through the cluster in front of me on Pell. If I could get past them, Iâd 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 Iâd 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 hadnât 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 bladestruck 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, clubsâthe 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 hopelessâwhen I realized I still held my stiletto. In my mindâs 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 didnât 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 couldnât move.
Everything became a blur. I was aware of the nearby heat from a patrol carâs 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.
âHow bad is it?â
I didnât answer. I squinted at the man kneeling beside me. It was a young patrolman.
âCan you walk?â he asked. âDo you need an ambulance?â âHelp . . . help me up,â I managed to say.
He did. My body screamed in misery as the broken rib made its presence known.
âWeâre getting you out of here,â the cop said. And with that, he snapped a handcuff on my right wrist. The other half locked ontomy 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.
âDo you need to go to the hospital?â my new friend asked.
âNo,â I managed to whisper.
I forced myself to sit up. We were traveling north on Bowery.
âAre you sure?â the cop asked again.
âYeah.â
âYou could have been killed back there.â
âI know.â
âStay out of Chinatown. Itâs not for you.â
I didnât 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.
âCan you make it?â he asked. âAre you all right?â
I told him, âYeah,â although to tell the truth, I wasnât sure. He helped me out of the car and I stood unsteadily on the sidewalk.
The young patrolman then explained himself. âI admire you a lot,â he said. âBut Chinatown is no place for the Black Stiletto. Itâs a different world. Even the