The Black Stiletto (30 page)

Village Idiot made a move; I let loose with a
mae geri
, a front kick that struck him in the chest. By then Needs-a-Shave had invaded my space and wasn’t playing around. He swung hard enough to knock down a man, but I dodged it, pivoted my body around and delivered an
ushiro geri
, a back kick that struck the guy on his right knee. He hollered in pain and fell to the floor. I don’t think I meant to break it, but I might’ve. Then Village Idiot surprised me by grabbing me from behind in a bear hug, pinning both my arms to the sides. He was very strong and I couldn’t wiggle out of it. Steel Eater, the big guy, stepped in front of me and
walloped me one on the side of the face. The guy hit me so hard that I thought he might have broken my jaw, which is why it’s still sore now.

Someone in the room yelled, “Hey, don’t! She’s a woman, for Christ’s sake.”

But another person rooted for their team, shouting, “Grab her legs so she can’t kick ya!”

Steel Eater went for them but it was too late—for him, that is. I raised my knees with the speed of a snake and thrust the heels of my boots full force into the big man’s belly. He doubled over, stumbled to the side, and eventually fell, moaning in pain. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d dislodged some internal organs.

I had only Village Idiot on my back—literally—when two more dumbasses decided to join the fray. They got up from their stools, rubbed their hands with glee, and ran at me. I had to dispose of the Idiot before I could deal with them.
Judo
training depends on breaking an attacker’s leverage, and this was how I broke the bear hug. I quickly squatted in what Soichiro called “sumo position”—Idiot’s arms were still tightly around mine with his hands locked against my chest—and then I bent my elbows, brought up my forearms, and placed my gloved hands over his. This posture allowed me to step
around and behind
him so that the front of my left thigh was against the back of his right thigh. At this point, he was slightly off balance, enabling me to grab his legs from behind his knees and pull them
up
, thereby toppling him backward over my leg! Once he’d hit the floor, I stomped him in the chest with the sole of my boot.

Seeing this, the two newcomers hesitated.

“Come on,” I taunted. “You want some, too?”

One guy chickened out and retreated, but the other fool advanced. He put up his dukes, boxing-style, and proceeded to dance around me as if we were in a ring. I thought, okay, if that’s the way he wanted to play—so I did the same. He tried a jab and
a cross that I blocked with ease, and then I let him maneuver around me some more. Another jab, an attempt at an uppercut, and a cross and then I pummeled him with three fast, short straight-punches right to his chin, as if he was a punching bag hanging from the ceiling. A right hook knocked him on top of a table, splitting it in two and sending bottles of beer crashing to the floor.

“STOP!” the bartender shouted. “DON’T MOVE!” He had a shotgun trained at me.

Four men were on the floor, rolling and writhing in pain. One table was busted, and a handful of glasses and bottles had shattered. Not too much damage, all things considered.

“I’m leaving,” I said to the bartender. “You gotta admit, all I did was defend myself.”

“Just get out of here,” the man said. “I’m gonna call the cops and they’ll be here in a
minute
. Leave now and you’ll have a sixty-second head start.”

I nodded to him, held up my hands in capitulation, and walked away toward the door. Behind me, one fellow offered, “Try Schlumberger. I think Bates works for them now.” He pronounced it
Shlum-ber-jay
.

Turning back to the speaker, I said, “Thanks,” and then I opened the door and stepped outside.

Just before I closed it, someone else declared, “I guess it really
was
her!”

34
Judy’s Diary
1958

L
ATER ON
D
ECEMBER
13

The Black Stiletto is ready to confront Douglas Bates. Earlier today I came back to the motel for a quick rest and some preparation. Luis is due to pick me up in a half hour.

After I wrote the previous entry, I ate at the motel’s adjoining eatery, the Texan Café, which was a far cry from the East Side Diner in New York. The eggs were good, but nothing else compared. Seeing the waitress made me miss Lucy, even though they were nothing alike. I saw the day’s
Odessa-American
newspaper. Sure enough, there was a piece about me buried in the middle. The headline was: BAR BRAWL WITH BLACK STILETTO? The paper took a dubious slant, reporting that a woman had “impersonated” the Black Stiletto and caused a fight in a bar in Goldsmith. Two patrons were sent to the hospital—one with a broken knee and another with unspecified injuries. Not much else to it. Big deal.

This afternoon, Luis took me—in civilian clothes, ha ha—to the Schlumberger headquarters, which was located on Andrews Highway, outside of town. West Texas was sporadically dotted with towns much like Goldsmith, often with long stretches of flat road between them. It struck me as peculiar that nearly all the highways heading out of Odessa are named after the towns to which they led.

Schlumberger was larger than most oil field supply distributors, but it wasn’t the only one. These kinds of businesses were what kept towns like Odessa thriving. They all smelled of machinery and metal and oil and gas and men. At least the ones I’ve been in have, and that isn’t many. As I walked into this one, I suddenly had a vivid memory of going with my father to such a place. I must have been three or four. And, afterward, I now recall, we visited one of the oil derricks where he worked. I was terrified of it! Loud, noisy, dirty, greasy, and full of men yelling instructions to each other over the cacophony.

I found it strange to unexpectedly experience this recollection, and for some inexplicable reason it provided me with even more resolve and courage to continue my mission.

To my surprise, a woman was at the reception desk. She was middle-aged, dowdy, and had a beehive hairdo. A pushover.

“Yes, ma’am, can I help you?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, please, I’m looking for an employee of yours, Douglas Bates.”

“And what is this in reference to?”

“He’s my
uncle
and I need to deliver his father’s hunting rifle to him. I lost his address.”

The woman was confused. “I’m sorry, you have his hunting rifle?”

“Yeah, his father—he lives in Andrews, oh, and so do I—borrowed it and asked me to return it to him ‘cause I was headed this way. My great uncle wrote down his address and gave me a key—he has a key to his son’s house—but I lost the piece of paper with the address on it. Uncle Douglas is gonna want it. I have the key, could you just give me—?”

“Of course, honey!” the woman gushed, happy to help. “Let me look in our files. What did you say his name was?”

“Douglas Bates.” I sure hoped that guy in Goldsmith was telling the truth and Douglas
did
work at Schlumberger!

The woman opened a filing cabinet drawer and thumbed through the tops of the folders. To my relief, she pulled one out. “Here it is, Douglas Bates.” She read off the address and I wrote it down on a piece of Schlumberger’s note pad there on the desk. Ripped off the sheet and stuck it in my pocket.

“Thanks a whole lot.”

“You’re welcome, dear. Anything else I can do for you?”

“That’s all, thank you.”

I practically ran out the door, triumphant. Got in the car and had Luis take me back into town so I could do a little reconnaissance in Douglas’s neighborhood. He lived in a trailer park near the new Ector County Coliseum, a gigantic building that was built since I went away. It was also on Andrews Highway, not at all far from Schlumberger. Not much housing development around there. Seemed like trailer parks were the big new thing, especially for lower-income people.

Suited me just fine.

Now it’s nine o’clock and I’m ready to go. If for some reason I don’t make it back to finish this, dear diary, I leave everything I own to my friend and mentor Freddie Barnes. See you later.

35
Roberto
T
HE
P
RESENT

The airplane trip to Chicago made me feel lousy. The goddamned heart murmur or whatever the fuckin’ thing is started actin’ up as soon as I sat in my seat. I was in a plane once before, in 1956. Flew to Las Vegas with the don. I didn’t like it. Made me feel like I wasn’t in control. I don’t like not bein’ in control. Same thing happened today. I hated the security checks at the airport. The waitin’ drove me nuts. Then there was a delay and we sat in the plane for another thirty minutes before it took off. Fuck air travel.

I was a little worried about takin’ my Colt Detective Special. The rules said you’re supposed to declare and check it, but I thought for sure they’d stop me ‘cause I’m an ex-con. In fact, even possessin’ the damned gun was a violation of my parole. So I used that FedEx service and shipped it ahead of me to the Hyatt Hotel that’s at the Chicago airport. Booked a room there and had ‘em hold the package for me. Anyway, I was glad I didn’t have a problem with
that
. It was the only good thing about the trip.

But I made it. Rented a car at the airport, checked into the hotel, and picked up my gun. Took me a while to get used to all the modern crap they got in cars now. Automatic this and automatic that. The wheel was so easy to turn I almost crashed into a wall. Got a car with one of them new GPS contraptions, so I wouldn’t have to depend on a paper map. It worked pretty good,
but drivin’ on the fuckin’ Chicago expressways was a nightmare. Made my heart pound like it was gonna burst. Had to give the Italian salute to a couple of other drivers who pissed me off. Think I’m gonna use side streets from now on.

I got to Arlington Heights in the early afternoon. Found Judy Talbot’s house, and nearly smashed the car window with my fist when I saw the place was for sale. Vacant. Nobody home. Fuck, where was she? Did she die?

Still, I thought maybe I should take a look around. Got out of the car and went up to the front porch. Front door was locked. I gazed up and down the street to make sure no one was looking—and then I kicked it. Opened with one try.

The place was empty except for a chair or two. Smelled old and musty. I went in the kitchen, found a few tools the real estate people probably kept handy. Nothin’ in the fridge. Checked out the bedrooms—they were empty, too. I was beginnin’ to think the trip to Chicago was a bust. On my way out, I noticed the door and stairs to the basement. Not much to see, but there was a punchin’ bag hangin’ from the ceilin’. That made sense. I could see footprints in the dust at the bottom of the stairs, too. Someone had been there recently.

I went back upstairs and outside to look at the
FOR SALE
sign. The realtor’s name was Kathy Reynolds. Noted the phone number and used my new cell to call her. When she answered, I told her I was interested in the house and would like a viewin’. She seemed real excited about that and said she’d meet me in a half hour. I didn’t tell her I was already at the house and had broken in.

Maybe she knew where Judy Talbot was.

The realtor was fifteen minutes late, which didn’t improve my mood. She parked in front—my rental was in the driveway—and ran up to me apologizin’ for bein’ “tardy.” She was heavy, maybe
in her mid-forties, and wore too much makeup. Dressed in a women’s business suit. Her voice was high pitched and annoyin’. I already wanted to strangle her.

“Well, Mister Johnson, this house is a real
bargain
!” she said as we walked to the front porch together. I’d given her a phony name over the phone. “The owner has priced it to sell. As you can see, it needs a little sprucing up, and the owner understands that.”

“Let’s see the inside,” I said. Then I did a good job of fakin’ surprise when we got to the broken door. “Hey, look at that. Someone’s broken in.”