The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (7 page)

“My pleasure, Billy. I'm happy to meet you.”

Then he smiled. He was a cute kid.

So, dear diary, it looks like I've made a new friend and I'm going to learn some new martial arts moves.

And I'm also determined to learn more about the Tong.

F
EBRUARY 10, 1960

Freddie's coming home on Friday, so I've been getting everything ready in the apartment. I've been a nice tenant and did his laundry and actually cleaned up the kitchen! I also tidied up the gym so it'll look shipshape when he sees it. Jimmy's been a big help, and Freddie and I have talked about keeping him on part time so Freddie won't have to work so much. Of course, knowing Freddie, he'll want to resume his old ways, but I'll have to police him. I really do feel like he's the dad I never had.

I've met with Billy three times. I sneak down to Chinatown in my Stiletto outfit and he lets me in the restaurant from the inside. It's a good thing his mother goes to bed early. Just like Soichiro was a
sensei
, in Chinese the word for teacher or master is
sifu
. Billy's no
sifu
. He's just a kid and doesn't know a lot, but he's been teaching me what he can. He admits he's not an expert and may be instructing me incorrectly. I'm just learning basic stuff right now. It's actually called “
Chow Gar
,” which is a branch of the broader Praying Mantis style of
wushu
. I guess you could say that Japanese martial arts employ more straight-line fighting styles, whereas the Chinese use more circular techniques. So far, I'm just learning exercises that involve my arms, hands, and trunk. One of the concepts behind
Chow Gar
is the
Gen
, or “shock power.” That's when the power of the blows
comes not from just your fist or foot, for example, but from within your whole body. It's almost like a reflex, similar to the movement you make when you pull your hand away from a hot stove if you accidentally touch it. The exercises are very herky-jerky compared to
karate
. Billy and I also do drills together, like “grinding arm.” That's when we push the backs of our wrists together and press outward against each other, at the same time doing a “grinding” motion with our arms. You have to keep your body in the correct stance. It's very hard on the torso and waist. I can already tell I'm building muscles I didn't know I had.

Billy's told me more about the Tong, and I also asked Freddie about it. Freddie told me that the Tongs—there are more than one—came over from China in the 1800s when Chinatown was settled. Apparently there's a Tong network in all the major cities where there are Chinatowns, like San Francisco. Freddie said the Tongs are the “children of the Triads.” The Triads are large organized crime groups in China, and right now they're mostly situated in Hong Kong. The Tongs here are generally independent, but some have ties to specific Triads. The stories Freddie told me are incredible. In the early part of this century, there were Tong wars in Chinatown. Gang members had gunfights in restaurants, nightclubs, theaters, and even in the streets. Now it's kept hidden, more like the Italian Mafia today. Of course, Freddie warned me to stay away from them, that they were very dangerous. After what I saw that night in January, I believe it.

Billy filled me in on the more immediate situation. He told me the two killers we fought were members of a Tong called the Flying Dragons. They're fairly new in Chinatown, but they're loosely associated with the Hip Sing Tong, one that's been around since the beginning. The Hip Sing Tong actually does good things for the community, as it's known as one of several “benevolent” organizations that have been in existence in New York since the Chinese first immigrated. But they also have a long history of criminal activities,
too. One of the biggest gang wars in the 1920s was between the Hip Sing Tong and their rivals, the On Leong Tong. The Hip Sing Tong has a building on Pell Street called the Hip Sing Association, but Billy said no one knows where the Flying Dragons' headquarters is. Since it's one of the small Tongs, its members are young men, usually aged 16 to 24, hoping to prove themselves so they can join a bigger Tong.

Those two hoodlums that night were in their early twenties, like me, maybe even younger.

F
EBRUARY 12, 1960

Freddie's home! Yea!

Jimmy and I were planning a welcome home party for him, but Freddie specifically told me not to do it. Now that I think about it, he was right. We don't want Freddie to get too excited. He's got to stay calm and relaxed for a while, at least another month, before he can resume work. Freddie hates the way his diet has to change and he has to quit smoking. So far, he's doing pretty well, though. Unless he was sneaking cigarettes into the hospital, he went six weeks without one. The challenge comes when he's around other people smoking, and at the gym it's going to be tough. There's no way we could ban smoking in the gym. Everyone would just go somewhere else.

I have the details about what Freddie can or can't eat, so I sautéed some fresh fish I bought on Canal Street—from a Chinese fish market—and potatoes and carrots. I also gave him that record “Theme from a Summer Place” by Percy Faith that everyone loves. When he was in the hospital, he heard it on the radio and liked it. Lately, I've been listening to this wild “exotica” music from Polynesia and Hawaii. Once, when I was over at Lucy's, Peter was there and he played a record called
Les Baxter's Jungle Jazz
. It was strange but beautiful, so I bought it. Then the salesman at the Colony store on Broadway told me about Martin Denny, so I bought his
Quiet Village
record, and I
love
it. I like the way you can hear birds and crickets and stuff in the background. Makes me feel like I'm on some island wearing a grass skirt.

Anyway, it's good to have Freddie back.

F
EBRUARY 18, 1960

Today Lucy and I went shopping to look for a wedding dress for her and a bridesmaid dress for me. We went to fancy Fifth Avenue shops, and she said she was buying. I offered to pay for my own dress, but she wouldn't have it.

She didn't like anything we saw, so we went over to Macy's. Lucy ended up getting a beautiful white Casablanca gown that's curve-hugging and tight to emphasize her hourglass figure.

Mine is similar, but not as flowy, and it's pink. I love it! I rarely dress up in formal gowns. I felt like a princess!

F
EBRUARY 26, 1960

Billy and I had a scare tonight!

We were drilling with the “Iron Palm” and “Iron Arm” conditioning exercises where we hit each other's palm with a fist, back and forth, over and over and over until your palm is numb, and then slap our forearms against each other on both sides, simulating a blocking maneuver, over and over and over. Ouch. Well, we were in the middle of it when the restaurant door started to open with keys rattling in the door.

“My mother! Hide!” Billy whispered.

The only place to do so was behind the counter where the cash register was. I started for it, but Billy snapped, “Not there!” So I rushed over to where tables and chairs were pushed against the opposite wall. The door was opening just as I was climbing behind a table that was on its side, the top facing outward. She didn't see me.
I stayed still and quiet as I heard Billy talking to his mother in Chinese. Then she went to the cash register counter and got something out of a drawer. More dialogue in Chinese, and then she left.

Close call!

Billy said she wondered what he was doing. He replied that he comes down to practice
wushu
every night. She needed a ledger or something from the drawer. Apparently the Flying Dragons want more and more records of the restaurant's business. She will be forced to hand over the place soon, but they've given her a couple of months to come up with the money her husband owed. Billy is afraid they'll have to move because they won't be able to afford the apartment upstairs.

I told him I wanted to start hunting for the killers, but Billy said I'm not ready yet. I'm nowhere near a point where I could face them again.

He's probably right.

The panic attack I had last night at dinner really shook me up. It was awful. I thought I was dying, I really did. You know the feeling you get when your hand gets caught in the cookie jar? Or when the teacher suddenly announces that you're wanted down at the principal's office? Or the sudden realization that something terrible is about to happen and it scares the shit out of you?

That's what it felt like, only magnified about twenty times. It brings on a crushing urge to start crying for no reason at all.

So I'm concerned about it, but I also feel embarrassed and humiliated. I can't imagine what Maggie thinks of me now.

She was very good to me, though. The fact that she's a doctor helped. She was very kind at the restaurant and talked me down. The date ended with a small kiss, so I guess that's a good sign. I do like her and think she's gorgeous. I hope I'm not going to be sheepish around her from now on.

As I entered Woodlands today, I thought about what Maggie had said—that I should see a shrink. I sure don't want to. The idea of taking antidepressants is depressing, and I don't mean that to be funny. But it's true, I need to do something. I have trouble sleeping; my mind races and I imagine all kinds of horrible fictional scenarios as I toss and turn. If I manage to fall asleep, I have nightmares and wake up disturbed and anxious. It's so weird because whatever's
wrong with me started only recently and has gotten worse very quickly.

Nevertheless, I put on my happy face when I walked into Mom's room. She sat in front of her portable television watching a soap opera. That rocking chair I got her has seen some good use. She displays complete contentment as she sits in that thing, just like Mrs. Whistler in the painting.

“Hi, Mom!”

She looked up and smiled. The elusive twinkle in her eyes made a brief appearance. Something, somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, an electric pulse stimulated a nerve that told her that I was someone she cared about. Would she remember the exact relationship today?

I leaned over and gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. “Can you say hello to your son, Mom?”

“Hello,” she said. She actually kissed me on the cheek in return. That was rare.

I sat on the edge of her bed, near the rocker. “What are you watching?”

“Oh, I don't know.” She turned back to the TV, the smile remaining on her face.

“Are you following the story?”

“What?”

“Are you following the story on the TV?”

“Oh, I don't know.”

We went through our ritualistic same-old, same-old conversation. What did she have for breakfast? Had she been for a walk yet? How was she feeling? I got the usual generic answers and we slipped into the predictable clueless silence that invariably takes over when I visit. It's almost as if I've run out of the small talk I can have with my mother. I can't discuss anything of importance because she wouldn't know what I'm going on about. If I try, she acts like she understands, nods her head, and says, “Oh?” or “Is that so?” or “I'm
sorry to hear that” or any number of other conditioned responses.

So I watched the soap opera with her and my mind wandered. My thoughts went back to the restaurant and the panic attack. My eyes darted to the dresser, where several framed photographs sat. Gina's senior picture. One of me and Mom. My high school graduation pic. Me and Gina. Mom when she was young.

Mom when she was young…

The Black Stiletto.

My mom was the Black Stiletto.

The sudden rush of adrenaline jolted me and I almost grunted. A wave of anxiety rolled over me, and I knew I had to get out of that room. I couldn't let Mom see me have a panic attack.

But before I could get up or say anything, she turned her head and looked at me. She had tears in her eyes. She reached over with one hand and placed it on mine, which was resting on my knee.

“I'm sorry,” she said. A drop rolled down her cheek.

“Mom, it's okay. What's wrong?” I asked. Then I felt like
I
was going to cry.

“I understand,” she said as if she was right there on my wavelength.

“You do?”

“She was—”

Oh my God
, was my mom about to say something about the Black Stiletto?

“What, Mom? What was she?” I found myself becoming more anxious and choked up.

Mom wrinkled her brow. Whatever was on the tip of her tongue was inaccessible. She struggled for a moment, trying to put it into words. She squeezed my hand.

“For the sake of the baby,” she said.

“What? Mom, what? What was for the sake of the baby? What baby?”

“Had to stop.”

“Stop? Stop what? Being the Black Stiletto? Is that what you're saying?”

At the mention of the name, she turned back to the television and the tears flowed freely.

“Mom?” Despite my growing alarm, I got up and put my arms around her. “It's okay, don't cry.”

At that moment, a nurse knocked on the open door and came into the room. “Everything all right in here?” she asked cheerily, but then she saw us and became concerned. “Is everything okay?”

I let go of Mom and said, “Oh, my mother's upset about something. I don't know what it is.”

The woman came over to Mom and said some encouraging words and asked her how she was doing. Mom replied appropriately and seemed to settle down as the nurse took a tissue and wiped her face. I explained that she just started crying for no reason, but I knew that was something that can happen with Alzheimer's patients.