Hells Kitchen

notice. “The gas! The other line’s the one turned on.”
    Sonny smiled. When he’d seen the police cars in the reflection of the pump he’d dropped the open gas hose on the ground and grabbed the high-test hose—the one he’d dutifully hung up, as ordered. At least twenty gallons of gas had poured out onto the apron and was flowing toward the cops and their car, invisible on the black asphalt.
    In an split second, before a single officer could draw his gun, Sonny had his lighter out. He flicked it. A small flame burned on the end. He crouched down.
    “Okay, mister,” one cop said, holding up his hands. “Just put that down. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
    For a moment no one moved. But then, in a snap, they all knew it was coming. Maybe Sonny’s eyes, maybe his smile . . . maybe something else gave it away. The six cops turned, fleeing from the deadly pool.
    Sonny was on a dry patch of asphalt, though when he touched the flame to the flowing river of gasoline he leapt back fast, like a roach. The fireball was huge. He grabbed the container and fled.
    A huge whoosh as the flames swept under the police cars, igniting them. The fiery river continued past them, flowing down Houston Street, roaring, sending a black cloud rolling into the sky. Screams, horns, collisions, as cars stopped and backed away from the flames.
    Sonny got a half-block away and couldn’t help himself. He paused and turned to watch the chaos. He was at first disappointed that the main tank didn’t go up but then he grew philosophical and simply enjoyed the fire for what it was.
    Thinking:
    Fire is not energy but a creature that lives and grows and reproduces; it’s born and it dies. It can out-think anyone.
    Fire is the messenger of change.
    The sun is fire and the sun is not even particularly hot.
    Fire eats the dirt of men. Fire is the most blind justice.
    Fire points toward God.

SIXTEEN
    “Hey, mister, you got yourself a famous lawyer working for you. He sued the Port Authority and won. You ever hear of anybody suing the city and winning?”
    The man sitting at Louis Bailey’s desk rose the instant Pellam entered the room. It was the green-jacket handicapper from yesterday. The man with a lock.
    “Cleg, please,” Bailey said, self-effacing.
    “And tell him about the time you sued Rockefeller.”
    “Cleg.”
    The skinny guy seemed to have forgiven Pellam for not taking his tip about the horses. He said, “Rockefeller stole this guy’s invention and Louis took him to court. He caved too. Louis scared the bejeebers out of him. Hey, sir, you look like a cowboy. Anybody ever tell you that? You ever ride broncos? What is that exactly, a bronco? I just know about the O.J. one. The white truck, I mean.”
    “It’s an untamed horse,” Pellam said.
    “Well, how ’bout that,” Cleg said, astonished—a handicapper who’d just discovered a different kind of horse. He took more gear-greasing envelopes from Bailey and left the office.
    “He’s quite a fellow” was all that Pellam could offer.
    “You don’t know the half of it,” Bailey said ambiguously. Then he opened that morning’s paper. Slapped it. “Look at this.” The front page story was about a fire at a gas station in the Village. “That’s our boy.”
    “The pyro?” Pellam asked.
    “They’re pretty sure. Almost got him but he got away. Seriously injured two cops and three pedestrians. Almost a million dollars in damage.”
    Pellam examined the picture of the devastation.
    Bailey swallowed a mouthful of wine. “This is turning into a nightmare. There’s a public uproar. The Police Department and the Attorney General are under incredible pressure to get this guy. They think that he’s gone nuts. Like Ettie switched him on and he won’t shut off now. It’s become a citywide crusade to stop him.”
    Pellam bent wearily over the paper. There was a sidebar that included a map of Hell’s Kitchen. Tiny drawings of flames marked the spots of the fires. They were in a pattern, it seemed—a semicircular shape north of Ettie’s building.
    Bailey found a slip of paper, handed it to Pellam. “That’s the insurance agency where Ettie got the policy. The woman who sold it is a Florence Epstein.”
    “What’d she say?”
    Bailey looked at Pellam with a significance that escaped him completely.
    “I’m sorry?” Pellam tried.
    “I can’t talk to her. I’m Ettie’s attorney of record.”
    “Oh, I get it. But I can.”
    Bailey sighed. “Well, yes,