The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (6 page)

Last night I was tired and still sore, but I scoured the newspaper for a story about the Chinatown shootings. I didn't find anything, so I went to bed.

This morning I opened the gym on time. All the regulars who came in looked at me and asked what happened. My story was that I got mugged. A couple of the guys were sweet, they wanted to “go find the bastards and kick their asses.” Then they asked why the gym was closed the last two days and where was Freddie. They were all shocked and saddened to hear about the heart attack. They promised to go visit him in the hospital, but I told them to wait a few days.

As guys came in throughout the day, I got the same questions, over and over, so I ended up getting a marker and writing on the back of a boxing tournament poster all the details about Freddie, when visiting
hours were, and what happened to me and that I was all right. Still, they all expressed sympathy and support. Louis and Wayne and Corky—they're all such great guys. Even Clark, the young Negro I train, had tears in his eyes when he heard about Freddie.

Jimmy came in this afternoon, so I pulled him aside to ask him about helping out. He said he works nights as a dishwasher at a restaurant, so the extra hours during the day would be welcome. We figured out a schedule that was mutually beneficial. I'd do most of the work, of course, but Jimmy would be available to spell me for some time off.

Now it's evening, after dinner, and I'm finally able to relax with the newspaper. Finally, there's some news about the Chinatown incident. And sure enough, the headline in the
Daily News
is BLACK STILETTO IMPLICATED. Great. Just what I didn't want. The article went on to say that two men, owners of the Lee Noodle Restaurant, were shot and killed by an unknown assailant. Witnesses reported a sighting of the Black Stiletto at the scene of the crime. What witnesses? There were no witnesses! Perhaps they were the mother and son. They certainly saw me. Anyway, the Stiletto was wanted for questioning, of course. Police believed it to be a robbery gone bad. Ha. I knew better. That was no robbery. Those bad guys had gone there to execute the two men, plain and simple, and Pock Face was about to kill the mother and the teenage boy, too, if I hadn't waltzed in.

It was all very disturbing. I keep thinking about the devastated expressions on that boy and woman's faces. She had lost her husband. The boy had lost his father and uncle. I don't know if the uncle was related to the mother or to the father, but apparently he was a close family member if he co-owned the restaurant.

I decided I wanted to find out more, and especially see if that brave Chinese teenager was okay. If only the Stiletto could talk to him. He spoke English, after all. Perhaps he would tell her what was really going on that night.

J
ANUARY 14, 1960

I haven't written lately because I've been terribly busy at the gym and going to see Freddie. But I have some time now before I go out with Lucy to see a movie.
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
is playing at the Bleecker. I didn't see it when it was out a couple of years ago. Lucy and I
love
Paul Newman. He's a dreamboat and a half! I'd follow him anywhere. All he'd have to do is blink those blue eyes at me. But he's married to Joanne Woodward, so I guess that's not gonna happen any time soon. The movie is on a double bill with
Suddenly, Last Summer
, which I've already seen, so I doubt we'll stay for that. I didn't like it very much, anyway.

Ugh, the radio just started playing that awful “Running Bear” song. I can't believe it's number 1. When, oh, when is my Elvis going to put out another record? He's supposed to come home from the army this year, and I think it's soon!

My bruises are finally starting to fade. My lip is healed, but scabbed a little, and my eye is back to normal. I was afraid I'd lose some vision; that blurriness lasted three days. I had resolved to go see an eye doctor if it didn't show improvement by the fourth day, and thankfully it did. I'm still a little sore, but I'm much better. Needless to say, the Stiletto took some time off since that night in Chinatown.

However, today at noon while Jimmy filled in for me, I went back to Elizabeth Street with the intention of having lunch at a Chinese restaurant, but I also wanted to see where the shootings had taken place. The streets in Chinatown were full of people, despite the cold weather. Mostly Chinese, but I did see a few Caucasians, probably there for lunch like me. The Lee Noodle Restaurant wasn't open. A sign on the door was covered with Chinese writing, and the single English word, “Closed.” I picked a place across the street and sat at a table by the window. From there I could see Lee Noodle. I watched the building while I ate—had some delicious hot and sour soup, mu shu chicken, and hot tea—but I saw no signs of life.

Then, just as I left my money on the table and got up to leave, I noticed lights on in the restaurant. I hadn't seen them come on, but I was certain they were off a few minutes earlier. I left the restaurant and crossed the street. There's a door next to the restaurant that leads to the apartments on the upper floors of the building. Apparently the family lived—hopefully they still did—in one of the apartments, because the name Lee was on a mailbox inside the door. As nonchalantly as I could, I put my face and hands to the restaurant's glass door and peered inside. From there I couldn't see the full restaurant, just the archway to the right that led to the dining room. I could make out half of the cash register counter, so I took a chance and knocked on the door. After a moment, the woman I'd seen that night appeared. She held up a finger and waved it back and forth. “Closed! Closed!” she said loudly behind the door. I didn't know what I expected, but I simply smiled, nodded, and moved on. I guess I was hoping to see the boy, but then I realized it was a weekday and that he was probably at school. I don't know what the Chinese traditions are concerning mourning, but I suppose it made sense that he'd be back to a normal schedule by now. Although nothing would ever be normal for him again. He had witnessed the murder of his father and uncle and participated in the defense of his mother and himself. I wondered if he talked to his friends about the Black Stiletto and how he had fought alongside her.

A little voice in my head said I should forget about what happened that night and go on with my life. But my instincts, that gut feeling that has driven everything I've done since
I
was a teenager, told me that Chinatown hadn't heard the last of the Black Stiletto.

F
EBRUARY 4, 1960

I haven't written because I haven't had anything to say until tonight. For the past couple of weeks it's been business as usual—running the gym, going to see Freddie, and getting my body back to normal. Freddie's doing better. He's very restless. He feels fine now and wants to leave the hospital, but the doctor wants him to stay two more weeks. He's afraid Freddie won't take it easy once he gets back to the gym. I agree. Freddie'll want to take over again. He's got to realize things aren't going to be the same.

The Stiletto went back to Chinatown twice. I really wanted to find that teenage boy again, so I watched that restaurant and building for a couple of hours on two different nights. I nearly froze to death, it was so cold. We've had snow in New York and it's pretty slushy out. After a few days, the streets and sidewalks get all yucky with black icy mush and it's a mess. Snow is always pretty when it first comes down, but then it turns into the kitchen sink.

Anyway, tonight I was finally successful. Third time's the charm! I met Billy Shen Lee. He told me the proper Chinese way of saying his name is Lee Shen. They put their last names first. His first name is Shen and his last name is Lee, but everyone but his mother calls him by an American name. He goes by Billy at school, and that's
what he wants me to use. He's fifteen years old and he's a sophomore in high school.

So this is what happened. I put on my Stiletto outfit and slipped down to Chinatown. It's tricky there, because lots of people are on the streets. It was only about 9:00, so I was taking a big risk. But I figured the only time I'd catch him was earlier because he's a kid. When I went there before, I found a hiding place. It's sort of an alcove in a building that's under construction or repairs with scaffolding in front, and it's on the other side of the street from the restaurant. It wasn't directly across, but the angle was good enough that I could see the place. As I did the last two times I was there, I crouched on a big piece of plywood in the darkness. People constantly walked by, just a few feet from where I was sitting, but they didn't see me. They'd have to actually
look
into the shadows. With the scaffolding, stacks of plywood, snow and all, I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to do that. Was it cold? You bet! I was beginning to think I was plain crazy for doing it and was about to give up and leave for good, when suddenly there he was.

The boy emerged from the door that led to the apartments. He had on a heavy coat and walked with purpose to the south. He passed my position—across the street—and kept going. I didn't know what to do. I hadn't completely thought it through. There were still people out. I couldn't just step into view and shout, “Hi, kid, remember me?”

So I sat there and watched him. I figured if he turned a corner and left Elizabeth Street, then I'd just have to get up and follow him. But he didn't. He went into an open convenience store. A few minutes later he appeared, carrying a paper bag with some groceries in it. I surveyed the street and—lo and behold—it was actually pretty clear. As soon as he was even with me on the other side, I stood and went, “Psst! Hey, kid!” I had to say it twice before he turned to look. I stepped out of the shadows so he could see me. He stopped and stared. His mouth dropped open. I beckoned for him to cross the
street. He hesitated, looking both ways. “Come on, I want to talk to you!” I shout-whispered.

He finally did what I asked. The boy approached me cautiously.

“Hi,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Sure.” His eyes were wide. He kept looking back and forth along the street.

“Don't worry. Big deal if someone sees us.”

“I can't be seen talking to
you
,” he said.

“Why not?”

“If they see me, they'd—I have to go.”

“Wait. Who's they?”

“I'm sorry.”

He started to walk away. “Please wait. Come here, we can stand in the shadows here. We'll whisper. I just want to talk to you for a second. I promise.”

Warily he followed me into the darkness. I leaned against the building's wall. I nodded to the bag. “Whatcha got?”

“Milk. Rice.” He shrugged.

“What's your name?”

“Billy.”

“Billy Lee?”

He nodded, and then he explained about his real name. Billy Shen Lee. I told him I was the Black Stiletto. “I know,” he said. Stupid me.

I asked him about that night. What had happened.

This was his story, in a nutshell. His father and uncle (his father's brother) owned the restaurant, but they had borrowed money from the “Tong” to open it, and they also had to pay protection money. For the last few months, though, the men were unable to pay the Tong because Billy's uncle had some medical problems. The Tong grew impatient and killed them. Now Billy's mother must sell the restaurant back to the Tong.

I didn't know what a Tong was. Billy explained that it was a
group of Chinese criminals. I said, “Oh, like the Mafia?” and he nodded. I told him I'd had dealings with the Italian mob and that maybe I could help him and his mother. He nervously shook his head.

“You can't go after the Tong! Too dangerous!” he said.

“Don't you want to see them brought to justice for killing your father and uncle?”

“Yes, but it's no use. Even if they are arrested, my mother won't testify against them. She would forbid me to as well. The Tong would kill us.”

It was the same old story. Apparently the Chinese gangsters worked just like the Italian ones. If you didn't do what they told you to do, they hurt you. If you ratted on them, they killed you.

“How are you and your mom doing?” I asked.

He shrugged and looked down. “Okay.” It was obvious that wasn't true. “I have to go,” he said again.

“Okay. But hey, I have one more question.”

“What?”

“What was that fighting style you did? I've never seen that before.”

“We call is
wushu
.”

“It's like
karate
, right?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Actually it's called Praying Mantis
Wushu
. It comes from Southern China. I take lessons at the youth club.”

“Well, you're very good. You held your own against those guys.”

“Not really.”

“Can you teach me some of those moves?”

Again he looked out to the street. He was terrified of being caught talking to me. “I could get in big trouble.
Wushu
is only for Chinese men.”

“That's what they told me about
karate
and
judo
, too. Look, I'll pay you. I'll bet you and your mom could use some money, right?”

That got his attention.

“Maybe. But—where?”

“Do you know of a room somewhere? Some place where we wouldn't be bothered?”

“Well—there's the restaurant. It's empty now, until the Tong takes it over.”

“That's perfect! Billy, that's great.”

So for the next few seconds, we agreed on a price—I'd pay him $25 an hour, which sounded like a million bucks to him, and agreed we'd meet at 10:00 the next night.

He started to move away and cross the street, but then he stopped and turned to me. “Oh. Thank you for helping us. That night.”