The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (11 page)

And they did.

Pell Street T-intersected into Mott from the east. There, a dozen toughs stood in the middle of the road, blocking any travel farther south. I either had to turn around and go north on Mott, or take the
left turn onto Pell Street, which, from the intersection, looked clear of anyone but pedestrians. I chose the latter.

It was a trap.

As soon as I slipped to the sidewalk on Pell, more young Chinese men materialized out of the shadows in front of me. They'd been waiting. I looked behind me and the first mob had moved forward and now blocked the way out to Mott. I was surrounded by at least two dozen Tong members. Some of them carried weapons—clubs, bats, knives—but I saw no handguns.

Dear diary, I'd been in precarious situations before and I've also experienced fear, but I don't think I've ever been as scared as I was then. My stomach was in my throat. My intuitive danger alarms were going haywire. My heart pounded and my adrenaline pumped. It was fight or flight, no question about it.

I was the Black Stiletto! I could face all those hoodlums, right?

They proved me wrong.

Mustering up some bravado, I said, “You fellas don't want any trouble, now do you?” I don't know if they understood English or if they just didn't want to reply. They just kept moving forward, squeezing me in, leaving me no way out.

I drew the stiletto. “Stand back,” I threatened, but my words fell on deaf ears.

The best route out of the situation was through the cluster in front of me on Pell. If I could get past them, I'd be at the Bowery and home free. There was no way they could outrun me. I could whip up a fire escape and fly over some rooftops before they knew where I'd gone. I just had to find an opening.

So I attacked first.

I think the element of surprise was on my side at the beginning. They hadn't expected me to make the opening move. I ran at the thugs with the knife whishing back and forth. A few stepped back, allowing me some advancement. For a moment I thought I saw doubt on their faces. But then a couple of guys deftly blocked me, and I felt the excruciating blow from a club on my side. My blade
struck some meat and I heard a cry, but I had no idea what happened next. It was as if a swarm of bees had descended on me. The stings came from everywhere at once. Fists, feet, clubs—the onslaught was overpowering. Before I knew it, I found myself curled in a fetal position and lying on my side in the street. The blows were a flood of agony, sharp and powerful, tearing me apart and rendering me helpless.

Dear diary, I might have been killed. I remember crying out in pain and thinking it was hopeless—when I realized I still held my stiletto. In my mind's eye I saw Soichiro standing in his old
karate
studio, berating me for not breathing or not concentrating or not doing
something
. It was the motivation I needed.

I thrust my knife hand out and struck a calf. I swung it around in a curve, slicing ankles and shins. My targets yelped and retreated, but that didn't stop the crush of anger directed at me. The torment unleashed on my body increased in intensity, and I was sure I blacked out. It must have been what had happened, because suddenly there were police sirens in the air. They had come out of nowhere and were
loud
. The assault died off and finally stopped altogether. I felt the oppressive huddle of the mob disperse. I was alone on the street, a battered rag doll that couldn't move.

Everything became a blur. I was aware of the nearby heat from a patrol car's engine, and headlights illuminated my disgrace for everyone to see. Raising my head, I attempted to crawl out of the spotlight, but I heard a male Caucasian voice in my ear.

“How bad is it?”

I didn't answer. I squinted at the man kneeling beside me. It was a young patrolman.

“Can you walk?” he asked. “Do you need an ambulance?” “Help . . . help me up,” I managed to say.

He did. My body screamed in misery as the broken rib made its presence known.

“We're getting you out of here,” the cop said. And with that, he snapped a handcuff on my right wrist. The other half locked onto
my left, and suddenly I was in the backseat of the patrol car. Two young policemen got in the front, put on the siren again, and drove out of Pell Street.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” my new friend asked.

“No,” I managed to whisper.

I forced myself to sit up. We were traveling north on Bowery.

“Are you sure?” the cop asked again.

“Yeah.”

“You could have been killed back there.”

“I know.”

“Stay out of Chinatown. It's not for you.”

I didn't know what was going on. Were they arresting me? Were they taking me to the nearest precinct? Was the Black Stiletto finished?

To my surprise, they pulled over to the side of the road. The cop in the passenger seat got out and came around to the back. He opened the door, leaned in, and unlocked the handcuffs.

“Can you make it?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

I told him, “Yeah,” although to tell the truth, I wasn't sure. He helped me out of the car and I stood unsteadily on the sidewalk.

The young patrolman then explained himself. “I admire you a lot,” he said. “But Chinatown is no place for the Black Stiletto. It's a different world. Even the police don't understand it. Those Tongs are animals. Stay away, if you know what's good for you. Don't go back, okay?”

“Thanks,” was all I could think of to say.

“Take care of yourself,” the cop said as he got back in the front seat and slammed the door shut. The driver took off and left me alone.

I breathed deeply, despite the pain in my side. Examining myself, I saw the blood all over my outfit. I wiped my nose and mouth and flung red goo onto the street. Thankfully, the cold air helped revive me. My senses returned and I had the strength to get out of the streetlight
and scram. I limped east until I found a shadowy, isolated storefront on a side street, and I fell to my knees. There, I rested and pulled myself together. I stayed there for several minutes until I talked myself into standing and moving on.

It's a miracle I made it home.

A
PRIL 6, 1960

As you can see by the date, I haven't written lately. I've been concentrating on healing and running the gym. Freddie's a lot better and has resumed his managerial position, but with limited activity. I still do the grunt work and Jimmy helps out. He's very sweet. The other day I was about to clean the locker room, shower, and toilets, which is always a disgusting chore. Jimmy offered to do it for me. I thought about saying no. Newcomers should not be subjected to that horrible job, but in light of my injuries, it was nice to take that one break. I also didn't want Freddie examining me, so I asked Jimmy to take a look at my ribs. He would know if I'd cracked one. It was in the locker room. I pulled him inside during one of his workouts. You should have seen his face when I lifted my sweatshirt and exposed myself in my bra to him! I hated to startle him, ha ha. Anyway, he got over his shock, examined me, felt around where it was tender, and confirmed what I already knew—it was a cracked rib. Wearing the wrap was the best thing I could do.

I couldn't talk to Freddie. On the day after the Stiletto's “defeat” in Chinatown, he got really mad at me. He almost started crying, he was so afraid that I'd get hurt. He said I should let it go, and that there is more to life than revenge. I told him I was sorry, but he blurted, “Do you know what a burden it is, knowing you're the
Black Stiletto?” That made
me
cry, and I shut myself in my room for a while. We haven't spoken much since then.

And then there's the so-called defeat. That was the big news for a while. Several of the New York papers ran stories about my demise. The cops who took me away from the scene claimed that I “jumped them, grabbed a gun, and forced them to release me from the handcuffs, even though I was badly hurt.” I suppose they were covering their rear ends. So reporters speculated that I might be lying seriously injured in my Black Stiletto Cave or possibly even dead. “Have We Heard the Last of the Black Stiletto?” one editorial suggested.

The hard part was explaining how I looked to my friends— especially Lucy, who
also
got mad at me, but for a more selfish reason on her part. She didn't want me to look ugly at her wedding. It was unsaid, but I knew that's what she thought because she repeatedly asked me how long the marks on my face would take to heal. The guys at the gym are more curious and concerned about me now. I hope they don't put two and two together. After getting beat up in January and now again in March, they're starting to wonder how come a pretty girl like me is the victim of so many “muggings.” They know I can defend myself, too, so it doesn't make sense to them. Jimmy thinks I enjoy getting in bar fights for some strange reason.

The only bright spot in my life right now is the new Elvis record. “Stuck on You” is a breath of fresh air.

I miss being stuck on someone.

A
PRIL 15, 1960

Yesterday I had my second annual physical exam with Dr. Goldstein—remember him, dear diary? He poked and prodded me
down there
, and it was just as embarrassing this time as it was last year. He also checked my ribcage and asked how I broke a rib. I told him it happened at the gym where I work. He believed me. He wanted to take what he called an X-ray picture, but I wouldn't let him. I've heard those things give you radiation. Dr. Goldstein said I was doing
the right thing by wrapping my torso, and if the pain was decreasing then it must be healing. He suggested I come back in a couple of weeks, but I don't think I will.

Things are better between Freddie and me. This morning at breakfast he told me he'd been too hard on me and that he was sorry. I apologized again for being a burden on him. He explained that I'm not a burden, that I'm like his daughter, and that he loves me. The burden is that he worries about me. At the same time he said he was proud of me and that my life as the Black Stiletto is the most courageous thing he's ever seen anyone do.

That made me cry again. We hugged and made up.

My rib is much better but it's still sore. The shiner is gone and my face looks better. I'm nearly back to my beautiful self, ha ha.

I haven't thought about Chinatown.

A
PRIL 18, 1960

You won't believe what I'm going to tell you, dear diary! Oh my God,
I
can't believe what I've done! And I don't know what I think about it!

Okay, here goes. We had a birthday party today for Jimmy. He turned 32 and this evening at closing time I brought out a cake. Louis and Corky had both brought some bottles of champagne. We knew Jimmy would be there, and boy, was he surprised. He was so funny, he got so self-conscious! If Negroes could blush, I'm sure he would have been bright red.

Freddie had a tiny sip of champagne and then went upstairs. He didn't want to be around drinking and smoking. I, on the other hand, had a lot of champagne. I was feeling a little loopy by the time a lot of the guys left to go home. Jimmy hadn't showered yet, so he went off to the locker room to do so.

I was all alone in the gym. They left me to clean up, so I did. Then I guess it was the champagne that did it, but I suddenly felt
hot and bothered. You know what I mean. It had been so long since I'd felt a man's touch. I think it's the first time I ever really felt like I
needed
it.

So what did I do?

God, I can't believe it.

I locked the front door and then went to the locker room. I heard the shower running. Jimmy was the only person in there. It was one of those community showers, where several guys can get their own spigots in the same space. I slowly approached the archway.

Jimmy's back was to me. He was naked, of course, rubbing soap in his black curly hair. His muscles were well defined and he had the cutest behind. He looked really good to me. I didn't care if his skin was a different color than mine.

He happened to turn around. He yelped like a girl when he saw me and quickly covered up his privates. “Miss Judy! What are you doing here?”

“Don't be embarrassed, Jimmy,” I said.

A few seconds passed with no one saying a word. It might have been comical, but I was too much in the moment to think it was funny. He just remained under the water, his hands over himself.

Finally he asked, “What do you want, Miss Judy?”

“Forget the Miss, Jimmy. Just call me Judy.”

With that, I pulled off my sweatshirt. Then I took off the sweatpants and leotards. Jimmy's eyes were about to pop out of his head. He didn't know
what
to think!

Finally, I took off my bra and panties.

“Can I join you?” I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I stepped into the shower and stood under his water spigot. He was inches away from me. He smelled musky and manly. I reached out and rubbed the palms of my hands on his iron-steel chest.

“What are you doing, Miss Judy?” he whispered. “I could get in a lot of trouble.”

“So could I.”

He shook his head fiercely in protest, but I could already see that parts of his body were responding to my presence. “They hang me from a lamppost, Miss Judy. I can't do this.”

“No one will know.”

“Miss Judy!”

“Just this one time, Jimmy. I promise.” I'm tall, and he's maybe an inch or two taller. I rose on tiptoe, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him. Was it different kissing a Negro? I'd have to say it was. I don't know how to describe it. The taste was a little different, and his lips were very soft.

By then he was past the point of objection. Jimmy picked me up and carried me out of the shower. He laid me on a bench in front of his open locker. And we did it right then and there. I think I was noisy, for he had to put his hand over my mouth. Oh Lord, forgive me, but I must say I enjoyed it. Maybe it was because it was such a taboo, or maybe Jimmy was just a darned good lover, but it was indeed exciting.