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Prologue
November 28, 1972

What the hell just happened? wondered Tony Marino.
Tony had been walking home from a poker game in Brooklyn’s Little Italy, the Bensonhurst section. The private detective was enjoying the midnight peace and quiet on the neighborhood’s normally busy Eighteenth Avenue. The street at that hour was mostly deserted, lit only by streetlights, a few bars and, on nights like this one, the moon. He was taking his time, minding his own business.
Around 77th Street, though, a lone figure on the other side of the street caught his eye. This was a woman, a tall, slender one, wearing a waist-length bolero-type leather jacket, tight jeans and low-heeled boots. She carried no handbag or purse, which struck him as unusual for any woman, anywhere. Her relaxed, confident stride was that of a dancer, he mused, or maybe a runway model. An image of an Arabian thoroughbred flew into his head.
That probably would have been enough to draw his attention, but there was something else. This was a Black woman, walking by herself in Bensonhurst late at night. One of the things Tony’s mother taught him to despise about his neighborhood’s culture was its insularity, especially its often-virulent racism. Black people risked their lives by venturing there. Any Black person out alone at any time, but especially a woman late at night, had to be in danger. He decided to keep an eye on this one. What was she doing here? he wondered. Where could she possibly be going?
He watched a patrol car slow to a crawl as it drew up close. He thought the cops might hassle her, but the car drove on.
As she crossed 80th Street, three men tumbled out of Giovanni’s Bar, laughing and play-fighting with one another. One was tall and thin, another short and pudgy. The third looked like a bodybuilder. Their laughter stopped when they saw the woman coming up the block. In an instant, they had her surrounded. She stopped walking. They closed in. The muscleman gestured toward an alley between two buildings. Tony couldn’t hear what they were calling to her or at her, but he could tell she was in trouble. He started running towards them. By the time he was halfway across the street, she’d dispatched the short one with a straight kick to the groin and a vicious chop to the neck, and the tall one with a roundhouse kick to the chest. When she turned to the muscleman, though, he pulled a gun out of his waistband. Tony closed the last few yards in seconds, just in time to bring the butt of his own .45 down on the back of the man’s head.
As the predator crumpled to the ground, Tony asked the woman, “Are you all right?”
This was the first time he could see her in full light. She was a couple of inches taller than his five-ten, athletically built and dark-skinned, with high cheekbones, full lips and big black eyes. He was mesmerized. Those big eyes were blazing though, not with gratitude but with anger.
“Just what the hell you think you’re doin’?” she barked. This was the last thing he expected to hear.
“This guy had a gun,” he stammered. “You were in trouble.”
“And who asked for a white knight to ride in and rescue this damsel in distress? I’m pretty damn sure it weren’t me!”
“But he had a gun. He was turning to point it at you.”
“I know that. And that gun would’ve been flyin’ out of his hands in a split-second, if you didn’t show up and ruin everything.”
Tony didn’t know what to say. What did she mean, “ruin everything?” He thought he might have saved her life. But she turned and marched away, fast. He caught up and asked, “Can I give you a lift? My car’s on the next block.”
“No. I don’t need nothin’ from you. Get away from me. Go!”
He was totally perplexed by her fury. At the same time, he was thinking, God, she’s beautiful!
The episode ended when they reached the subway station. She turned, pointed her finger at him, and commanded, “Don’t even think about followin’.” Then she disappeared down the stairs.
The rest of the way home, the rest of the night, Tony couldn’t get her out of his mind. Who was this woman? he wondered. And what the hell just happened?