Hell's Kitchen

“She said she got one letter from him,” Pellam said. “There was no return address but the postmark was from the general post office – on Eighth Avenue. That’s why I came to the city – to find him. Or at least to find out about him. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to meet him or not. I did some digging in public records and found his wedding license application.”

“To me?”

“To you. And your marriage certificate. It gave the address of the old tenement on Thirty-Sixth.”

“The one we lived in after we got married, sure. Got torn down a few years ago.”

“I know. I asked around the neighborhood and found out that Billy was long gone and that you’d moved up the street. To the 458 building.”

“And you came a-calling. With that camera of yours. Why didn’t you say anything to me, John?”

“I was going to. But then I found out that he’d run out on you. I figured it was the last thing you’d want to do, spend any time talking to me.”

She squinted and looked at his face. “That’s why you remind me of James.”

When Ettie had told him about her son a month ago, Pellam realized he’d have to spend some time getting used to the idea that he was no longer an only child. He had a sibling, a half-brother.

Ettie, she squeezed his arm. “That Billy Doyle… Let’s see, my husband and your father. What’s that make us, you and me, John?”

“Orphans,” Pellam suggested.

“I was never one to chase after a man. When he left I never thought about going after him. Never looked for him. But I’m curious.” A coy smile. “You ever get any clue where he might’ve gone off to?”

Pellam shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve tried all the recorders of deeds in the area. No trace.”

“He talked about going back to Ireland. Maybe he did, who knows?” She added, “There are some of his old friends still around. I see ’em sometimes in some of the taverns. We could maybe talk to some of them if you want. They might’ve heard from him.”

He’d have to think about that. He couldn’t decide. He looked out the window and saw gray and brown and buff tenements next to squat warehouses next to shimmering high-rises next to the blackened bones of razed buildings.

West of Eighth…

It occurred to Pellam that Hell’s Kitchen was in some ways just like his search for Billy Doyle: failure not wholly disappointing, hope not wholly desired.

The white apparition of the Southern nurse who’d tended Ettie last week floated into the room and told Ettie she probably ought to leave.

“He’s lookin’ a bit tuckered out,” she said with that rasping Texas drawl of hers. Pellam thought she had freckles but his vision was still pretty blurry. She said. “Honey, don’t you feel like restin’ for a bit??”

“Not really,” Pellam said. Or thought he did. Maybe not. His eyes closed and the glass drooped in his hand. He felt it being taken away, smelled a breath of floral perfume, and then surrendered to sleep.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Readers interesed in oral histories of Manhattan and unable to find John Pellam’s documentary, West of Eighth, at their local video stores might wish to read Jeff Kisseloff’s You Must Remember This. This excellent oral history of Manhattan contains a section on Hell’s Kitchen, which Pellam found immensely helpful in researching his own book (as did I in writing this one). Pellam also keeps Luc Sante’s Low Life and Studs Terkel’s Talking to Myself on his bookshelf in his Wi

About the Author

Jeffery Deaver is an internationally best-selling author of thirteen suspense novels. He’s been nominated for four Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America and an Anthony Award and is a two-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Reader’s Award for Best Short Story of the Year. His book A Maiden’s Grave was made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel The Bone Collector is a feature release from Universal Pictures, staring Denzel Washington. His latest books are The Empty Chair and Speaking In Tongues. He lives in Virginia and California. Readers can visit his website at www.jefferydeaver.com.