Story Of An Encounter

Crime Fiction By Paul Perilli

It’s not a surprise my friends and neighbors no longer bring up the once famed and much-discussed case of an unsolved murder in our quiet Brooklyn neighborhood. Shocking as it was at the time, it went the way of most news. Other topics came up. What took place over a year ago is left back there. As far as the authorities know, there were no eyewitnesses or firm leads to follow. The perpetrator is still at large. While that may be, it remains fresh in my memory. Since that night, I’ve thought about confiding the story as I know it. I might as well do that now. There’s no reason to keep it to myself any longer.

Bad things happen and it can take a while to understand why they did. From a distance the two men don’t appear to know each other. There’s no evidence of a motive that would lead to a confrontation. The grainy footage from a security camera recorded the encounter. Walking toward each other, the two men came together. Face to face, they exchanged words and pointed fingers. That went on until one of them, the shorter of the two, reached into his pocket, drew his arm back and swiped at the other man. The man brought his hands to his neck. Moments later he dropped to his knees and fell to the ground. Without looking back, the other man hurried across the street, turned a corner, and vanished into the darkness.

That evening, a Tuesday, I went to my local brewhouse to drink beer and chat with friends. Eight blocks from my home, it’s two streets west toward the East River then six to the south. When I’m there I limit myself to two. I’m disciplined that way. I don’t get intoxicated. Though some who go there drink more. Ian, for example, has three before he calls it a night. Ben stays until closing. Someone has to so he takes on that role.

Anyway, that night I had my usual two. Out the door with Ian, we made plans to meet again on Friday. After that we went in opposite directions. He to the east. I to the north. In a few blocks I saw flashing lights up ahead. I picked up my pace.

By the time I got there the police and ambulance were on the scene. Along with several others, I watched the EMTs apply bandages to stanch the man’s bleeding. The middle-aged couple I stood next to explained an elderly woman living on the second floor of the building the incident occurred in front of heard men yelling, then a choking sound. She went to the window and saw a figure hurrying across the street. Looking down, she spotted the bleeding man and called the 94^th Precinct. Soon after sirens closed in from several directions. When they arrived the woman went out to the sidewalk to tell the police what she saw. That was everything they heard her say to them.

“She was pretty shaken up,” the man said.

“Understood,” I said.

We stood a while longer as the EMTs strapped the man on a stretcher, rolled him into the back of the emergency vehicle, and took off with sirens blaring.

In the end, it seemed a clearcut case of second-degree murder. A situation that got out of hand. It happened more than we want to know. The difference this time was it took place in the neighborhood I live in. So be it. Sometimes that’s the way things go in the big city. Tensions build over time and seek release one way or another.

With that out, I realize there’s a bit more to the story to let you in on.

As I said, after I came out of the brewhouse Ian went his way and I went mine. Ten o’clock on a weeknight, that area near the river was quiet. In a few blocks I approached the men having words on the other side of the street. How it started and who started it, I didn’t know. It wasn’t my business. Keeping my distance, I stood and watched. I couldn’t help it. The finger pointing went on. The men stuck out their necks and expanded their chests.

The shorter one yelled, “What do you think you’re doing? I was letting you go by.”

“You ran into me?” the other said.

“Bull, you ran into me. That’s the third time.”

“What? I’ve never seen you before.” He took a step toward the smaller man until he was up in his face. He clenched a fist and showed it to him.

The smaller man held his ground. He dug a hand in his front pocket. I didn’t think much of it until I saw him pull out a bronze object. With a swift motion he swung out at his adversary. The man staggered back. Gasping for air, his hands went to his throat. He froze in that position for a moment. Then he dropped to his knees and fell on his side.

By then the man with the weapon was on the move. Ready to run, I saw he wasn’t interested in me. Once I was sure, I averted my eyes. I didn’t follow him to see where he went. I didn’t want that in my head. I noticed the elderly woman step up to the window. She looked down, turned and was no longer there. A man’s life had ended just like that. Over what? Sirens started up and closed in. Instead of waiting around to tell the police what I saw, I made a beeline home and told Lucy there was an incident by the river without mentioning I had witnessed it.

“I saw a guy running, that’s it,” I said.

She was relieved to hear I wasn’t threatened.

“Don’t go that way when it’s dark,” she said.

“I’m going to walk the long way around,” I said.

However that may be, I see it’s still not all of it. I’ll go on.

Two weeks earlier I left the brewhouse after a couple of IPAs. I went up the street. There were no flashing lights ahead. No men yelling. No gathering of folks staring at a man knocking on death’s door.

I continued that way with a purpose. Looking ahead, I saw a tallish man coming at me. He had a bob to his step. He seemed focused on me. I’m not certain which of us was supposed to defer to the other where the sidewalk narrowed at the low, wrought iron rail around a flower patch. What I’m saying is, a brown-haired man I had seen a few times before was determined to bump into me. A man I didn’t know, though I had the idea he knew who I was, had a problem with me, I’ll venture to say, for a reason I couldn’t fathom.

He continued right for me. When I realized he was hellbent on making contact, I stepped to the side to give him room to go by. Why get involved in something that was his imagined issue and not mine?

It didn’t matter. His shoulder struck me hard enough to knock me off balance. Needless to say, I was stunned by his unjustified hostility and audacity. Blood rushed to my head. Surprised I was, pissed off too, no damage was done. Stuff like that goes on. New York’s residents are aggressive. Rubbing shoulders is unavoidable. Though I felt this transgression went beyond that.

Anyway, I watched him walk away. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t look back. When I was composed, I proceeded up the block. In the door, I didn’t mention it to Lucy. We watched the news and chatted about other things before calling it a night.

Calmed down I might have been, petty hostility it might have been, as I said, it was the third time. If there was another, and I intended to try to avoid it, I was determined to stand my ground.

Yet, while in shape for my age, I’m not in my thirties anymore, or my forties. I wasn’t about to fight someone younger, three or four inches taller, and thirty pounds heavier. Bigger and stronger, there was no doubt he could hurt me. Nevertheless, I’m aware weapons are made to create balance in the world. If it happened again, I would be prepared. The next evening, at my desk, I Googled switchblades. I wanted one that would fit in my pocket. That would pop open in a split second should I need it.

I researched brands. There’s no lack of them out there. I interacted with online communities. They too were abundant. That was how I found out about Spider; an everyday carry made by a respected manufacturer.

Utilitarian in purpose. A titanium blade sharp as a razor. Index finger flipper style folded design. A device that fits in the palm of a hand. A quick tap and the blade locks in place. Not only is it top quality, it’s also popular. It went with me whenever I was out. The guy with the bob to his step wasn’t aware I carried a blade that held a grudge in it.

That’s the how and why of it. The reason was as I stated. A man wanted to intimidate another. Where he thought it would lead, I didn’t know. I had no intention to let it continue.

The next day’s news reported a thirty-six-year-old Brooklyn resident was dead of a knife wound to the throat. Another was being sought. At the scene, police interviewed an elderly woman and several bystanders. There were no witnesses or firm leads.

More than a year later, the man with the knife was still being sought. Who can say if he’ll ever be caught? Who can say it won’t happen again?

Bio: Paul Perilli doesn’t write crime fiction but this story came up so he went for it. His fiction and non-fiction have been published in the US and internationally, including in The European, Poets & Writers Magazine, New Observations Magazine, Baltimore Magazine, Fairlight Books, Thema, Overland, Bridge Eight Press, and many others.

You can fin him at his website HERE

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