The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (10 page)

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.

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.

“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.”

“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.

M
ARCH 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 goodbye. 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.