Free The Black Stiletto by Raymond Benson Page B

surrounded me and wouldn’t let me through.
    “What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ out so late? It’s dangerous on the streets. You might need us to protect you,” another goaded.
    “Get out of my way, please,” I said. My nerves were setting off alarms, that animal instinct of mine was going nuts. Danger, danger! I felt my adrenaline soar through my body—I was ready for fight or flight, and I knew it was probably going to be fight.
    “How ‘bout a kiss?” the first guy taunted. He leaned closer to me—and I let him have it with a right hook, just like when I hit Mack on the nose that time. Well, it surprised the guy. He yelped and pulled back. The other two couldn’t believe what I’d just done.
    I assumed a fighting stance. Suddenly, though, I wasn’t sure if I should go for traditional boxing or try some of the karate I’d learned. For some reason, I didn’t feel as confident with the martial arts as I did with boxing. So I put up my dukes and prepared to jab and cross.
    “Look, Stu,” one said, “she thinks she’s Jake LaMotta!”
    The one I’d punched—Stu—spat and pointed. “Get her!”
    They attacked.
    Training and sparring in the gym or studio is practice. Sure, you can get hurt, but you’re not going to die . In a real-life situation like the one I found myself in, anything can happen. I was fighting for my life—and suddenly everything I’d learned went out the window. I couldn’t think straight. I just punched and kickedand fought like a banshee. I knew my blows connected, but some of theirs did, too. The pain was terrible. For a few seconds I had no confidence.
    And then some of Soichiro’s words came back into my head. I assumed a traditional stance and applied the techniques I’d been taught. Relax. Breathe. The boxing jabs became knifehand chops. Instead of girly kicks, I performed perfect karate front kicks— mae geri . A roundhouse kick— mawashi geri —actually knocked one opponent to the ground. And a side kick— yoko geri —caused one guy to double over and vomit! That left Stu, the leader.
    He produced a switchblade out of thin air.
    “You’re gonna die, bitch!” he hissed.
    The sight of the weapon surprised me so much that I froze. He jumped forward, his arm swinging. I felt the blade strike my shoulder and slice through the front of my shirt, just over my right breast. It penetrated the skin—deeply. I cried out in pain and leaped backward. He kept coming, though, wildly swinging the knife in unpredictable directions. This was where my boxing training came in handy—I danced around him, barely avoiding being cut again. But then he backed me against the wall of a building. He stood a few feet in front of me, legs apart, the knife pointed at my belly.
    I saw my opening and unleashed a vicious front kick to his groin.
    Stu’s eyes went wide as he bellowed in agony. The blade dropped to the ground. He fell to his knees and then rolled over into a fetal position.
    All three guys were down.
    I ran.
    When I got to the gym, Freddie took one look at me and almost started crying. “Judy! What happened?”
    There was a big mirror near the punching bags, and I saw thedamage. My nose was bleeding and my upper lip was busted. There was a big red welt on my left cheek. Worst of all, though, my shirt was drenched in blood.
    Freddie helped me take it off. There was a six or seven-inch cut that went from my right shoulder down to the top of my breast. It was deep, too.
    “Judy, we gotta get you to the hospital. That has to be stitched.”
    “No,” I said. “I’ve seen you stitch up some of the guys here. You do it.”
    “Judy, I can’t do something like this.”
    I didn’t want to go to the emergency room. I don’t know why, but I was afraid of hospitals. Besides, I didn’t want to go through having to talk to the police.
    “Yes, you can, Freddie. Just do it. I’m gonna wash my face. You get the stuff.”
    “It’ll leave a bad scar if I do it.”
    I didn’t