Murder New York Style

Enjoy this Anthology excerpt from one of the stories—“The Knock-Off” by Chelle Martin
I settled into the seat beside my best friend, Sheri, as the train rolled out of the South Amboy station heading toward Manhattan. The gentle rocking motion, along with the crisp air of a February morning, set the perfect stage for a girls’ day out shopping in the Big Apple.
Once the conductor punched our tickets, we dived into conversation about what bargains we hoped to find. Sheri had been making regular trips to Chinatown with her sister and had become a steady customer of a man she knew as Chang. She’d been pleading with him to get her a faux Kate Spade bag, one of the hottest imitations around in the latest design. Myself, I didn’t see the point in knock-offs. Granted, they might not cost a thousand dollars, but for a darned good one, you could still pay several hundred. Why not just go with a great bag by a less costly designer?
An hour later, we arrived at Penn Station and hailed a cab on 34th Street. Our driver, not surprisingly, looked to be from some Middle Eastern country and spoke with a thick accent. He drove like an Indy race car driver, weaving artfully from right to left for position, beating the traffic lights when he could.
We passed Union Square and the outskirts of Greenwich Village, went through Little Italy, and wound up on Canal Street, where we paid our fare and exited.
“It’s down this way,” Sheri said, as she led me past numerous shops and restaurants. The smell of Chinese condiments filled the air. “We can stop to eat on the way back. I want to buy the bag before Chang gets a better offer.”
“I thought he was holding it for you.”
“He said he’d have one, maybe two, this weekend. He didn’t say he’d hold one for me.”
“Oh.” And here I thought this was the point of our trip.
Chang’s shop was tucked between an Oriental herbal medicine store and a Chinese food market. A little chime sounded as we entered. Inside, several customers chatted away in Chinese, while a few Caucasian women passed handbags back and forth, pointing out the not-so-finer points of the knock-off industry.
“See this?” one said. “The logo doesn’t line up. This bag isn’t worth thirty dollars, let alone three hundred.”
I could see her point. I mean, hey, the first thing anyone notices about a bag is if the pattern lines up. A bad stitching job is liable to make one the talk of the office.
“Debbie, over here,” Sheri called. She had managed to pull Chang aside. Or someone I assumed to be Chang. The man smiled and disappeared into the back of the store, returning a moment later with a small leather bag in a shade of pale blue.
“Oh, yes, this is it. Kate Spade’s new spring design. Isn’t it great, Debbie?” Sheri started posing with the bag on her arm in front of a floor length mirror.
I had to admit, the bag was attractive, but I’d never fit all my essentials in it. My bag, when loaded to capacity, could be called a lethal weapon.
As Sheri fished out her credit card, I noticed two Chinese men entering the shop. One Chinese shopper poked another, and soon the ladies dropped their merchandise and scooted past the men at the door. An uneasy feeling jolted my stomach.
Chang addressed the men, pointing toward the door and rattling something off in his native tongue. They approached the counter anyway, one grabbing a handle on the Kate Spade bag with Sheri reluctant to let go of the other.
“Hey, I ordered this bag,” she said in that loud, slow way that one does when unsure if someone speaks English. This, I presume, she thought would make her dilemma understood. Then we could all laugh at the big misunderstanding, shake hands, and world peace would reign. But it was not to be.
The second man drew a gun, reached over the counter, and grabbed Chang by the collar. Just then the door bell chimed behind us, throwing a wrench into the scenario. Three young kids barreled into the store with two women behind them, one talking on her cellphone. All were oblivious to the events at hand.
In an instant, Chang grabbed for the gun as the purse holder simultaneously grabbed for Chang. Sheri pulled the bag away as if it were the greater half of a wishbone and ran for the door with me in pursuit. A loud bang erupted, and from the corner of my eye I saw the women and kids hit the floor.
A handsome man in jeans and sunglasses approached the store as we burst out the door. “Wait!” he yelled and reached inside his blazer.
We nearly bowled him over in our scramble to get away.
Shots rang behind us.
We fled down Canal Street, our Nikes speeding us north onto Lafayette as if our very lives depended on it. Which, and I’d rather not think about it, they probably did.
“Over there!” I pointed to a Holiday Inn.
We didn’t slow down until we entered the lobby. I feared looking back in the direction we came from, but when we did, neither of us saw anyone in pursuit.
My side ached, and excitement pulsated through my body. I sank into a chair to catch my breath, while Sheri did the same.
“What’s with the bag?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t speak Chinese,” she said through panting breaths that would do a Lamaze couch proud. “Do you think they killed Chang?”
I shrugged. “Why would someone knock someone off over a knock-off?”
Sheri smirked. “Is that like a woodchuck chucking wood?”