Hells Kitchen

but . . .”
    “But what?”
    “You know, sometimes . . . well, with that black outfit of yours, you look a little intimidating. And you don’t smile a lot.”
    “I’ll be charm itself,” Pellam said. “As long as she’s not lying.”
    “If there’s any hint of intimidation . . .”
    “Do I look like the sort who intimidates?”
    Bailey was suddenly very uncomfortable and he changed the subject. “Here. I went to the library.” He set some clippings down in front of Pellam.
    “You went yourself? You didn’t bribe some librarian to bring them to you?”
    “Ha.” Bailey was too busy wrestling the seal off a new wine bottle to smile. “Some back-grounders about Roger McKennah.”
    Pellam shuffled through the clippings.
    Business Week offered:
    The best part of the prior decade for McKennah was the late eighties—when the market cindered, the boom went bust and careers ‘Chappaquidicked’ (a popular McKennahism) throughout Wall Street. Yet that was when he had shone the brightest.
    New York magazine:
     . . . Roger McKennah, the self-confessed megalomaniac, marched into third-world sections of the New York metro area and strewed them with affordable (and profitable) housing projects. He is also credited with revitalizing real estate investment trusts and with prying a good portion of midtown out of foreign hands and returning it to local developers. Notable for his wit as well as his lifestyle and business acumen, it was McKennah who coined the term “vulturing”—spotting deals going bad and grabbing them out from under receivers and trustees.
    From baroquely metaphorical People:
    Anyone—a Trump, a Zeckendorf, a Helmsley—could ride the crest of prosperity. But only a genius like Roger McKennah dared answer the call of ‘surf’s up’ when the only place to hang ten was in the tunnel of the wave.
    Pellam put the articles aside.
    “Makes him greedy and smart but hardly an arsonist,” Bailey commented.
    “Then I better tell you about my date last night.”
    “The party at his place?”
    “The caviar was a bit too warm. But I had champagne with his wife.”
    Bailey was delighted. Fraternizing with the enemy was probably an important technique for gear-cloggers. “And?”
    “She wants to sink him like the Titanic.”
    Pellam told the lawyer about McKennah’s clandestine meetings and the calls to and from the law firm.
    “Pillsbury, Millbank?” Bailey asked.
    “I’m pretty sure that’s what she said.
    Bailey pulled a huge volume of Martindale Hubbell Lawyers Directory off his shelf and flipped it open. He found a listing of the firm. He read carefully, nodding. “I think I can get to somebody there.”
    Can get.
    Pellam was reaching for his wallet.
    “Not this time. I’ve got another idea. Oh, and I’ve got more good news. Something I forgot to tell you. A friend of mine has a friend who plays cards with a senior fire marshal. There’s a poker game tonight and my buddy’s going to get his buddy to lose big and pour a bottle of Macallan scotch very freely. We’ll get some inside dope on the case.”
    “How old?”
    “How old what?” Bailey asked.
    “Is the Macallan?”
    “I don’t know. Twelve years probably. Maybe older.”
    “I’m thinking, Louis,” Pellam said. “Maybe I’ll do a documentary about you. I’ll call it Greasing Gears. Say, did you really sue Rockefeller?”
    “Oh, well, yes, I did,” Bailey gazed modestly down at his desk. Then he shrugged. “But it wasn’t one of the Rockefellers.”
    *   *   *
    The footsteps were close behind him and moving in closer.
    Pellam spun around, his hand slipping into the small of his back, where the Colt rested, heavy and hot, against his spine.
    He looked down.
    “Yo, cuz. Where you been?” Ismail was grinning, hands on his scrawny hips. Sweating furious but still in his beloved African National Congress windbreaker.
    “Around, and you?”
    “Yo, you got a gun. You carryin’!”
    “No I’m not.”
    “Yo. You be! You was reaching for yo’ piece. Lemme see it, Pellam. Whatchu got? You got a Glock, you got a Brownin’? A trey five-seven? Man, I want a Desert Eagle. Blow yo’ ass to kingdom come. Fucker be fifty caliber.”
    “I was reaching for my wallet. I figured you were a mugger.”
    “I ain’t jack you, cuz.” Ismail looked genuinely hurt.
    “Where’ve you been?” Pellam asked him.
    “Flaggin’ and saggin’. You know.”
    Pellam laughed. “Your jeans aren’t hanging down to