Hells Kitchen

attractive. The redhead wasby far the sexier and more voluptuous. The brunette had a colder face and she seemed distracted, almost bored.
    “In about five minutes, Roger’ll disappear upstairs. That’s where the bedrooms are. Five minutes after that, one of those women will follow. Which one do you think it’ll be?”
    “Does he know either of them?”
    “Probably not. You on?”
    Pellam studied the redhead: The extreme V of her neckline, revealing the upper slope of white breasts. Hair tumbling around her shoulders. A seductive smile. And freckles. Pellam loved freckles.
    “The redhead,” he said, thinking: Eight months, eight months. Eight goddamn months.
    The woman laughed. “You’re wrong.”
    “What’re we betting?”
    “A glass of our host’s champagne. As Mark Twain also said, it’s always better to gamble with somebody else’s money than your own.”
    They tapped glasses.
    Her name was Jolie and it seemed that she was unaccompanied. He followed her to the window in the corner of the room, where it was quieter.
    “You’re John Pellam.”
    He gave a perplexed smile.
    “I heard somebody mention your name.”
    Who? he wondered. It didn’t seem likely that the Word on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen would rise all the way into this stratosphere.
    “I saw one of your films,” she said. “About an alchemist. It was very good. I can’t say I completely understood it. But that’s a compliment.”
    “Is it?” he asked, looking at her steady, green eyes.
    She continued. “Think about Kubrick’s 2001. It’s not a very good movie. So why did it endure? The Blue Danube with the space ship? Anybody could’ve thought of that. The monkeys beating each other up? No. Special effects? Of course not. It was the ending. Nobody knew what the hell it was about. We forget the obvious. We remember the uncertain.”
    He laughed. “I do love my ambiguity,” Pellam said, eyes on McKennah. “So, okay, I’ll consider it a compliment.”
    “Are you making a film here?”
    “Yes,” he answered.
    Across the room McKennah glanced around, trying to look casual, then trotted up the stairs.
    Maybe he was just going to take a pee, Pellam thought. They hadn’t considered the contingency of a draw. Pellam didn’t care; he was enjoying her company. Jolie had a V -shaped neckline that held its own with the redhead’s very admirably. Pellam even thought he saw a few freckles where the white flesh disappeared beneath black sequins.
    “What’s it about?” Jolie asked. “Your new film?”
    “It’s not a feature. It’s a documentary. About Hell’s Kitchen.”
    “That fire’s an interesting metaphor, isn’t it?” She nodded out the window. There was a faint smile on her face. “It’d be a good motif for your film.” She added cryptically, “Whatever it’s really about.”
    “How do you know McKennah?” he asked. Then the words registered: Really about . . .
    Across the room the sullen brunette stubbed out a cigarette and, lifting her slinky skirt a few inches,looked around discreetly. She climbed the stairs in the tracks of the developer.
    “Good guess,” Pellam said.
    “Wasn’t a guess,” Jolie responded. “I know my husband pretty well. Now get me the champagne you owe me. Get one for yourself too. Then let’s go in there and drink it.” She nodded toward a small den off the main room. And smiled as the piano player launched into Stormy Weather.
    *   *   *
    “You know, one of our cleaning ladies sells what she finds in our trash cans to the government. IRS, SEC. Competitors, too, I’m sure. Roger has fun putting phoney info in the trash along with Tampax wrappers and condoms.”
    “The IRS pays for that?” Pellam asked.
    “Yep.”
    “So that’d be my tax dollars at work?” Pellam asked.
    “You don’t really pay tax, do you?” she seemed surprised. “If you do I’ll give you the name of my accountant.”
    They sat in the teak-paneled den, the sounds of the party and the music filtering through the walls. Pellam picked up a picture of McKennah with his arm around a large Mickey Mouse.
    “A few years ago,” Jolie said, entranced by the frantic bubbles in her champagne, “he was really into Euro Disney. He took a bad hit there. I told him it was a bad idea. I just couldn’t see French people wearing big black ears.”
    “Why are you so cool about what just happened? With your husband?”
    “You’re from Hollywood, I assume you know the difference between being