Hells Kitchen

muttered, “but nobody better be dissing me, you know what I’m saying?”
    “Nobody’ll dis you here,” Carol said.
    He looked at Pellam with eerily adult eyes and said, “Later, cuz.”
    “Later.”
    He disappeared into the back, pushing through the door like a wild west gunfighter.
    Carol laughed. “So what’re you doing out on these mean streets? Aside from playing social worker.” She glanced down at her Harvard sweatshirt, brushed some dust off with her pudgy fingers. The gesture made her seem both strong and vulnerable at the same time.
    “Just walking around. Looking for camera angles. Looking for people to talk to. You hear anything from Alex?”
    “Nothing, sorry. He hasn’t been back, nobody’s seen him. I asked around.”
    Neither of them said anything for a minute. A teenage girl, very pregnant, walked through the lobby, cradling a stuffed Barney dinosaur toy in her arms.
    Carol poked her glasses up on her nose and exchanged a few words with the girl. When she was gone, Pellam asked the social worker, “You interested in another cup of politically incorrect coffee?”
    A brief hesitation. Pellam thought she was pleasantly surprised. But it might have been something else.
    “Well, sure.”
    “If you’re busy . . .”
    “No. Just let me change. Give me two minutes? I was schlepping boxes around all day,” she added apologetically, shaking dust off her sleeves again.
    “No problem.”
    She vanished into the backroom. A young Latino woman appeared, nodded to Pellam and took over desk duty.
    Carol appeared a few moments later; a loose green blouse had replaced her sweatshirt and black stretch pants, the jeans. She wore short black boots, instead of the Nikes. The woman at the desk glanced at the outfit with surprise and muttered a indiscernible response when Carol said she’d be back later.
    Outside she asked, “You mind if we stop by my apartment? It’s only four blocks. I forgot to feed Homer this morning.”
    “Cat, boa constrictor or boyfriend?”
    “Siamese. I named him Homer Simpson. No, not the one you’re thinking of.”
    “I was thinking of the character in Day of the Locust,” Pellam responded.
    “Well,” Carol said, surprised. “You know it?”
    Pellam nodded.
    “I had my cat first. Then they came up with that cartoon show on TV and I wished I’d called him something else.”
    Pellam felt one those little bursts in the gut when you find someone who’s moved by the same obscure work of art as you are. Pellam had seen Day of the Locust twelve times and could see it another twelve. So, Carol was a kindred soul. “Donald Sutherland’s role. Great film. Waldo Salt wrote the script.”
    “Oh,” Carol said, “It was a movie? I just read the book.”
    Pellam had never gotten around to the book. Well, they were distant kindred. But that was all right too.
    They turned south, the rush-hour traffic jammed the street, the yellow cabs interspersed between the battered trucks and cars. Horns honked constantly. The heat had unleashed tempers like geysers and occasionally one driver turned on another with rageful gestures. No one seemed to have the energy, though, for any physical damage.
    Despite the prickly heat the sky was clear, and crisp shadows stretched across the street before them. Two blocks away McKennah Tower caught the last of the light and glowed like oiled ebony. The sparks fell from the welders’ flames as if the sunlight was being sheared off by the slabs of black glass.
    “Did you ever find Corcoran?” she asked.
    “We had a chin-wag, like my mother used to say.”
    “And you lived to tell about it.”
    “He’s a sensitive person deep down. He’s just misunderstood.”
    Carol laughed.
    “I don’t think he did it,” Pellam said. “The arson.”
    “You really think that old woman’s innocent?”
    “I do.”
    “Unfortunately, one thing I’ve learned is that innocence isn’t always a defense. Not in the Kitchen.”
    “So I’m finding.”
    They continued slowly along bustling Ninth Avenue, dodging the hoards of workers from the main post office and discount stores and fashion district warehouses and greasy-spoon restaurants. In L.A. the streets were impassable at rush hour; here, it was the sidewalks.
    “He seemed smart, Ismail,” Carol said after a moment. “Had spirit. It’s a crying shame it’s too late for him.”
    “Too late?” Pellam laughed. “He’s only ten.”
    “Way, way, way too late.”
    “Isn’t there a program or