Jeffery Deaver - Hell's Kitchen

It’s a white man’s world, now don’t be blind.

You open you eyes and whatta you find?

The Man got a message just for you -

Gonna smoke your brothers and your sisters too.

It’s a white man’s world.

It’s a white man’s world…

One crew saw another across the street. Boom boxes were turned down. Glances exchanged. Then signs flew back and forth. Palms up, fingers spread. At some point bravado would become dissing. If that happened guns would appear and people would die.

West of Eighth, everyone was armed.

Tonight, though, faces turned way, the volume cranked up again and the crews moved in separate directions, surrounded by a tempest of music.

It’s a white man’s world. It’s a white man’s…

Lovers grappled in cars and beside the sunken roadbed of the old New York Central Railroad, near Eleventh Avenue, men dropped to their knees before other men.

It was midnight now. Young dancers hurried home from the topless clubs and peep shows. Broadway actors and actresses too, just as tired. Among the stoopsitters, cigarettes were stubbed out, good nights were said, beer bottles were left on the sidewalk, soon to be scavenged.

Sirens wailed, glass broke, a voice called out in ornery 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.

“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 was a 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 … You come with me.”

“Thanks but I’m out of here,” Pellam said.

“For good, you mean?”

Nodding. “Picking up my truck and heading back to the Coast. Need some work. Got some people I owe money to gonna be knocking on my door in about sixty days.”

“You want me to talk to ’em? I can-”

Pellam wagged a finger. “Uh-uh.”

Ramirez shrugged, lifted the corner of the linoleum in the kitchen and pulled up a floorboard. He lifted out Pellam’s Colt and tossed it to him. “Man, you crazy, carry that old thing. I’ll get you a nice Taurus. That a sweet piece. You like that. Bam, bam, bam. A man need a fifteen-shot clip nowadays.”

“I don’t have as much of a call for one as you do.”

As he replaced the flooring Ramirez said, “I no watch TV much but I turn on you movie, Pellam, when it come on. When that gonna be?”

“I’ll let you know,” Pellam muttered.

The door pushed open and a young Latino man stepped inside, gazing suspiciously at Pellam. He walked over to Ramirez and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and his young associate left.

Pellam started toward the door. Ramirez said, “Hey, maybe you don’t wanna go so fast. He got some news for you.”

“Who is he?”

“My brother.” He nodded after the young man who’d just left.

“News?”

“Yeah. You wanna know who broke into you apartment?”

“I know who broke in. The pyro. The kid who got burnt up. I figured I must’ve got him on tape when I was shooting the building the day after the fire.”

Ramirez bounced again on his pristine shoes and shook his head. “You wrong man. You dead wrong.”

“Yo, cuz.”

“Hey, Ismail.”

Pellam stood in front of the Youth Outreach Center. The air was hot, dusty, filled with a glaring shaft of sunlight reflected off a nearby building.