that superiority thing all gangsters seem to have, no matter what their race or culture might be.
“I’m Tommy Cheng,” he said in English with little accent. Before I could speak again, he pulled a switchblade and flicked it open, and that was the cue for every Tong member in the joint to draw a weapon. The bar’s colored lights reflected off their shiny metal surfaces, and I found myself staring at a dozen handguns, knives, and meat cleavers.
I dropped the suitcase and held my hands out to show I wasn’t armed. “Whoa, fellas, hold on. I’m here to negotiate something. I want to talk business.” I addressed Cheng and said, “How does $10,000 sound to you?”
They all remained silent.
“Doesn’t anyone speak English? Mr. Cheng? Are you the leader of the Flying Dragons or not?”
Cheng took two steps forward and made a big show of displaying his switchblade again, and then with a flourish he closed it and put it in his pocket. The others didn’t follow his lead, though.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I nodded at Pock Face. “I want to challenge him to a tournament fight. Right here. Right now.” Pock Face seemed to like that idea. He licked his lips and revealed rotten teeth.
“Why?” Cheng asked.
“He and I have unfinished business. Here’s the deal. If he wins, I give you $10,000 in cash and the Lee family’s debt is paid off. You and your Tong will no longer bother Mrs. Lee or her son. If I win, the same terms apply to the Lee family, but you don’t get the money.”
Cheng looked at Pock Face and they both started to laugh. “Are you serious?” the leader asked me.
“Dead serious. But here are the rules—we do it like a tournament. Anything goes, but no one dies. We’re not fighting to the death.”
Cheng’s eyes went to the suitcase on the floor. “What’s in the bag?”
“The money, of course. May I show you?”
He nodded. I picked up the suitcase and placed it on a table. When I opened it to reveal stacks of bills, every hoodlum in the joint murmured approval. I shut the bag and placed it on the bar. “I’ll leave it right here. If I win, I take it with me. If I lose, you keep it. Are we agreed?”
“Why do you care about the Lee family?” Cheng asked. “This is not your business, Black Stiletto. This is not your neighborhood. They are not your people.”
“They are my friends, and that’s all you need to know,” I said. “What do you say?” I jerked my head at Pock Face. “Unless he’s too scared to fight me.”
My nemesis barked Chinese at Cheng. They exchanged more words and then Cheng stepped closer. “Very well,” he said.
I held out my hand. “You agree to stop harassing the Lees, no matter who the victor is? You’ll leave them alone?”
“Yes.” We shook hands.
“All right then. Let’s have ourselves a fight.”
Everyone in the bar got up and moved out of the way. The darned pool table took up much of the space, but there was approximately a six-foot-by-eight-foot area in front of the bar that was just a little smaller than what they used for bouts in the wushu tournaments. It would do.
We didn’t remove our shoes. The stiletto was still sheathed on my leg. No one said weapons weren’t allowed, but I wasn’t going to draw the knife unless I had to. Pock Face entered the “ring” empty-handed, but I didn’t put it past him to have a concealed weapon. I knew from experience he carried a switchblade and a gun. Even though we agreed no one would die, I’d have been stupid to assume he would abide by the rule.
Tommy Cheng appropriated the role of judge, of course. He designated underlings to serve as time and scorekeepers. The bartender provided the timekeeper with a metal pan to bang at the beginning and end of a round. The rest of the Tong circled the space. Someone drew boundaries of the competition area on the wooden floor with a piece of pool chalk. There wasn’t much room to maneuver. The fight would be up close and very personal.
Pock Face entered the ring and we performed the palm-to-fist salute to Cheng and each other, followed by a bow. Then the timekeeper slapped the pan and the first round began.
Pock Face wasted no time. He advanced toward me with speed and launched into a barrage of Praying Mantis slaps and punches. For the first half minute, all I could do was block blows, but the killer broke through several times and hit me. He was racking up points like crazy. Cheng indicated to the scorekeeper each time Pock Face won a point.
I’m sure the gang thought I was losing. They cheered for Pock Face and laughed at me. As the round progressed, my opponent pushed me farther back toward the boundary and then delivered a crushing blow to my chin that caused me to step outside the ring. Two points for Pock Face. He got cocky then, and made a face of triumph at his friends—and that’s when I leaped back in and delivered a yoko-geri karate side kick and knocked the killer down. He rolled out of the ring, so that was four points for me. Pock Face got to his feet quickly, and we were at it again. This time, though, it was me who was the dominant force. I clobbered him with an onslaught of karate, American boxing, and my invented wushu tactics that under normal circumstances wouldn’t have been allowed in a real tournament. But this was no ordinary competition. The maneuvers took my opponent by surprise, like they did the last time we met, and he was unable to block most of my attacks.
The timekeeper slapped the pan. The two minutes had flown by. I went back to my side of the ring and took a few deep breaths. Pock Face did the same, but someone handed him a glass of water. No one was that kind to me.
The second round started and my opponent attempted to gain the upper hand, but I wouldn’t let him. My unusual fighting methods fooled him again as I slammed him with a mawashi-geri roundhouse kick followed by my modified wushu attacks. For a moment he attempted to block me, wavering on his feet, as I pummeled him with slaps and punches. I sensed that he would fall over if I simply blew at him; but to make sure, I stepped back and let him have a hard mae-geri front kick. Pock Face went down, stunned. But the round wasn’t over yet. The scorekeeper counted in Chinese while my opponent attempted to get up. He got to his knees and then to his feet, but he was definitely waning. Pock Face indicated he was ready to continue the fight and beckoned me forward. I obliged him and rushed at the guy, but he was ready with a kick I didn’t expect. His shoe crashed into my jaw, knocking me sideways and out of the ring.
Round two ended, but I was ahead. I had to be, if Cheng was scoring us honestly. We each had a brief rest, and then the final bout started.
As we approached each other, I detected a glint in Pock Face’s eyes that wasn’t there before. The old instincts told me he had something up his sleeve, so I immediately jumped backward—just as his right hand swung an open switchblade in an arc right where my belly had been a second before. He continued to lunge with the knife until I stepped out of the ring. I thought he’d stop and move back, but he kept coming. The match was obviously no longer a tournament competition with rules. Pock Face was playing for keeps.
The gang members parted when he pursued me out of the circle, and I found myself backed up against the pool table. My opponent bolted toward me, the knife a deadly spearhead. Resting my elbows and forearms on the edge of the pool table, I lifted my lower body and kicked out with both legs. I struck Pock Face’s blade hand, but his grip remained firm. My follow-through was a backward somersault; I landed on my feet on top of the table. Several pool balls were scattered over the playing area, so I kicke
d one at my attacker. He dodged it and kept coming, slashing the air in front of him in a wild attempt to cut me.
Fine. Two could play with knives.
I drew the stiletto, jumped off the table, and changed the odds. It had been some time since I’d been in an honest-to-gosh knife fight, so I had to recall the tricks and strategies Fiorello had taught me. For a moment I thought the other Tong members would join in the fray and I’d have to battle them all, but they respectfully kept their distance. This was Pock Face’s war, and they were going to let him prove his mettle.
The table was between us, so I let him come around for a thrust. He was all too eager, so I kicked him in the face with as much strength as I could muster. Pock Face stepped back. His expression told me he wasn’t quite sure what had hit him. I didn’t stop there. Moving forward, I jabbed his knife arm with the stiletto. The blade punctured his sleeve and drew blood. He shrieked, but managed to hold on to the weapon. I lunged at him in order to hit him with my left fist, but he recovered from my previous kick and sliced my upper arm. The blade cut through the leather and I felt it break skin. It smarted like the dickens, but he was unable to halt my momentum. My fist didn’t hit its target, but my entire body banged into his and we both fell to the floor. My first instinct was to put all my effort into disarming him, so I spear handed his forearm with the same strong blow I used to break 2 by 4s in Soichiro’s studio. Pock Face yelped and dropped the knife. I probably shattered the bone.
He was on his back and I stood over him. I shoved my boot into his chest and held him down, and then I stuck the point of my stiletto under his chin.
“Do you yield?” I growled.
My opponent just stared at me with hate. He spit at me, and his glob of phlegm hit my mask and mouth. Yuck. Well, that really angered me. The guy cheated, he didn’t play by the rules, and he was a murderer. He’d tried to kill me and he left Billy without a father. He was one bad man.
So I sliced off his ear.
He screamed bloody murder and rolled over to protect himself, but he still bled all over the floor. I got up and prepared to defend myself against the other Tongs. Tommy Cheng stood nearby with a heavy frown on his face, but he held up a hand to prevent anyone from attacking me.
“You said no one dies,” the leader said.
“Tell that to him. He tried to kill me, you saw it. He deserves to die. He killed Mr. Lee and his brother.” I tossed the bloody ear on the floor in front of Cheng. “But that’s the only penance I’ll take from him.”
I wiped the edge of my stiletto on the pool table felt and sheathed it. I then walked over to the suitcase full of money and picked it up. I looked at Cheng. “I’d say I won, right?”
The punk hesitated. I stared him down until he finally nodded.
“And you’ll leave the Lees alone? The mother and her son? Their debt is canceled?”
Once again, Cheng nodded.
“If you break that promise, I’ll be back for you.”
I left the bar and went home. The cut on my arm was superficial and didn’t need stitches. Freddie was already asleep, thank goodness, so I cleaned the wound and bandaged myself.
Writing down this stuff sure acts as some kind of catharsis for me. When I started the diary entry, I felt anxious and my heart was pounding. Now I’m more relaxed. And I’m alive.
I’m going to have a glass of wine, a shower, and then go to bed.
42
Martin
THE PRESENT
It’s ten days before Christmas and Gina is home from New York. She’s staying with Carol, of course. It’s good that Gina is there to help with the wedding, which will take place tonight at Ross’s house in Lincolnshire. He has a pretty big place because he’s a rich lawyer and all, so Carol will sell her house and move in with him.
Mom is still in the hospital, but the doctors think she’ll be able to go back to Woodlands before Christmas. I was proud of Gina. She cheered up Mom immensely. Mom really brightened up when she saw her granddaughter. They actually had a conversation that made sense. It was a little one-sided with Gina doing all the talking, but Mom had appropriate responses and seemed genuinely interested in what Gina had to say. Gina told her about school and classes and teachers and boys. Apparently she had a date recently with a guy who also goes to Juilliard. I found that encouraging, not so much that I want Gina to get involved in a serious relationship, but rather I think it’s good for her to get out socially. She’s just now starting to show signs of normalcy since all the trouble. One interesting part of their talk had to do with Gina’s martial arts lessons. She told my mom about them, that she was taking krav maga classes and learning how to defend herself. Krav maga is an Israeli fighting system that can be pretty rough from what I know. Gina was trying to explain what it was to Mom, so she asked, “Do you know what karate is?” and my Mom actually answered, “Yes, I do.” Then Mom formed her hand spearlike and made a chopping gesture in the air! Gina laughed and said, “That’s right, Grandma! You could be a black belt!” And then my mom said very seriously, “I have a black belt.” Gina was either humoring her or she thought Mom might have been talking about regular clothing, so my daughter laughed and said, “You do, Grandma? That’s pretty cool.”
I thought it best to change the subject, so I prompted Gina to talk about her mother’s wedding plans. When she could comprehend who I was, Mom had no problem remembering that Carol and I were divorced since it happened long before she got sick. I think, though, she’s picked up on the fact that Maggie and I are an item. Whenever we’re together in the hospital room, Mom perks up and seems to enjoy our company more when we’re together than if I’m alone.
Gina and Maggie took to each other well. I was afraid Maggie had preconceived notions that Gina was some kind of problem child since she’d been arrested. But Maggie understood the trauma Gina had gone through and excused her on all counts. Gina later told me that I’d picked a “winner.”
Maggie and I had an awkward reconciliation after my idiotic behavior the other night. I realized that the reason I freaked out after seeing that TV story on my mom was because I desperately wanted to tell Maggie about the Black Stiletto. I had to leave the house because I was afraid I’d blurt it out. I called my doc the next day to say I didn’t feel the antidepressants were working. He said to give it a little more time, a couple of weeks, and then he’d reevaluate everything and either increase the dosage or change the medication. He said that finding the right “cocktail” can sometimes take months, mainly because you don’t know if something works until you’ve been taking it for four or five weeks. Great.
If it wasn’t for that elephant in the room, Maggie and I would have a perfect relationship. In all other respects we get along great. She’s lost that all-too-serious bedside manner when she’s around me, except when she’s acting professionally in her job at Woodlands. We enjoy each other’s company, and we make each other laugh. The sex is good, too, and that can be oh so important in keeping a relationship going.
She’s going with me to Carol’s wedding. Having a gorgeous woman like her at my side will keep me from being a basket case.
I’d never been inside Ross’s house, but it could have been the Playboy Mansion—it was so huge. He had an expansive lawn in the back, but the cold weather necessitated the wedding being held indoors in a grand foyer. The reception took over the dining room, the living room, and a music room that held a grand piano. There were approximately sixty people in attendance. I knew maybe a third of them because once upon a time they were friends that Carol and I had. I didn’t stay in touch with them much, although I’d run into the guys every now and then. Carol obviously remained closer. Most of the people were Ross’s friends and family. Carol’s older brother Gary—he’s my age—was here from California. I hadn’t seen him in years. He was friendly, but I don’t think he ever liked me anyway.
It was very nice having Maggie there. I would have felt more out of place and like “the first guy the bride dumped” without her. She
looked great, too. I told her she could be a fashion model instead of a doctor and she just laughed and punched my arm. I think the people who knew me were impressed. Ross certainly was. I thought he was going to call off the wedding and propose to Maggie instead. Well, not really. He did seem taken with her, though, and he was very cordial to me. What can I say? He’s a successful and handsome guy, and I can’t help but feel a little envious—“jealous” is the wrong word—but I’m happy for Carol, really I am, and I hope it works out better for her than our marriage did.
Gina looked beautiful. If you ask me, she was the belle of the ball. She was also very warm and friendly, talking to everyone and being charming as hell. You’d never think this was a girl who’d been assaulted in a New York park three months earlier. The anger I’d seen when I was there was gone. Carol noticed it, too, and said something about it to me.
“Gina’s doing well, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Seems to be. How is she at the house?”
“Fine. She’s being lazy, which is understandable since she’s on Christmas break. But she seems happy.”
That was good to know.
“I think that martial arts class she’s taking is good therapy for her,” Carol said. “It helps her work out a lot of issues.”
Yeah, just like my mother did.
Maggie and I sat with Gina when we noshed on wedding cake and had champagne. Gina’s not old enough to drink alcohol, but I didn’t mind if she had a little bubbly on this occasion.
“Oh, guess what,” she said.
“What.”
“You know that guy Gilbert Trejano? The one who had me arrested?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“He was arrested! For rape and murder!”
“What?”
“Yeah, it happened just before I came home. Boy, do I feel vindicated. I knew I was right all along.”
That news hit me in the chest. I didn’t know what to say at first. Maggie asked, “You mean he was the one who attacked you?”
“I believe he was, but the police aren’t saying. He was caught for another crime.”
The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes Page 25