Hells Kitchen

Roger . . . all I can say is he’s become a stranger. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He’s just not the same man I married. I will tell you he’s been going out a couple times a week. At night. He’s never done that before—I’m mean, not without telling me. And he’s never lied to me about it. He’ll get a phone call then leave.”
    “You know who’s calling?”
    “I did that star 69 thing on the phone. To dial back the call that just came in? It was a law firm. Not one that I’ve ever heard of before.”
    “What was the name?”
    “Pillsbury, Millbank & Hogue,” she said. Pellam heard an edge in the woman’s otherwise controlled voice. It quavered. She continued. “The chauffeur drops him off on Ninth Avenue and Fiftieth. He meets someone, some man. The meetings are secret.”
    “The chauffeur,” Pellam asked delicately, “could he be more informative?”
    “He’d be willing to,” she said. “But Roger makes sure he leaves after he drops him off.”
    Pellam jotted down the name of the firm and the address.
    She said, “You know, he has good qualities. He gives money to charities.”
    So presumably do some serial killers. At least those who need write-offs.
    Jolie took his glass from the table and sipped it. Hers was empty. Pellam said, “What you just told me could cost him a lot. And it could cost you a lot too.”
    “Me?”
    “The divorce? Isn’t he going to be paying you a settlement, alimony?”
    Laughter. “You dear man, why you really do pay taxes, don’t you? Let’s just say, I’ve looked out for myself. Whatever happens to Roger won’t affect me in any fiscal way.”
    Pellam glanced down at her taut, tanned skin. Eight months. A hell of a long time.
    “To another time, another place,” she said, lifting the glass.
    He remained at the window for a moment, gazing at the radiant buildings of Manhattan, then stepped toward the door, while outside, reflected in the window, Pellam’s angel also turned, lowered his ghostly arms and faded into the night above the city.
    *   *   *
    Fire points up not down.
    Fire climbs, it doesn’t fall.
    Sonny gazed at the map.
    The hospital had been a good fire, not a great fire. Too many good citizens were vigilant. Too many cops, too many fire marshals. Looking and poking. Everybody ready to dial nine-one-one. Everybody ready to shoot carbon dioxide from extinguishers.
    They all took this so fucking seriously.
    He was distracted too—by thoughts of the Antichrist cowboy, Pellam. Sonny thought he saw him everywhere. In shadows, in alleys. He’s after me. . . .
    He’s the reason I’m sweating. He’s the reason my hands shake.
    Sweat poured from Sonny’s brow and soaked his hair. Usually the shade of pale citrus, the strands today weredark with moisture. His breath came fast and occasionally his tongue would protrude like a pink eel and dampen a parched lip.
    A movie theater was next on his list. He’d debated about whether to burn a faggot porno theater or a regular theater. He decided on a regular one.
    First, though, he needed some more supplies. Arsonist are lucky because, unlike bombers or snipers, the tools of their trade are completely legal. Still, they have to be careful and Sonny alternated the places where he bought his ingredients, never showing up at the same gas station more frequently than once a month or so. But Manhattan had surprisingly few gas stations—they were mostly in Jersey or on Long Island—and, because he had no car, he could only shop at those stations within walking distance of his apartment.
    He was now on his way to the East Village, to a station he hadn’t been to for more than a year. It was a long walk and would be an even longer walk back with the five gallons of gas. But he was afraid to tempt fate by making a purchase any closer to home.
    He thought about how many jars of his juice he’d need for a movie theater.
    Just one probably.
    Sometimes Sonny would crouch for hours outside a building and try to decide how he could burn it down most efficiently. He was very thin, excruciatingly thin, and when he squatted outside Grand Central Station, say, playing the how-many-jars game, people would drop coins at his feet, thinking he was homeless and had AIDS or just thinking That man is so damn thin and all the time he’d have a thousand dollars in his pocket, befit as a fiddle and was merely squatting on the curb enjoying his fantasy about razing the baroque station with as few fires as