Hells Kitchen

‘He wasn’t in any pain,’ or ‘He went quickly,’ but of course he had no idea how much pain the boy had experienced or how quickly he’d died.
    Finally she glanced at his unsmiling face. “I saw you in court. When you heard ’bout that time I got myself arrested. . . . You want to know about that, I’ll bet.”
    “What happened?”
    “Remember the time Priscilla Cabot and me were working at that factory? The clothing place?”
    “They fired you. A few years ago.”
    “It was a desperate time for me, John. My sister’d been sick. And I didn’t have any money at all. I was beside myself. Anyway, this man Priscilla and I worked with, we all got laid off together and he had this idea to scare the company so they’d pay us money. We figured we were owed it, you know. Hell, I went along with ’em.Shouldn’t’ve. Didn’t really want to. But the long and short of it was they called up the owner and said his trucks were going to get wrecked if he didn’t pay us. We weren’t really going to do anything. At least, I wasn’t. And I didn’t know they threatened to burn them. I didn’t call; they did, Priscilla and this man.
    “Anyway, the boss, he agreed but he called the police and we all got arrested and the other two said it was my idea. Well, the police didn’t believe I was the ringleader but I did get arrested and I spent some time in jail. I’m not proud of it. I’m pretty ashamed. . . . I’m sorry, John. I didn’t tell you the truth ’bout that. I should’ve.”
    “There’s no reason for you to tell me everything about yourself.”
    “No, John. We were friends too. I shouldn’ta lied. Shoulda told Louis too. Didn’t help in court any.”
    Near them someone laughed hysterically, the sound rising higher and higher until it became a faint scream. Then silence.
    “You’ve got your secrets; I do too,” Pellam said. “I’ve kept some things from you.”
    She looked at him closely. City life gives you a quick eye. “What is it, John?”
    He was debating.
    “Something you want to tell me, isn’t there?” she asked.
    Finally he said, “Manslaughter.”
    “What?”
    “I did time for manslaughter.”
    Her eyes grew still. It was a story that he had no interest to tell, no desire to relive. But he thought it was important to share it with her. And tell it he did—the story about the star of Pellam’s last feature film—theone never completed (the four canisters of film were sitting at the moment in his attic back in California). Central Standard Time. Tommy Bernstein, lovable, crazy, out of control. Only six setups left to shoot, four second-unit stunt gags. A week. Only a week. “Just give me a little, John. Just to get me through wrap.”
    But Pellam hadn’t given him a little. Pellam had given him a lot and the man had stayed up in his coke-induced frenzy for two days straight. Railing, laughing, drinking, puking. He died of a heart attack on the set. And the City of Angels’ District Attorney chose to go after Pellam in a big way for supplying the cocaine that caused it. He was the guilty party, the D.A. claimed, and the jury agreed, bestowing on Pellam a conviction and some time in San Quentin.
    “I am sorry, John.” She laughed. “Isn’t that a stitch? You, me and Billy Doyle. We’re all three of us jailbirds.” She squinted again. “You know who you remind me of? My son James.”
    Pellam had seen pictures of the young man. Ettie’s oldest son, her only child by Doyle. Photographed in his early twenties, he was light-skinned—Doyle had been very pale—and handsome. Lean. James had dropped out of school several years ago and gone out west to make money. The last word from him was a card saying the young man was going to work in the “environmental field.”
    That had been over a decade ago.
    The guard glanced at her watch and Pellam whispered, “We don’t have much time. I’ve got to ask you a few questions. Now, that insurance policy they claim you bought had your checking account number on it and your signature on it. How’d somebody get them?”
    “My checking account? Well, I don’t know. Nobody’s got my account number that I know ’bout.”
    “Have you lost any checks lately?”
    “No.”
    “Who do you write checks to?”
    “I don’t know . . . I pay my bills like everybody. Mama put that in me. Never let ’em get the edge on you, she always said. Pay on time. If you’ve got the money.”
    “You written any checks to somebody you