Hells Kitchen

lived in L.A.; he recognized a crew insignia when he saw one.
    Pellam asked, “ Habla inglés? ”
    The man looked down into the bag. Keeping the automatic trained on Pellam’s chest he bent down and lifted the Betacam partially out.
    “Appreciate your leaving that alone. It’s—”
    “Shut up.”
    The man didn’t find the Colt. He lowered the camera, stood up.
    “You’re a Cubano Lord,” Pellam said.
    He was as tall as Pellam. Most Latinos he knew were shorter. “I’ve been looking for you,” Pellam said.
    “Me?”
    “One of you.”
    “Why?”
    “To have a talk.”
    His eyebrows twitched in surprise. “You talking now.”
    “I’m doing a film on Hell’s Kitchen. I want to talk to some of the people in gangs. Or is it a club?”
    “The other day, what you doing?”
    “The other day?”
    “What you looking for? Talking to people? On the street here. You taking pictures. What you do that for?”
    Pellam remained silent.
    The young man let a disgusted sigh ease from his lungs. “You gonna say we did it? You gonna say we torch that building?”
    “I’m making a film. I—”
    The terse young man’s brows nestled closer. “There a TV news show here. In the city. Latino station. You never hear of it, I know. They slogan is ‘ Primero con la verdad. ’ You believe in that? Is la verdad siempre primero with you? The truth?” Arms crossed again, he lifted a hand to his chin and with a callous thumb rubbed a short, deep scar below his mouth. “You some kind of reporter? You some kind of Geraldo?”
    Pellam nodded toward the cobblestoned alley. “This where you play basketball? Have bake sales? Pony rides for the kids? All those things a club does?”
    “What’re you asking me, man?”
    “I heard some of your boys were hanging out here just before the fire.”
    “You heard . . . So that make it true? A white man say los Cubanos burn down a building, so it true. A black man say it, so it true.” Pellam didn’t answer and he continued, “You no think this old nigger lady do it. You think I do it. Why? ’Cause you like niggers more’n you like spics.”
    Pellam didn’t think more anger could be inside the young man but more anger now flooded his face. He shifted his weight on expensive running shoes and Pellam wondered if he was going to shoot. He glanced sideways for a place to roll. Wondered if he could get to his Colt in time. Decided he couldn’t.
    Make the call—apologize or get tough?
    Pellam frowned, leaned forward. He spat back, “I’m here to do a job. You don’t want to answer my questions, that’s your damn business. But I’m not interested in any fucking lectures.”
    The dark eyes narrowed suddenly.
    I’m gonna get shot. Hell. Should’ve kissed ass. Knew it.
    But the man didn’t pull the trigger. And he didn’t pistol-whip him either—the second option, Pellam’d figured.
    He put the gun away and walked around the front of Ettie’s building, gesturing Pellam after him. He ducked under the police line and walked up the stairs to what was left of the tiny entryway. Pellam dug the Colt out of the bag and slipped it into the back waistband of his jeans. He lifted the bag and walked out to the sidewalk.
    With a booted foot the young Latino was kicking in the shattered front door of Ettie’s building. He shouldered his way inside, filthying his T-shirt on the charred wood. Pellam heard breaking glass and loud crashes. The man returned a minute later with a rectangle ofmetal. He tossed it to Pellam, who caught the heavy frame. It was the building directory. With a long finger the Cubano Lord tapped a name. C. Ramirez. “She my aunt. Okay? She live there with two niños. My mother’s sister! Okay? You figure it out? I’m not gonna burn down no building my family living in.
    “And you wanna know something else? That lady, my aunt Carmella, she see one of Jimmy Corcoran’s micks drop the hammer on some guy last month and she testify against him. He up in Attica now and Jimmy, he no so happy about what she say. How you like that story, my friend? You like the truth now? The truth about a white mick? Now, get outta here. Get outta the Kitchen.”
    “Who’s that? Corcoran? Jimmy Corcoran?”
    The man wiped the sweat off his forehead. “You go back to you news station, you go back and tell them the Cubano Lords, they no do this kind of shit!”
    “I’m not a reporter.”
    “So now you no have to talk to me. You know la verdad. ”
    Pellam asked, “Your