Hells Kitchen

delicious tripe with bacon and onions. And she could unreel stories about her own past and about her mother and grandmother like a natural actress, as if God gave her that gift to make up for others denied.
    And what would happen to her now?
    With a jolt the cab burst across Eighth Avenue, the Maginot Line bordering Hell’s Kitchen.
    Pellam glanced out the window as they passed a storefront, in whose window the word Bakery was painted over, replaced by: Youth Outreach Center—Clinton Branch.
    Clinton.
    This was a raw spot with longtime residents. The neighborhood to them was “Hell’s Kitchen” and would never be anything but. “Clinton” was what the city officials and public relations and real estate people called the ’hood. As if a name change could convince the public this part of town wasn’t a morass of tenements and gangs and smokey bodegas and hookers and pebbles ofcrack vials littering sidewalks but was the New Frontier for corporate headquarters and yuppie lofts.
    Remembering Ettie’s voice: “ You hear the story how this place got its name? The one they tell is a policeman down here, a long time ago, he says to another cop, ‘This place is hell.’ And the other one goes, ‘Hell’s mild compared to here. This’s hell’s kitchen.’ That’s the story, but that’s not how it happened. No sir. Where the name came from was it’s called after this place in London. What else in New York? Even the name of the neighborhood’s stolen from someplace else. ”
    “Look I am saying,” the cabbie broke into Pellam’s thoughts. “Same fucking thing fucking yesterday. And for weeks.”
    He was gesturing furiously at a traffic jam ahead of them. It seemed to be caused by the construction work going on across from the site of the fire—that high-rise nearing completion. Cement trucks pulled in and out through a chain-link gate, holding up traffic.
    “That building. I am wanting them to go fuck themselves. It has ruins fucking neighborhood. All of it.” He slapped the dashboard hard, nearly knocking over his royal orb air freshener.
    Pellam paid and climbed out of the cab, leaving the driver to his muttered curses. He walked toward the Hudson River.
    He passed dark, woody storefronts—Vinnie’s Fruits and Vegetables, Managro’s Deli, Cuzin’s Meats and Provisions, whose front window was filled with whole dressed animals. Booths of clothing and wooden stands filled with piles of spices and herbs packed the sidewalks. A store selling African goods advertised a sale on ukpor and ogbono. “ Buy now! ” it urged.
    Pellam passed Ninth Avenue and continued on to Tenth. He passed the shell of Ettie’s building, floating in a surreal grove of faint smoke, and continued on toward a scabby six-story, red-brick building on the corner.
    He paused in front of the handwritten sign in the grimy window of a ground floor apartment.
    Louis Bailey, Esq. Attorney at Law/Abogado. Criminal, Civil, Wills, Divorces, Personal Injuries. Motorcycle Accidents. Real Estate. Notary Public. Copies Made. Send Your Fax.
    Two window panes were missing. Yellow newspaper had replaced one. The other was blocked by a faded box of Post Toasties. Pellam stared at the decrepit building then checked to make sure he had the name right. He did.
    Send your fax. . . .
    He pushed inside.
    There was no waiting room, just a single large room of an apartment converted into an office. The place was jam-packed with papers, briefs, books, some bulky, antiquated office equipment—a dusty, feeble computer and a fax machine. A hundred law books, some of which were still sealed in their original, yellowing cellophane wrappers.
    A sign proclaimed NOTARY PUBLIC.
    The lawyer stood at his copier, feeding pages of legal documents through the wobbly machine. Hot sun came through the filthy windows; the room must have been a hundred degrees.
    “You Bailey?”
    His sweaty face turned. Nodded.
    “I’m John Pellam.”
    “Ettie’s friend. The writer.”
    “Filmmaker.” They shook hands.
    The portly man touched his coif of long gray hair, which was thinning reluctantly. He wore a white shirt and wide, emerald-colored tie. His gray suit was one size off in both directions—the pants too big, the jacket too small.
    “I’d like to talk to you about her case,” Pellam said.
    “It’s too hot in here.” Bailey stacked the copied papers on the desk and wiped his forehead. “The A.C.’s misbehaving. How about we retire to my other office? I’ve