Hell's Kitchen

THIRTY

Pellam’s first thought: There’s no pain. Why doesn’t it hurt?

It’s loose. My arm’s loose…

Blood flowed from the gash on his arm.

Sonny, a caste mark in Pellam’s blood on his forehead, bent down, fishing in his pocket. He emerged with a small silver key for the cuffs. His hands shook. His wispy hair floated around his head like water.

Why no pain? Pellam thought, staring at his shattered arm.

“If you’re wondering who was in that lawyer’s office,” the crazy young man said matter-of-factly. “That was your friend Alex. The snitch-bitch. Wheeled him from my place in an oil drum – bent him nearly double. Now that was an unpleasant trip for him, I’ll bet. And left him under the tanning lamp. Had to get all you faggot cowboys off my back.” He opened one latch on the cuff.

Sonny nodded toward the theater. “This’ll be the last one. Come on, front row seat.” Sonny grabbed Pellam by the collar and pulled him to his feet. “We’re going out together, Joe Buck, fucking Antichrist… You, me and about five thousand other good folk.”

He kicked an oil drum over and the soapy liquid flowed through the corridor and into the theater itself. The second drum followed.

“This is my juice,” he said matter of factly. “I invented it myself. See, you couldn’t do this with gas alone. Gas is shitty. Low flashpoint, big flare, cool fire, and then it’s over with. I knew this pyro one time…” Sonny began to unlatch the second ring of the cuff. His hands shook badly. He paused, inhaled deeply. While it nauseated Pellam the smell of the liquid seemed to calm Sonny down. He began working on the cuff again. He continued. “He used gasoline. Thought he was soooo cool. One time he had this job on the third floor of an old tenement. He takes two five-gallon cans up, douses the place and breaks a lightbulb so when the guy comes in and flicks on the light up he goes. Then he starts going through the guy’s drawers, looking for jewelry or something. What he doesn’t realize is that gas vapors’re heavier than air and while he’s fucking around upstairs the gas fumes are flowing down to the basement. Where there’s… guess what? Ta-dah… A pilot light in the water heater. I think they found part of his skeleton.

Pellam choked. There was probably a hundred gallons of liquid flowing into the building. Pellam remembered what Lomax had told him about the Happy Land fire. A mere gallon of gas had turned the place into an inferno.

“Let’s go, Midnight Cowboy.” Sonny touched Pellam’s shattered arm. The bone shifted and, at last, a searing jolt of pain shot up into Pellam’s shoulder and neck and face. In pure reaction he lashed out with his left palm, catching Sonny in the jaw. It was a weak blow but it caught the young man by surprise and he stepped back a few feet.

“You shit.” He shoved Pellam against the wall.

On his knees Pellam scooped up a handful of the napalm, splashing it into Sonny’s face. It missed his eyes but splashed on his mouth and nose and he stumbled backwards, screaming in pain. He dropped the cigarette lighter, which Pellam grabbed. He started for the young man. But Sonny was madly pulling the Colt from his belt.

“Why did you do that?” he cried. He sounded incredulous. His cheek was bright red. His mouth was swollen. But his eyes were clear and brimmed with madness. He lifted the pistol, pulled the trigger.

Pellam turned and stumbled through the door.

Sonny wouldn’t have realized that the gun was single action. You had to cock it before you could shoot. In the delay Pellam staggered outside and shouted for help.

There might’ve been a person at the end of the block, looking toward him. He wasn’t sure. He tried to wave with his good arm but felt the gritty kiss of the ends of the broken bone in his other. Nearly fainted. Pellam shouted again but in his haze he couldn’t tell if the person – if anyone was actually there – heard or noticed him.

Sonny spit the chemical from his mouth and followed. Glancing back, Pellam had an image of a white face, slits of blue eyes, the white hand holding the black pistol. White hair, dancing like smoke.

Oh, man, that hurts. He gripped his arm tighter and stepped into the middle of the street.

The twin eyes of a car flicked toward him. The vehicle approached and then paused. Choosing not to see him, the driver stared ahead with the uncomfortable distraction of someone late for a dinner party and sped on.

Pellam continued away from the theater, back toward the Tower itself.

A wave of pain flowed through him. Sweat flowed. Every jar of his boots multiplied the agony. He wanted to pause, just catch his breath.

Don’t stop. Keep going.

A glance behind. Sonny was stumbling too but he was gaining on him. Pellam assumed he’d figured out how the gun worked. In a minute or so he’d be close enough to shoot. Pellam ran through an alley toward the back of the Tower, speeding over glints from bits of foil and bottles and syringes. Crack vials. The sparkle of ground glass smoothed into asphalt.

The blond man’s feet sounded behind him.

Crack.

A bullet shattered the window of a deserted tenement.

Another shot.

Somebody might hear and call the police.

But no, of course not. Who’d pay any attention? This was just the soundtrack to an average night in Hell’s Kitchen. Ignore it.

Keep walking, eyes down, people would be telling themselves.

Stay away from the window.

Come back to bed, lover…

It’s a white man’s world…