Hells Kitchen

out for a second or two and fire a careless shot before ducking back.
    The gunfire lasted for no more than thirty seconds. Pellam didn’t fire again. He was sure there’d be sirensfilling the night, whipsawing lights. A hundred cops. But he heard nothing from the streets around them.
    It was, of course, Hell’s Kitchen. What was a little gunplay?
    A hand reached out from behind the brick wall and grabbed the wounded man. He disappeared. A few minutes later the three Irishmen were stumbling out of the alley. A car started and squealed away.
    Pellam stood, still struggling for breath. Ramirez too, laughing. He checked the clip in the gun and slipped it into his pocket, retrieved his own automatic.
    “Son of a bitch,” Ramirez said.
    “Let’s get—”
    The gunshot was deafening. Pellam felt a hot, searing pain on his cheek.
    Ramirez spun and fired from his hip, three times, four, hitting the man—Pellam’s minder—who’d returned and fired from the shadows of the alley. The man flew backwards.
    Hands shaking, Pellam watched the body twitch as he died.
    Ramirez asked urgently, “Jesus, man, you okay?”
    Pellam lifted his hand to his cheek. Touching a strip of exposed flesh. Looked at the blood on his fingers.
    It stung like pure hell. But that was good. He remembered from his stuntman days that numbness was bad, pain was good. Whenever a gag went bad and a stuntman complained of numbness, the stunt coordinators got nervous in a big way.
    In the distance, the first siren.
    “Listen,” Pellam said desperately, “I can’t be found here.”
    “Man, it was self-defense.”
    “No, you don’t understand. I can’t be found with a gun.”
    Ramirez frowned then nodded knowingly. Then looked toward Ninth Avenue. “Here’s what you do, man. Just go out to the street, walk slow. Like you out shopping. Cover up that.” He pointed toward the wounded cheek. “Get some bandages or something. Stay on Eighth or Ninth, go north. Remember: Walk slow. You be invisible, you walk slow. Gimme your piece. We got a place to keep ’em.”
    Pellam handed over the Colt.
    Ramirez said, “I thought you said you weren’t carrying.”
    “White man’s lie,” Pellam whispered, and vanished down the alley.

NINETEEN
    “Louis,” Pellam pushed into the office. “Got something you might want to look at.”
    It was late morning, close to ten, and Bailey the somewhat-sober lawyer had not yet been replaced by Bailey the somewhat-drunk apartment dweller. The lights were out in the office portion of the rooms and he shuffled in from the bedroom in a bathrobe, mismatched slippers on his feet.
    Despite the agonizing groan, the air conditioner still wasn’t doing anything but pushing hot dust around Bailey’s office.
    “What happened to your face?”
    “Shaving,” Pellam answered.
    “Try a razor. They work better than machetes.” The lawyer then added, “I heard there was a shooting last night. Somebody from Jimmy Corcoran’s gang was killed.”
    “That right?”
    “Pellam—”
    “I don’t know anything about it, Louis.”
    “There were supposedly two men involved. One white, one Hispanic.”
    “‘Latino,’” Pellam corrected. “You’re not supposed to say Hispanic.” He dropped the Polaroid onto the desk. “Take a look.”
    The lawyer’s gaze remained on Pellam for a moment longer.
    “Yesterday I showed that picture to Flo Epstein. At the insurance agency.” He held up his hands. “No intimidation. Just snapshots.”
    Bailey examined the photo. “Wine? No? You sure?”
    Pellam continued, “I took a picture of Ettie at the Detention Center. I showed it to the Epstein woman and asked if it was Ettie.”
    “And?”
    “She said it was.”
    “Well.” Bailey examined the picture. Squinted. Picked it up and laughed. “Say, this is very good. How’d you do it?”
    “Morphing. Computer graphics at my post-production lab.”
    The photo was the Polaroid that Pellam had taken of Ettie at WDC, body, hair, hands, dress. The face, however, was that of Ella Fitzgerald. Pellam had had the two images assembled by computer and then had taken a Polaroid of the result.
    “Encouraging,” the lawyer said. Though Pellam thought he wasn’t as encouraged as he ought to be.
    Pellam pulled open the door of the tiny refrigerator. Jugs of wine. No water, no soft drinks, no juice. He looked up. “What’s eating you, Louis?”
    “That poker game I told you about? With the fire marshal?”
    “It didn’t happen?”
    “Oh,