Hells Kitchen

madness.
    Time to be off the streets.
    It’s a white man’s world. It’s a white man’s world . . .
    West of Eighth, men and women lay in their cheap beds, listening to the song as it floated through the streets outside their window or thudded into their bedrooms from neighboring apartments. The music was everywhere but most didn’t pay it any attention. They lay exhausted and hot, staring at their murky ceilings as they thought: My day begins again in so few hours. Let me get some sleep. Please, just cool me off, and let me get some sleep.

TWENTY-FOUR
    “You missin’ a tooth, man. Don’t you know how to fight?”
    “It was three to one,” Pellam told Hector Ramirez.
    “So?”
    Noon, the next day, Ramirez was sitting on the doorstep of the Cubano Lords’ kickback, smoking.
    “It’s hot,” Pellam said. “You got any beer?”
    “Man, do I got beer. What kind you want?”
    “Any kind. Long as it’s cold.”
    Ramirez rose, motioned him toward the front door of their apartment. He nodded at his bruised face. “Who did it?”
    “Some of Corcoran’s boys. They heard about us the other night? With McCray? And drew straws to see who it’d be more fun to beat the crap out of, you or me. I won.”
    “Hey, I ice somebody for you, you want. Or do some kneecaps? I do that for you, man. I got no problem doing that.”
    “That’s okay,” Pellam said.
    “It no problem.”
    “Maybe next time.”
    Ramirez shrugged as if Pellam were crazy. He pushed through the doorway. Pellam noticed a young Latino man standing in the shadows of the alcove, a gun in his belt.
    He spoke in Spanish to Ramirez, who barked a phrase back. He looked at Pellam’s face and laughed. Pellam wanted to believe it was in admiration.
    Ramirez knocked on the door to a ground floor apartment and, when there was no answer, unlocked and pushed it open. He let Pellam precede him.
    The apartment was large and comfortable, filled with new furniture. A couch was still in its plastic wrapping. In the kitchen were stacks of cases of food and bags of rice. One bedroom was filled with five sheet-covered mattresses. The other bedroom was packed with cartons of liquor and cigarettes. Pellam didn’t bother to ask where the merchandise had come from.
    “So, you want a Dos, Tecate?”
    “Dos.”
    Ramirez took two beers from the fridge. Rested them against the counter, cracked the tops off with a single blow from his palm. Passed one to Pellam, who drank down nearly half.
    The room was sweltering. There were two air conditioners in the front and back windows but they weren’t running. Through the shaded windows blew hot, dusty air and the heat was like a liquid.
    Ramirez found a shoe box sitting on a table in the kitchen. He took out a pair of athletic shoes and began lacing them up. They were similar to the pair he’d given to Ismail the other day. “Hey, man. Take one.”
    “What’s the penalty for receiving stolen?” Pellam asked.
    “Fuck, I found ’em.” He bounced, looking down with approval.
    “I’m not the running-shoe type.”
    “No, you the cowboy-boot type. Man, why you wear those fucking boots? They no hurt you feet? So, what you doing here, Pellam? Why you come visit me?”
    “I’m leaving town,” Pellam said. “Came to get my gun.”
    “I hear, that moyeta, she say she do it. Man, she your friend. That gotta be tough for you. But nobody oughta burn the old places here. That no good.”
    Ramirez was getting the shoelaces even, the tautness just right. He stood slowly, savoring the feel of the shoes. He bounced on his toes again then came down on his heels. He feinted right then left then leapt into a layup, his fingers knocking flakes of white paint off the ceiling.
    Pellam noticed a hand-lettered sign on the wall next to a poster advertising a Corvette, on which a bikini-clad model reclined.
    Your standing in the Crib of the Cubano Lords. Either you be a Friend or you be fucked.
    Ramirez followed his eyes. He said, “Yeah, yeah. You gonna say we spelled ‘you’re’ wrong.”
    “No, I’m gonna say that’s a hell of a poster.”
    “You play basketball?” Ramirez asked.
    “A little.”
    Pellam’s last games had been one-on-one against a man in a wheelchair and Pellam lost six, won two. It wasa shame he wasn’t going to have a chance to play with Ismail; he probably could’ve beaten the boy.
    “I go down to the Village today, play half-court. Some big moyetos down there. Man, those niggers, they can play