The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (14 page)

“Looky here, wha's dis we got here?” the armed one said.

“She wearin' a mask!”

“Get out of my way,” I said.

“Or what, missy?”

“Hey she got a knife, too!”

That was my cue. At that moment, both men were looking down at my leg—which swiftly rose for a
Mae-geri
. The front kick caught the creep's knife hand. The weapon went sailing off into the night. Without a second's hesitation, I stepped in and performed the attacks Billy had taught me. They weren't real Praying Mantis moves, but they worked for me. I mimicked that fast and repetitive slapping style of fighting, hitting with my fists and open hands. The creeps didn't know what kind of storm had unleashed at them. One went down quickly. The other seemed to have more stamina, so I whirled around a got him with a
Mawashi-geri
, a roundhouse kick. Hard, under the chin. I'm pretty sure I heard his teeth crack when his lower jaw drove into the upper.

I paused long enough only to check the sounds in the air. Voices. Police. I saw flashlight beams cutting through the darkness of the trees.

No time to dawdle! I shot out of there on the path leading north.
Before I knew it, I'd reached 65th Street. Some streets go through the park so cars and taxis can get to other side without having to go all the way around. I started to follow it west, but vehicle headlights brightened the area so much that I'd be seen. The road was also curvy and narrow, with no sidewalks.

Unsure what to do, I looked behind me and heard the cops reach the carousel. They probably found my handiwork lying on the ground.

I kept going north.

After a few moments of running in black nothingness, I stopped to listen again. I had no idea where I was. The path twisted a few times, and I lost my sense of direction. I didn't know which way was west anymore. I considered going back to the 65th Street transverse and taking my chances, but I chose to move forward.

Suddenly, I reached a wide-open field. No trees, just a flat, grassy plain. Kids obviously played soccer or football there during the daytime. I didn't want to cross the field and expose myself, so I trotted along the perimeter, staying close to the trees. Eventually, I heard cars just beyond the woods. It was another through road, but smaller and not as busy, so I slipped around the rocks and trees and followed it west.

Eventually, dear diary, I made it out of the park at 66th Street and Central Park West. I was about to move off the sidewalk and run across the avenue, when a police patrol car came rumbling up the road. There was no way I could jump for cover in time. The red-and-blue lights went on and the siren beeped. The car quickly pulled over to the curb, so I hightailed it back into the park. I had to hide after all.

The spooky trees were my friends then. I dashed toward the blackest, bleakest hole and followed it to the core of the small forest. My intuition served me well, for it was difficult to see directly in front of my face. I figured that was about as good as I was going to get, so I stopped and crouched behind a tree.

I waited. Heard voices in the distance. Saw no flashlights. I sat on the ground. It was a damp and cold.

The wilderness around me was full of ungodly dark shapes. If you'd have told me there were bears in Central Park, I would've believed you.

I stayed still and silent. Off in the distance, I pinpointed tiny moving beams of light after all. The cops were searching for me due east of my position. They moved along a path, which was a good sign. So far they hadn't ventured into the thickness of the woodsy area. Maybe they were as scared of it as I was!

My strategy had to change. It wasn't a chase anymore. It was all about stealth, and moving slowly and deliberately. I figured if the cops came my way, I'd covertly sneak to another tree, and so on, until they gave up. My senses told me there were two clusters of policemen, but they didn't consist of as many men as I'd feared. I listened carefully, following the passage of the closest group. Their voices were low, unintelligible murmurs.

Dear diary, it seemed like I sat in that cold, dark spot forever. It was at least an hour before the policemen abandoned the search. I detected no more activity anywhere near me. I stood, brushed off my behind, and
walked
out of the trees. A deserted, gray path led west. I took it, moving slowly in case I heard anyone. At that point I probably would have rather run into a gang of criminals instead of the NYPD!

I reached Central Park West, crossed the avenue, and went west on 64th Street until I hit Broadway. Although it was a busy thoroughfare, it was way after midnight. Not as many pedestrians, but it was still prudent to move quickly. I went back to the speedy, blink-and-you'll-miss-her Black Stiletto, darting from building to building and dashing across street intersections. It was a long way home, but I made it.

Remind me never to forget my street clothes again.

M
AY 21, 1960

I've been feeling down since Lucy's wedding. I probably made a big fool of myself by drinking too much, coming on to every male in sight, being ridiculous with Jimmy, and then experiencing that fiasco in Central Park as the Black Stiletto. That's why I haven't written much, dear diary.

I've been sneaking glasses of Freddie's bourbon. He's not drinking it, so I figure why let it go to waste? Freddie commented that I seemed to be getting “looped” every night and should maybe cut down. He's probably right, but I didn't answer him. Right now, having a drink or two after dinner hits the spot.

I saw Lucy when she and Peter returned from the Bahamas. She was tan and looked great. She's very happy. She told me all about going snorkeling and seeing gorgeous colored coral and weird exotic fish. The food was spectacular and the hotel was splendid. I'm sure I'll see all the pictures they took when she gets them developed. Lucy hated coming back to the real world. She's moved in with Peter, so visiting her is more of a schlep. He lives in the West Village. They want to buy a larger apartment somewhere. I told her it had better be on the East Side!

Peter got tickets for us to see that new musical playing Off-Broadway,
The Fantasticks
. It's at the Sullivan Street Playhouse. Now I can't get that song “Try to Remember” out of my head. I'd like to see more theatre. I can count on two hands the number of times I've been to a Broadway show. Sometimes famous stars appear. I'm silly not to take advantage of it.

Mostly I've been working and training. I looked in the phone book for instructors who taught
wushu
. Although I've been practicing and developing my own techniques, it would be nice to learn the real thing. One studio I called said they don't teach girls. The person who answered at the second place didn't speak English, so I gave up. I once had an idea to open my own martial arts class for girls only. Maybe I should do that. Would anyone register? Are there other girls besides me who want to defend themselves? You'd think there would be.

One day I went up to Park Avenue South to see the Democratic headquarters. A young man and woman sat behind a table on the pavement asking passersby if they were registered to vote. I realized I wasn't, so I filled out the papers. I looked at some of the party literature and told them I hoped John Kennedy got the nomination. The woman said, “As long as we get a Democrat in the White House, that's the important thing.” I'd read that President Eisenhower signed a new civil rights act this month that was supposed to help Negro voters in the south. I had asked Clark about it and he said the new law was a start but it didn't do enough.

Maybe I
will
volunteer. It would bring something positive to my life again.

Meanwhile, the Black Stiletto hasn't made an appearance since the Central Park incident. I haven't felt like it lately, but tonight I do. It's Sunday evening, the weather is nice, and the night is calling me. It's been a while since I've been to Chinatown. I want to see if Billy and his mother are still in the apartment above the restaurant. I'm probably crazy for showing my mask there again, but I have nothing better to do.

M
AY 22, 1960

Ugh, I have a hangover today. I guess I drank too much last night, but I was real blue. What's wrong with me? I should have been happy after what I did, but I wasn't.

Around 10:00 I dressed as the Stiletto and slipped out. The sidewalks were crowded with people. New York City in late May, you can't get much better than that. That meant I had to be extra careful dashing along the streets, dodging traffic, and not staying in one place too long. Sure, people saw me. Some of the reactions were pretty funny. Women screamed like they'd seen a mouse. A few men did, too! Others yelled at me, both positively and negatively. “Menace!” “Hurray for the Black Stiletto!” “Go get ‘em, Stiletto!” “Someone call the cops!” You get the picture.

It's pretty difficult traipsing through Chinatown without being noticed. My plan was to check on Billy and then get out of there. I didn't want another gang of Flying Dragons to corner me. I've had my fill of getting beat up by mobs.

Elizabeth Street was quiet. The restaurant was closed, of course, and the lettering “Lee Noodle Restaurant” was gone. Plywood covered the windows on the inside. A construction permit was taped to the door. Another note said “Open Soon New Manjment” in English and Chinese. I bet I knew who the new managers were, too.

I also checked the mailboxes inside the building. The Lees were no longer listed. Gone. I hope Billy is all right. I suppose I'll never see him again.

Not wanting to tempt providence, I quickly got out of there. I moved up Elizabeth to Canal and was just starting to dash east when I heard shouts of distress in Chinese coming from a convenience store on the corner. A few people stopped to look, so I did, too.

Two young men wearing plastic Halloween masks were in the process of holding up the place! The elderly Chinese man behind the counter had his hands up. One guy—his mask was Mickey Mouse—pointed a gun at the man. Another crook stood next to the
manager with his hands in the cash register drawer. His mask was Popeye.

Without hesitating, I opened the door, lunged at the gunman's waist, and tackled him. The gun fell on the floor and rattled like a tin can. It was a toy made of plastic! The boy behind the counter dropped what money he had, leaped over, and ran out of the store before I could stop him. I let him go since I had one of them. It wasn't difficult holding the kid down. I pulled off the Mickey Mouse mask, revealing a young Chinese teenager not much older than Billy. Meanwhile, the manager jabbered in his language and picked up a phone. I assumed he was calling the police.

“What's your name?” I growled at the boy.

“Chow!”

“Chow? That's your name?”

He nodded furiously. He was so frightened he started to cry.

“Are you in a Tong?”

He wouldn't answer. The boy just sobbed and said, “I'm sorry! I'm sorry!”

“Answer me! Are you in a Tong?”

Then he shook his head. “I want . . . I try to join . . . this initiation!”

“You had to rob this store to get in the Tong?”

He nodded and cried some more.

“What Tong? The Flying Dragons?”

When I said that, his eyes grew wide. “No! No!” I thought he said, “On lung, on lung.” Was that Chinese?

“What's on lung mean?”

“No,
On Leong
!” Then I remembered what Billy had told me. On Leong was the name of another Tong in Chinatown. In fact, they're the main rivals of the Hip Sing Tong. That meant this kid wouldn't like the Flying Dragons, since they're associated with Hip Sing.

I got off of him and let the boy stand, but I held on to the back of his neck. I addressed the manager. “He's just a kid. He didn't get anything. Should I let him go?”

The old man didn't understand me. He let loose a string of angry Chinese. I asked the boy what the manager said.

“He says to let me go,” the boy whimpered.

“Oh, really? That didn't sound like what he said. I think he wants you locked away.”

“Please! I won't do it again! I promise! My parents, they kill me!”

I suddenly felt sorry for the kid. He was trembling. I turned to the old man again. “I'm letting him go, okay?” The fellow continued his monologue, but it didn't sound as angry. I squeezed the boy's neck hard and said, “All right, this is a warning. You don't need to join a Tong. Stay in school. Be a good kid.” I looked down at the plastic weapon and kicked it across the floor. “And don't play with guns,” I added. “Now run along before the cops get here.”

The boy was out of there faster than a Texas roadrunner. The store manager didn't stop talking. He proceeded to berate me for letting the would-be robber go. I just shook my head at him and said, “He's just a kid! Tell the cops he got away.” I was pretty sure the man had no idea what I said, so I left. A few pedestrians had gathered on the sidewalk outside, so I addressed them. “If any of you speak English, tell the police the two robbers were young boys and they got away.” My statement was met with blank stares. I guess they'd never seen a Black Stiletto before.

That was it. I gave up and ran east on Canal. I never heard any police sirens. After making sure no one followed me, I made my way to the telephone pole, shimmied up, skirted across the roofs on 2nd Street, and climbed in my window above the gym.

What's weird is that I should have felt good. I hoped I'd scared that boy into not joining a Tong and that I'd done a worthwhile act. Instead, an overwhelming sense of frustration and failure took over. It was that Chinatown
thing
again, how foreign and alien it is. I had to admit I didn't understand it. I was definitely a fish out of water there, more than any other place in New York.

So after I removed my outfit and put on my pajamas and a robe,
I got Freddie's bottle of bourbon and poured a few glasses. I'm not sure what time I finally got in bed. Hence, the hangover today.