One unseasonably warm autumn night, I decided to walk the mile or so to the poker game. Everyone there was in a good mood, maybe because of the weather. Around one in the morning, the game broke up and I headed back home.

 

            Eighteenth Avenue is Bensonhurst’s “Main Street,” bustling all day with shoppers in and out of the stores, and commuters walking to and from the subway stations. At this time of night, though, it was mostly deserted, lit only by streetlights, a few bars and, on nights like this one, the moon. Enjoying the peace and quiet, I took my time.

 

            Around 77th Street, though, I couldn’t help noticing a lone figure walking up the other side of the street. It was a woman, a tall, slender one, wearing a waist-length bolero-type leather jacket, tight jeans, and low-heeled boots. Her hair was wound in a long braid, nearly halfway down her back. She carried no handbag or purse, which struck me as unusual for any woman, anywhere. Her relaxed, confident stride was that of a dancer, I thought, or maybe a runway model. An image of an Arabian thoroughbred flew into my head.

 

            That probably would have been enough to draw my attention, but there was something else. This was a black woman, walking by herself in Bensonhurst, late at night. One of the things my mother taught me to hate about my neighborhood’s culture was its insularity, especially its racism. Black people risked their lives by venturing here. Any black person out alone at any time, but especially a woman late at night, had to be in danger. I decided to keep an eye on this one.

 

            I watched as a police car slowed to a crawl as it drew up close. I thought they might hassle her, but the car drove on.

 

            Sure enough, though, once she crossed 80th Street, three men tumbled out of Ferraro’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, and she stopped walking. As they closed in, the muscleman gestured toward an alley between two buildings. I couldn’t hear what they were calling to her or at her, but I knew she was in trouble. I started running. By the time I got halfway across the street, she’d dispatched the short one with a kick to the groin and a vicious karate chop to the neck, and the tall one with a flying dropkick. When she turned to the muscleman, though, he pulled a gun out of his waistband. I closed the last few yards in seconds, just in time to bring the butt of my own .45 down on the back of his head.

 

            I watched him crumple to the ground, then looked up and asked, “Are you all right?”

 

            This was the first time I could see her in full light. She was a couple of inches taller than my five-ten, athletically built and dark-skinned, with high cheekbones, full lips and big black eyes. “Statuesque” was the term that came to mind. The problem was that those big eyes were blazing with anger.

 

            “Just what the hell you think you’re doin’?” she barked. This was the last thing I expected.

 

            “This guy had a gun,” I stammered. “You were in trouble.”

 

            “And who asked for a white knight to ride in on his horse to save this damsel in distress? I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’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.”

 

            I didn’t know what to say. What did she mean, “ruin everything?” I thought I might have saved her life. But she turned and marched away, fast. I 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!”

 

            Her fury totally perplexed me. At the same time, I was thinking, “God, she’s beautiful!”

 

            The episode ended when we got to the subway station. She turned, pointed her finger at me, and commanded, “Don’t even think about following.” Then she disappeared down the stairs.

 

            The rest of the way home, the rest of the night, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. “Who was this woman?” I wondered. “And what the hell just happened?”