Hell's Kitchen

TWENTY-NINE

The next evening, Pellam and Louis Bailey stood in the lawyer’s newly painted office.

They were in identical poses. Leaning out an open window, squinting.

“The governor,” Bailey said.

“No, I don’t think so,” Pellam responded. Though it had been almost twenty years since Pellam had been a resident of the Empire State and he had only a vague idea of what any governor, past or present, looked like.

“I’m sure.”

“Ten bucks,” Pellam bet. It was hardly a lock. But confidence, he had it on good authority, is everything.

“Uhm. Five.”

They shook.

At the far end of the block the limo deposited its dignitary, whoever it might be, on the red carpet of McKennah Tower’s main entrance and the tuxedoed gentleman and several bodyguards entered the building.

“The plate,” Bailey said, “read, ‘NY 1.’ ”

“It’s probably a Mets pitcher.”

“Then it sure as hell wouldn’t say number one,” Bailey countered sadly. The long black Lincoln vanished around the corner. Bailey closed the window.

Currently playing across the street was perhaps the only topping-off ceremony that had ever been held on ground level. Not being able to fit McKennah’s six thousand invitees on the roof of the Tower, the ceremony was taking place in the building’s theater, a lavish place intended for full-production Broadway musicals and plays. Tonight the placed rocked with MTV music, lasers, banks of video monitors, Dolby SurroundSound, computer graphics.

Pouring a very small glass of the jug wine, Pellam tuned in again to Louis Bailey. The man was ebullient and couldn’t stop talking about the case, while in a dim corner of the freshly painted office Ismail, in his tricolor windbreaker, sat leafing through an old, limp comic. He was wearing his new Nikes.

“I’ve got to meet somebody,” he called to Ismail. “And you should be getting back to the Outreach Center.”

“Yo, inaminute, cuz.”

One of McKennah’s personal secretaries had called earlier and asked if Pellam would like to attend the ceremony. He’d declined but agreed to stop by at nine; McKennah, it seemed, had a memento the developer thought Pellam might like. Pellam assumed it was something from historic Hell’s Kitchen, maybe unearthed when the foundation for the Tower had been dug. Pellam, die-hard Winnebago dweller, didn’t have much interest in collectibles. But he supposed there was also the chance it was a nice check – for blowing the whistle on Corcoran’s girlfriend or taking such stunning footage of the illegal daycare center.

He stood. “Let’s go, Ismail.”

The boy yawned. “I ain’t tired.”

“Time to go.”

The boy stretched and walked to Bailey, slapped his palm. “Yo, homes.”

“Holmes?” the perplexed lawyer asked. “Well, goodnight, Watson.”

Ismail frowned then said, “Later.”

“Yes, well. Later to you too, young man.”

Pellam and Ismail stepped out into the darkness of Thirty-sixth Street. The crowds were inside the tower by now and the limos were parked elsewhere. The sense of emptiness was strong, Bailey’s being the only remaining residential building between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. McKennah’s choice to build his castle here hadn’t magically turned this neighborhood into populated civilization.

Across the street the construction site itself was obscured by bunting and banners, which fluttered in the hot night breeze. It was dark, cordoned off. The only sound was the faint music from the theater.

“Empty, huh?” he asked.

“Whatcha say, cuz?”

“The street. Empty.”

“Straight up.” The boy yawned again.

They passed a large bulldozer, parked where Ettie’s building had stood.

“What’ll happen to the block now?” he mused.

Ismail shrugged. “Dunno. Who care?”

They walked toward the theater, where McKennah or his assistant was going to meet him. It was an attached building, not part of the Tower itself, and it rose eighty feet into the air above a sleek, glassy entranceway filled with marble and granite. A sort of Egyptian motif – colors were sand, maroon, green. The lobby was empty now; the festivities were underway.

As he passed the construction site surrounding the theater he peered at the landscaping. No grass had been planted yet but this evening the dirt was covered with AstroTurf and studded with redwood planters containing palms trees. Pellam paused.

“Whassup, Pellam?”

“You go on to the YOC, Ismail. I’ve got to meet somebody.”

“Naw,” he whined. “I’ma hang with you, cuz.”

“Uh-uh, time for bed.”

“Shit, Pellam.”

“Watch the language. Now get going.”

His round face grimaced. “Okay. Later, cuz.”

They slapped palms and the boy walked slowly east. The too-big basketball shoes flopped loudly as he reluctantly headed toward the uptown street. He looked back, waved.

Pellam slipped through a gap in the fence and walked over the spongy fake grass.

What is that?

He looked more closely at what he’d seen from the sidewalk: The workers had anchored the potted plants to the handles on the exit doors, looping heavy rope through them. He supposed this was to keep the locals from walking off with the vegetation.

But the effect of what they’d done was to tie the fire doors shut.

And to tie them shut pretty damn tight – with coils and coils of thick rope. Of the twenty emergency doors only one wasn’t tied closed. It was slightly ajar. From it came the mute sounds of applause and laughter and the solid thud of bass from the musicians. He walked to it and looked inside.

The doors didn’t open onto the theater itself but into a fire stairwell that, Pellam guessed, led up to the theater and the loge and the balconies. The corridor was dark, except for the bulbs in the exit signs glowing eerily. The interior doors were chocked open and he caught glimpses of red velvet seats and walls and maroon carpet.

Then something on the wall of the corridor caught his eye. Stepped closer. He saw that it was a rumpled sheet of paper – a map of the west side of Manhattan. It looked familiar and a moment later Pellam understood why. It was similar to the one they’d found after the fire in Bailey’s office. The one on which Sonny had marked all his fires.

Only on this map the last target wasn’t the Javits Center; it was McKennah Tower.

Suddenly Pellam’s eyes stung and he caught a whiff of astringent fumes. Like the cleanser in Bailey’s office several days ago. He remembered smelling it just before the light bulb exploded.

But of course it wasn’t cleanser at all. It was that homemade napalm. And here was its source, right in front of him: Four drums of the stuff. They lined the wall. The tops were off.

A noise behind him.

He turned abruptly.

The young blond man stood with his head cocked. A mad smile was on his face and his eyes danced in the reflected light from the Tower.

“Joe Buck,” he whispered, “Pellam, Pellam. I’m Sonny. It’s so nice to meet you at last.”

The Colt had already cleared Pellam’s belt and was half-cocked when Sonny swung the long wrench and connected with Pellam’s forearm. The bone gave with a crack and the blow was so hard it laid open a large patch of skin. Blood flew. And Pellam, eyes rolling back in his head, collapsed back into the tunnel, gasping, hitting his head on the side of an oil drum, which rang, muted, like a bell on a foggy day.

Sonny set aside the wrench and slipped Pellam’s gun into his waistband. Then, from his pockets, he took a pair of handcuffs.

And a cigarette lighter.