The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (32 page)

Gosh, tomorrow's Election Day. All that hard work I did for Senator Kennedy is going to pay off.

At least I hope so!

N
OVEMBER 9, 1960

It's three in the morning, dear diary, and I just got home from a victory celebration at HQ! JOHN F. KENNEDY IS THE NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES! Holy cow, it was so
close!
I don't think an Alfred Hitchcock movie would ever be as suspenseful as tonight was. Kennedy and Nixon were neck and neck throughout the day, and the senator eventually won by just a hair. I was surprised it was so close. That just shows how blinded I was by working on Kennedy's campaign. I knew Nixon had a lot of supporters in the country, but I didn't think he'd actually give Kennedy such a run for his money. Wow.

Well, we threw a party at HQ. We had champagne. A
lot
of champagne. Everyone was there—Mr. Dudley and Mr. Patton and Chip and Betty and Louise and Karen and Mrs. Bernstein and a lot
of my other friends and the rest of the Kennedy Girls. Of course, Billy wasn't there, and neither was Lily. A few people mentioned Mitch and Alice, but they remained a mystery to the rest of the team. There had been no more in the papers about them, nor about Michael and Ivan. That chapter of 1960 was closed.

I was very, very happy, but on the way home in the cab—it was so late that I splurged, and besides, I can afford it now—I did get a little sad. I couldn't help thinking about how the year started with someone I care about in the hospital—Freddie—and now it looks like 1960 will end with another person I care about in the hospital.

I'm not much for prayer, but I did say one tonight for Billy.

N
OVEMBER 10, 1960

The first thing I did tonight was pack a suitcase.

Then I went out as the Stiletto, with the suitcase, around 9:30. It was nippy and windy, so not many people were on the streets in Chinatown. The restaurants were shutting down and shop proprietors were locking up for the night. At my destination, I hoped to find the friendly Chinese convenience store owner who could speak English. I knew he'd still be open.

Joe was there, all right, and he sure didn't grin at the Stiletto like he smiled at Judy Cooper! I must have scared him something awful. He held up his hands and almost started to cry; he thought I was going to rob him.

“No, no, Joe, Joe, I'm a friend. Calm down,” I kept saying over his protests. Finally it hit him that I was calling him by name.

“Joe?” he asked.

“Yes,
Joe
. How are you doing?” I held out my hand and waited. Joe couldn't believe what was happening. He cautiously reached out, and I vigorously shook his hand. “I'm happy to meet you, I hear you have a great store here.”

That made him grin.

“Oh, thank you very much! Thank you very much!”

I bought a bottle of Coke, opened it, drank it right there in the
store, and chatted with Joe. Customers came in and out, gasped and stared, but went about their business. Joe took their money and then eagerly rejoined the conversation. Finally, when we were alone and best of buddies, I said, “Say, Joe, do you know much about the Tongs?”

That spooked him a bit. He furiously shook his head. “No, no, don't know Tongs, no, no.”

But I knew he was lying. It was as plain as his cute smile. I liked Joe. I have no idea how old he is, but he must be at least fifty.

“Oh, come on, Joe, I was told you have good information.” I slipped him a $20 bill. “I need to know where I can find the Flying Dragons.”

Oh, my gosh, his eyes grew really big when I said that. He held the twenty in his hands and stared at it as if he was trying to decide if the money was worth the risk of getting his throat cut by the Tong. It didn't take long. Joe pocketed the bill, leaned over the counter, and then spoke very softly. I didn't think Joe was
capable
of speaking softly, but he did. He told me of a bar on Pell Street that Tommy Cheng and his “friends” frequented. Their headquarters was probably a back room or adjoining space. That made sense to me, since I knew the Dragons were allied with the Hip Sing Tong, whose building and offices were on the same street in plain sight.

“Thank you, Joe.” I pinched his cheek with my gloved hand, and then left the store.

So with purpose I sprinted down Mott to Pell. There were fewer people out, but I still got double-takes and stares and pointing fingers. The word would travel fast. The Black Stiletto was back in Chinatown. This time, though, I reached the Flying Dragons before the news did.

The bar in question wasn't marked. It was just a door with a number and a bunch of Chinese writing on it. It was the ground floor of a brick building that had seen better days, and there was a window, through which I could see the neon lettering of beer brands and more Chinese characters.

Butterflies flittered in my stomach. I knew I was taking a big risk. I could get hurt bad, or worse. I could hear Freddie yelling at me, saying I was crazy. I was walking into the lion's den wearing a big sign that said “Fresh Meat,” ha ha. Fine, it
was
something truly dangerous. But something had to be done, dear diary. I was tired of those punks terrorizing my friends, and I was tired of feeling intimidated in Chinatown.

I walked into the bar. It wasn't a large place; in fact, it was downright intimate. The joint was lit only by colored lights, neon and otherwise. All conversation stopped. I expected to hear weird Chinese music over the radio, but it was plain American rock ‘n' roll. Chubby Checker screamed about doing “The Twist.” I figured that was what was about to happen.

Every face turned toward me. Chinese. Young and male. Cigarettes or toothpicks hanging out of their mouths. Cold hatred emanating from their eyes. No one moved. They were frozen in position—bent over a pool table, leaning against the bar, or sitting in booths with rotting, torn vinyl.

“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 kicked one at my attacker. He dodged it and kept coming, slashing the air in front of him in a wild attempt to cut me.