Hells Kitchen

dropped him in a pile, turned back to Ramirez.
    The young Latino struggled, tried to kick one ofthem. But they just started beating him. When they stopped, Ramirez gasped, “Man, you stupid fucking micks.” He seemed more exasperated than anything else by their behavior.
    “Shut up.”
    McCray leaned close. “I had a little talk with O’Neil. He told me you two were in business together. Which I can’t say surprised me.”
    Another one of the men said, “Tell him what happened. To O’Neil.”
    “Oh, the swim?” offered Pellam’s minder.
    “Yeah.”
    McCray said, “O’Neil went for a fucking swim in the Hudson, next to the QE2. Ain’t come up yet.”
    Ramirez shook his head. “Oh, that’s brilliant. You cap the only gun dealer in the Kitchen . . . Jimmy buys from him too, you know. Now we all gonna go buy shit up in Harlem and East New York and the niggers gonna rob you blind. Oh, you soooo fucking smart. Jimmy don’t know you did it, I bet. Man, you fuck this one up.” He spit blood.
    A moment’s silence from the thugs. One of them eyed McCray uneasily.
    “Shit,” Ramirez spat out. “You know what happens if you kill me? Sanchez takes over and fucking wipes you out. We’ve got MAC-10s and Uzis. We got Desert Eagles.”
    “Oh, we’re fucking scared.”
    “And when Corcoran find you started a war, if Sanchez don’t nail your ass, Jimmy going to. Just get the fuck outa here.”
    “Man, you got a mouth on you, Ramirez.”
    “You fuck—”
    McCray swung hard and caught Ramirez’s jaw again with a glancing blow. Pellam struggled to get up and got a booted foot in the belly. He dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach, moaning.
    The Irishmen laughed.
    “Your girlfriend here, he’s not feeling so good, Hector.”
    Pellam’s guard gripped his collar firmly and the three around Ramirez wrestled him into an alcove.
    “Why’n’t you piss on him?” one of them asked.
    “Shut up,” McCray barked. “This ain’t a game.”
    Pellam, retching, got up on his knees.
    “He’s gonna puke,” his minder called, laughing.
    But they lost interest in Pellam and concentrated on pounding on Ramirez. He fought hard but he was no match for the burly Irishmen and finally he dropped to his knees. McCray looked up and down the alley, nodded to his lieutenant, who pulled the hammer back on his pistol, aimed it down at the Latino. The other two stepped away. One squinted.
    Ramirez sighed and stopped struggling. He gazed back at his killer, calm, shook his head. “Cristos . . . Okay, so go ahead and do it.” He smiled at McCray.
    No choice, Pellam thought, consoling himself. No choice at all. He gave up on the fake retching and rose into crouch, knocked his minder’s hand away then swept the Colt Peacemaker from his back waistband, cocking the single-action gun with his thumb. He fired toward the shooter’s leg, which kicked out sideways under the impact of the large slug. The man dropped his gun, twisting away, screaming in pain, falling to the cobblestones.
    Pellam’s guard went for his own pistol but the barrelof the Peacemaker caught him in the nose with a loud crack. Pellam ripped the Glock from the screaming man’s fingers as he backed away, hands up, “No, man, no, don’t. Please!”
    McCray had leapt for cover, sprinting for a Dumpster. The other Irishman, near Ramirez, started to turn but the Latino decked him with a solid fist in the chest. Three fast blows. He cried out and dropped onto his back, gasping for breath and vomiting.
    Pellam slipped behind a corner and fired another shot—toward but not at McCray—aiming for the brick at his feet, worried about bullets flying through the populated neighborhood. The shot drove the Irishman further behind the Dumpster.
    The thug with the gunshot was screaming, “Oh, God, oh, shit. My leg, my leg!”
    Everybody ignored him. Pellam’s minder had vanished, running down an offshoot of the alley. McCray and the remaining Irishman were firing blindly at Ramirez, who was pinned down, looking for cover as best he could behind a pile of trash bags.
    “Yo,” Pellam called, ducking as a bullet from McCray snapped past him. He tossed the black automatic to Ramirez, who caught it one-handed, pulled the slide and fired several covering shots. The man who’d been hit kept sobbing, hands over his face, crawling an inch at a time toward his comrades.
    Ramirez gave a whoop and laughed loud. He was an excellent shot and the Irishmen could only peek