The Dead Time Inbetween

"There was news on the horizon. Something called. Something stirred…he expected it, and yet…"

He had only read the first few lines and already he knew that what he thought was gifted in the middle of the night was total-crap in the morning. The opiated opinions of a rewired mind. Read to a rhythm but not a rhyme, for no good reason. Good at the time…shit now.

Flush with ideas, most often flushed, in the swirl of the clouds that form and descend within the cranial shell, itself a porcelain bowl. And from those swirls, form squalls, form torrents, rough seas…

Whose storms stir heaven, while they shake and enrage hell.

Something was different last night. What was it? Something happened. I saw it. Sitting here and looking out the win…

What was that?

There was a sound, a shriek. Short. Sharp. Heard over the jazz, played low in the room in the early morn. Faint. Distant. Probably what drew my attention. I was busy pecking mindlessly on my crapwriter at the time. And probably still am in the present, but then…
I was Ripped from the brink of my brilliance, torn from the throws of my own crappola, my eye went immediately to the scene outside my window, and down to the street below. It was wet with the drizzle that glistened in the air around the streetlights. The lights, the ones that still worked, worked alone tonight. There was no traffic to grace, or pedestrians to guide. It was another empty canyon at a god-forgotten hour and I took comfort in being witness of it. The sweet nocturnal Nothing.

Offshore air blown inland. Marine layer. The whiff of sea. I drifted for a second, and then there he came. Running onto the boulevard. Knife in hand. It caught the light. Glint. 
He stopped halfway, at the center-line, and waited. He turned as if he knew I was watching, but not from which window. Instinctively...stupidly, I dim my desk light to near darkness, while not thinking that the mere shift in luminosity might draw his eye….but, after a few loud heartbeats, it appeared it did not, as he almost took to sniffing the wind like a wolf in search of a scent. 

The fog is starting to billow in over the rooftops. It will fall and consume the city. I call the police.

He lingers still, but shifts demeanor, he takes in a breath and exhales as he shakes his head violently, trying to rattle loose the evil in there. I suspect he was blubbering. I am witnessing a transformation. As if free of his invisible chrysalis, he gathers himself … then strides off casually. Just a man, watch-cap down tight, on his way home from a graveyard shift, hands, and knife, now safely stuffed into jacket pockets, hunched into the mounting mist. Gone.

The police showed up two minutes later and during that time I had to ponder the thought: “What if he did see the light dim low and knew, right then and there, where I live, and would always be, when he decided to come back for me? Could that explain the drastic shift in his persona? Did that thought just strike him as well? 

 "I know where you live..."

The first two cars pulled up and rang my phone from the street below. I quickly told them what I had seen and heard, and in which direction the man had vanished. They left in a burst of screeching rubber, and I felt full of adrenaline and pride, having performed my civic duty.  Then the street was peacefully quiet for a few slow seconds, like the trace of burnt rubber, it all just hung there….but off in the distance I heard the sirens and they came fast and en masse. The view outside the window filled with flashing redness of  a glowing phantom fog and the sound overwhelming, like some disco hell below. 

It was a crime in progress as a woman was slashed in her penthouse loft, right over there, across the park. Madness had erupted. Now in my direction, because I beckoned it. Didn’t I, dammit?

A knock on the door. A pounding. A stern authoritarian voice, to which I open. Surprise. It’s the cops and they are very serious. The lead man steps inside, uninvited, while the others linger in the hall. It is not until that moment that I realize my stash is open and evident right there on my desk. My eyes, see his eyes, see the prize.

“You called. What did you see?” he chose to conduct more pressing business first. He, too, knew, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not now.

“…yes, I contacted you. I don’t know much but what I saw…”

“Please, time is of the essence. We are in pursuit.”

“Yes. Okay. I was sitting here writing. He was there. He was male and dressed in dark clothes. Pants. Jacket. Watch cap.”

Skin?

“Can’t say.”

“Guess?”

“No. I couldn’t. Nor do I think I would. It would be conjecture.”

“So, could you at least rule out, say…a very dark skinned black man?

“Yes, I suppose. But a lighter skinned black man, white man, Hispanic or whatever, I could not tell. I don’t want to have this conversation. It could have been a dark skinned black man for all I know. And come to think of it, knowing the way things are…it could have been a woman.”

“You really think so?’

“No.”

“Back on track. Shoes? Running shoes? Boots? What...? ”

“I couldn’t see, but they sounded heavy when he ran. I had turned off the turntable…and yes, boots…heavy boots.”

“Anything else?”

“Wait…. ‘Jingles’. Like a chain. Something jingled.”

“Like spurs in the old westerns?”

“No. But good connection. More like ‘chain links’…not too heavy.

“You could hear that from here?’

“I thought I could. I like an open window at night. Cleaner air. Could be mistaken…or overlapping sound from here in the building someplace. Someone down the hall going for their keys, maybe.”

“Okay, I might buy that, but quite a coincidence in synchronicity wouldn’t you say?”

“Why…I guess. But flukes happen, and I have a pretty good eye and ear for details. The way people talk, body language…”

“I get it. The author. Details. Sometimes there is confusion in the moment, you know? It becomes personal. There is a terror factor…not to mention the medication. That is prescription I presume?”

“Yeah, but don’t ask for my ‘letter’ right now. I’m pretty shook…but, I wasn’t terrified at first...what I saw, I saw, but now…shit...”

“Residual shock. Play it back, what you saw...”

“My mind was just wandering, but as it did play out, I immediately focused on the moment. It was like theater – one man running onto a barren stage..”

The cop grew impatient. “Don’t get artsy-fartsy on me. Tell me what else, or is that “It” ?

“It.”

“You saw a dark guy – a silhouette, perhaps, because you saw no detail, but you did hear boots and possible jingling…chains.”

“And the knife.”

“Come again? It was visible?”

“It shined. Light flashed off it – it’s wet out there…he was under the street light.”

“You sure? It’s pretty foggy.”

“No. This just rolled in. He could have been holding a fork, but it was shiny and he held it as one would hold a knife. Maybe an eight-inch blade from what I could see. And I can only say that much with semi-certainty.”

“I understand.”

This whole time a second cop was outside my open doorway leaning against the frame and relaying pertinent facts as they came from my lips.  The knife seemed to get his interest as he relayed the information.

“Have someone out in the middle of the street – on the center line around the street light. The one that works…”

The two repeatedly glanced at each other, reading each other’s secret “partner speak”, no doubt. I could care less what they thought and I had no interest in trying to interpret. I wanted them to leave.

“Can I go back to work?”

“Work.” Again he let me know what he was looking at.

“I’m a writer…”

“Aren’t we all. I have a book inside me.”

“Me too” chimed his partner

“You seen the money that one cop made writing books?”

“Yeah. The Times guy, too. So, writer, flesh out your story…” the first cop says, his attention back on me.

“What? I have told you everything I can. You want me to make something up? I thought you were in hot pursuit!”

There are those in hot pursuit and those of us that are required to follow up on the leads and details. YOU are the only lead, so you have our full attention. YOU know the details…so, give whatever you got. Are you stoned right now?

Semi. But it changes nothing. I saw what I saw and I described it to you accurately. I think that’s all I could possibly do in this…”

I was looking for some clarity.

As clear as I can be.

“That seems to be the point,” he says while perusing my pot card, extracted illegally from my wallet. ( I’ll have to report this to the authorities…my rights violated...yeah, right.)

“You ever been caught off guard?” I ask him.

“Every other day,” he says.

“We should talk about that sometime. Stories to be told. I was caught off guard. What's that like for you? When do you ever let your guard down? Sometimes things just jump into your headlights and you kill the fucking deer. Nobodies fault, it was a freak…”

“ Okay, okay…you need to put that shit on paper, and just give me the venison without the fat.

“I could use that line…”

"So, this guy in the street, was he freaky, sneaky, defiant, …what?”

“Bravado.”

On cue a natty man steps smartly past the detective, into my room. The first cop says “Yeah. So, this is Sgt. George Thacker. He will take your statement. We will leave you alone. A patrolman will bear witness. My card – my partner's card.”

“Bear witness to what?” I accept the cards, read, and acknowledged the ‘silent’ partner. “Al.” 

He nods. They part.
"Simply bear witness to your statement. Should I read you your rights?"
"Am I under arrest?"
"No. I just want you to feel comfortable, and free to talk. Relaxed."

“Make you a sandwich, Sergeant?” I ask Thatcher, trying to get things back to casual again, by being Cordial.

"No, but thank you. You always work all night?"

"Usually. It’s quiet…"

“Except for tonight,” he sounded ‘almost’ sympathetic.

“A salami plate…some pecorino?” I offered.

“Now that might do. What time we got? 4:30? Almost breakfast. I might nibble. We’ve got to get your statement down.”

“Come sit in the kitchen. We can talk. Officer?...join us?” 
The patrolman declined and stood guard as we noshed. Over the quickly organized platter of cured meat, cheese, pepperocini, and some broken rye crackers, I told him the same story over again because that’s the only story I had. We ate, shared some wine. Very civil. I respect the guy, and he was probably trying to respect me. He thanked me and they left.

I turned on the radio and the news quickly got to a mid city murder. 

A woman in her thirties was slashed in the landing of her fourth floor loft tonight. Police are working on leads…(that would be me.)… and have a suspect in mind. (Based on my description? …highly Unlikely.) The victim, a business executive with Hinds-Peglar, was apparently accosted while exiting her fashionable high-rise loft. She was dressed in sleep attire and police do not think she was leaving the building, but may have been tricked into leaving the security of her apartment by the unknown perpetrator. Police suspect the intruder gained access through the roof somehow, perhaps down a utility shaft, but that is speculation at the moment, as information is still coming forth. As you can hear, helicopters are attempting to light up the park and buildings, just trying to pierce this pea-soup fog, in order to provide both ground and rooftop teams with some visibility. They are also well equipped with night vision…if they can penetrate the gloom...here comes another, flying over head, you can hear...

Listening to her narrative track behind me, I watched them hovering low outside the window. Circling, beaming, roaring, valkyries. They would swing wide into the bank, around, and then back, directly over head, as I was well within their arch. And that’s when It started to settle in...the paranoia. He'd gone uncaught.

The news remained sketchy for the entire day. Police were looking for possible connections to the victim.

                
                    “Who Killed Jilly Meyerson?” 

No breakthroughs on Day One. 
The news biz was in a frenzy, and crawled the neighborhood. On Day Two a reporter stopped me in the street on my way for coffee and asked me my feelings “As a neighbor…?”

Giving it my best blank-sad expression, I told him I didn’t know anything specific but “…from what I gather she was a good person and it was tragic. In any neighborhood this is tragic.”

Sound bite on that. The truth is, people die every damn day and much of it is random. There is not a lot of order you can put to it.

Within two days, I was forced to duck for cover. Someone from 'the inside' leaked the story and the fact that there was an eyewitness, someone who could identify a man with a knife, and it hit the airwaves.  Once I heard, I knew his search would turn on me. Find the witness! No mention of the fact that the witness saw essentially nothing. Didn’t matter. 

I wondered if the cops were playing me as bait. Covering their bet...and the pot could be a problem… my fears play out and I visualize the wolf seeing the light dim. He knew my window. The cops were stoking the logs and starting to turn the spit. I was their pig…round, and round, and round…

Just a matter of time.

I called an old girlfriend, Rosey, for solace. Rosey liked me okay, and I still like her okay, but the best thing between us was betting football, booze and Vegas. We were mutually enabling alcoholic pigskin junkies. It also was quite evident that we needed that juice to flow, in order for our juices to flow, and once that first football season was over, our reason seemed over, as well. But for five months, it was one hell of a Season.
  

Even as our tepid attempt to endure a 'typical' romance during the dead time inbetween the playoffs and basketball's “bracket season”, we came up barren without the rush. No juice was flowing. Yet, toiling and tilling our less-than-fertile emotional plot  did establish a painful trust between us. 

“If you ever have a need, or just need a good reason…” she had said, and if ever there was one, there was now reason enough to take her up. As I stuffed my bag, it sounded better the whole time, and I quickly realized the 'pre-season' was right around the corner.