Hell's Kitchen

Ramirez knocked on the door to a ground floor apartment and, when there was no answer, unlocked and pushed it open. He let Pellam precede him.

The apartment was large and comfortable, filled with new furniture. A couch was still in its plastic wrapping. In the kitchen were stacks of cases of food and bags of rice. One bedroom was filled with five sheet-covered mattresses. The other bedroom was packed with cartons of liquor and cigarettes. Pellam didn’t bother to ask where the merchandise had come from.

“So, you want a Dos, Tecate?”

“Dos.”

Ramirez took two beers from the fridge. Rested them against the counter, cracked the tops off with a single blow from his palm. Passed one to Pellam, who drank down nearly half.

The room was sweltering. There were two air conditioners in the front and back windows but they weren’t ru

Ramirez found a shoe box sitting on a table in the kitchen. He took out a pair of athletic shoes and began lacing them up. They were similar to the pair he’d given to Ismail the other day. “Hey, man. Take one.”

“What’s the penalty for receiving stolen?” Pellam asked.

“Fuck, I found ’em.” He bounced, looking down with approval.

“I’m not the ru

“No, you the cowboy-boot type. Man, why you wear those fucking boots? They no hurt you feet? So, what you doing here, Pellam? Why you come visit me?”

“I’m leaving town,” Pellam said. “Came to get my gun.”

“I hear, that moyeta, she say she do it. Man, she your friend. That gotta be tough for you. But nobody oughta burn the old places here. That no good.”

Ramirez was getting the shoelaces even, the tautness just right. He stood slowly, savoring the feel of the shoes. He bounced on his toes again then came down on his heels. He feinted right then left then leapt into a layup, his fingers knocking flakes of white paint off the ceiling.

Pellam noticed a hand-lettered sign on the wall next to a poster advertising a Corvette, on which a bikini-clad model reclined.

Your standing in the Crib of the Cubano Lords.

Either you be a Friend or you be fucked.

Ramirez followed his eyes. He said, “Yeah, yeah. You go

“No, I’m go

“You play basketball?” Ramirez asked.

“A little.”

Pellam’s last games had been one-on-one against a man in a wheelchair and Pellam lost six, won two. It was a shame he wasn’t going to have a chance to play with Ismail; he probably could’ve beaten the boy.

“I go down to the Village today, play half-court. Some big moyetos down there. Man, those niggers, they can play… You come with me.”

“Thanks but I’m out of here,” Pellam said.

“For good, you mean?”

Nodding. “Picking up my truck and heading back to the Coast. Need some work. Got some people I owe money to go

“You want me to talk to ’em? I can-”

Pellam wagged a finger. “Uh-uh.”

Ramirez shrugged, lifted the corner of the linoleum in the kitchen and pulled up a floorboard. He lifted out Pellam’s Colt and tossed it to him. “Man, you crazy, carry that old thing. I’ll get you a nice Taurus. That a sweet piece. You like that. Bam, bam, bam. A man need a fifteen-shot clip nowadays.”

“I don’t have as much of a call for one as you do.”

As he replaced the flooring Ramirez said, “I no watch TV much but I turn on you movie, Pellam, when it come on. When that go

“I’ll let you know,” Pellam muttered.

The door pushed open and a young Latino man stepped inside, gazing suspiciously at Pellam. He walked over to Ramirez and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and his young associate left.

Pellam started toward the door. Ramirez said, “Hey, maybe you don’t wa

“Who is he?”

“My brother.” He nodded after the young man who’d just left.

“News?”

“Yeah. You wa

“I know who broke in. The pyro. The kid who got burnt up. I figured I must’ve got him on tape when I was shooting the building the day after the fire.”

Ramirez bounced again on his pristine shoes and shook his head. “You wrong man. You dead wrong.”

“Yo, cuz.”

“Hey, Ismail.”

Pellam stood in front of the Youth Outreach Center. The air was hot, dusty, filled with a glaring shaft of sunlight reflected off a nearby building.

“Wassup, homes?”

“Not much,” Pellam answered. “Wassup with you?”

“Hangin’, you know how it is. Whatchu got there?”

“A present.”

“All right, cuz.” The boy stared at the large shopping bag with huge eyes. Pellam handed it to him. The boy opened it up and pulled out the basketball. “Yo, you all right, Pellam! This be fine! Yo, homes, lookit!”

Two other young boys, a little older, came over and admired the ball. They passed it back and forth.

“How is it here?” Pellam nodded at the YOC storefront.

“Ain’t so bad. They don’t dis you so much. But what it is they make you sit an’ listen to these hatters, like priests and counselors, don’t know shit. They tell you stuff. Talking at you, wearing yo’ ear off, axing you things they don’t know ’bout.” He offered an adult shrug. “But, fuck, that life, ain’t it?”

Pellam couldn’t argue with that.

“An’, man, that Carol bitch,” he whispered, looking around. “Don’t go messing with her. She ax me why I be comin’ in at three this morning. Give me all kindsa shit. I tell that bitch what she can do.”

“Did you now?”

“Hell’s yeah… Well, I tried. But there ain’t no talking to that woman, cuz.”

“Why were you out at three a.m.?”

“I was-”

“Just hangin’.”

“That straight, Pellam.” He said to his homies, “Let’s get a game up.” They disappeared toward an alley, happy as ten-year-old boys the world over.

Pellam pushed through the squeaking door.

Carol looked up at him from the desk. Her wan smile faded as soon as she saw his expression.

“Hi,” she said.

“Howdy.”

“Sorry I’ve been so hard to get a hold of,” she said. “We’ve been busy as hell here.” The words were leaden.

Silence. Motes of dust floated between them. Amoeba, caught in the brutal light.

“All right,” she said at last. “I didn’t call because I got scared. It’s been a long time since I got involved with somebody. And my history with men hasn’t been so great.”

Pellam crossed his arms. He looked down at what Carol was working on, a stack of papers. Government forms. They seemed overwhelmingly dense and complicated.

Carol sat back in her chair. “This isn’t about that, is it?”

“No.”

“So?”

“I just heard a few things I was curious about.”

“Such as?”

“The day of the fire you were asking about me.”

The Word. On the street.

“Hey, cute guy, wearing cowboy boots. Sure, I was asking.” She laughed but she couldn’t bring the levity off. Her hands rose to her pearl necklace then continued up to her glasses and compulsively kneaded the taped joint on the frame.

Pellam said, “You found out where I lived. And you broke into my apartment the morning I stayed over. While I was asleep in your bed.”

Carol was nodding. Not to agree or protest or to convey any message at all. It was a reflex. She looked around. Set her pen down. Her face was a grim mask as she considered something. “Can we go upstairs? It’s more private.”

They walked to the elevator. Inside, Carol leaned against the car wall, looking somber. She glanced down and brushed absently at some dust that marred the stalwart Latin word for truth on her sweatshirt.