The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes Read Online Free PDF Page A

Japanese that Soichiro spoke, but it was also vastly different. It
was
more sing-song, for the Chinese held vowels longer, producing a tone behind them. I guess they were vowels, but how should I know?
    When I got to Bayard Street, I decided I’d had enough. If I was out much longer, I’d be the Black Icicle, ha ha. I crossed Mott Street and took a left on Elizabeth. A dark storefront window caught my eye. It was full of toys and dolls. It was strange to see dolls with Asian faces. I wasn’t used to that. The girl dolls were dressed in little cheongsams, too. Boy dolls wore loose trousers and a long jacket with a high, stiff collar. A little sign said “doll in Mao clothe” in English and Chinese. I then realized it was an effigy of Mao Tse-Tung! Would that be considered Communist propaganda? Probably not. This was America, and after all, it was just a child’s plaything.
    As I stood at the window, a car pulled up to the curb directly across the street from me. I swiftly moved to the dark doorway and crouched where I couldn’t be seen. The New York cops were still out to get me, and I couldn’t take too many chances. But come to think of it, during my journey through Little Italy and Chinatown,I didn’t see a single policeman. Strange. I usually can’t go out at night without spotting at least one patrol car.
    The vehicle across the street was a black Buick. It looked shiny and new. I don’t know much about cars, but I know enough. Somebody wealthy owned this one. There were two men inside, the driver and a passenger. The car idled in front of Lee Noodle Restaurant. The lights were on inside the place, but I couldn’t see the interior because there was one of those Asian decorative folding screens standing in the window.
    I didn’t want to move while the men sat there, so I waited. After a moment, the passenger got out of the car. He was Chinese, probably in his twenties, maybe early thirties. It’s so hard to tell how old Asian people are. The man wore a heavy coat but no hat. He strode purposefully to the restaurant’s front door and tried to open it. It was locked; the place was closed for the night. He knocked loudly. And again. Finally, an older Chinese man appeared. The newcomer barked some words. He sounded angry. The older man unlocked the door and let him inside. Both disappeared from view. The car’s engine continued to run. Exhaust poured out the back and created a thick, gray cloud that filled the street.
    It was getting colder by the minute, and I remember thinking that whatever business that guy had inside the restaurant, it had better be quick so I could get home and make some hot chocolate!
    And that’s when I heard the four gunshots, followed by a woman’s screams.
    I didn’t hesitate. I blindly ran across the road, skirted behind the idling car, and burst through the door, which the older man had left unlocked. I entered the small restaurant and beheld a shocking tableau. The old man lay on his back between two tables. His white shirt had two black-red holes in the front, and blood seeped across his chest. Another Chinese man, also gray-haired, was crumpled half-on, half-off a table. He, too, had been shot dead.
    The passenger from the car looked younger up close. Probably early twenties. He pointed a handgun at a terrified woman and ateenage boy, both Chinese. They clung to each other in fright. She was crying and babbling in her language. It was clear that the bad guy was about to shoot them, too.
    The gunman caught sight of me and turned the gun in my direction. I immediately performed a
Yoko-geri
—a side kick—and disarmed my opponent. This surprised him, and I didn’t give him a chance to react. I moved in to deliver a resounding punch to his jaw. His head jerked appropriately, but he didn’t fall back. I immediately alternated the delivery and threw a blow with my left fist—but he deftly blocked it with