“Could be. I don’t know much about them. They leave us alone pretty much… And maybe there were some of those workers too. From that big building they’re putting up across the street. You know, with those telescopes they have. For surveying. Yeah, I’m sure I saw some of them in the alley. I remember ’cause they wear those plastic helmets. Some of them were those men who came around with the petition we signed.”

Pellam remembered Ettie telling him about the high-rise, how the locals had greeted the huge project with such excitement. Roger McKennah, as famous as Donald Trump, was building a glitzy skyscraper in Hell’s Kitchen! His company had sent representatives out into the ’hood, asking residents in the blocks around the high-rise to sign waivers so that the building could go five stories higher than the zoning laws allowed. In exchange for their approval of the variance he pledged that the building would feature new grocery stores and a Spanish restaurant and a twenty-four-hour laundry. Ettie had signed, along with most of the other residents.

And then they’d found that the grocery store was part of a gourmet chain that charged $2.39 for a can of black beans, the laundry charged three dollars to wash a blouse, and as for the restaurant, it had a dress code and the limos parked out in front created a terrible traffic jam.

Pellam now made a mental note about the workers, wondered why they were surveying in the alley across the street. He wondered too why they’d been working at ten o’clock at night.

“I think we should call your daughter,” Pellam said.

“I already did,” Ettie said and looked at her cast in surprise – as if it had just materialized on her arm. “I had a long talk with her this morning. She’s sending money to Louis for his bill. She wanted to come tomorrow but I was thinking I’ll need her more ’round the trial.”

“I’m voting that there won’t even be a trial.”

The bejeweled guard examined her watch. “Okay. Come on, Washington.”

“I just got here,” Pellam said coolly.

“An’ now you just be leavin’.”

“A few minutes,” he said.

“Time’s up. Move it! And you, Washington, hustle.”

Pellam lowered his eyes to the guard’s. “She’s got a sprained ankle. You want to tell me how the hell’s she supposed to hustle?”

“Don’t want lip from you, mister. Less go.”

The door swung open, revealing the dim hallway, in which a sign was partially visible. PRISONERS SHALL NO

“Ettie,” Pellam said, grinning. “You owe me something. Don’t forget.”

“What’s that?”

“The end of the story about Billy Doyle.”

Pellam watched the woman tuck away her despair beneath a smile. “You’ll like that story, John. That’ll be a good one in your film.” To the matron she said, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Give an old lady a break.”

Inside Bailey’s office a gaunt man hunched over the desk, listening to instructions the lawyer was firing at him over a paper cup filled with jug Chablis.

Bailey saw Pellam enter and nodded him over. “This is Cleg.”

The thin man shook Pellam’s hand as if they were good friends. Cleg wore a green polyester jacket and black slacks. A steel penny gleamed in his left loafer and he smelled of Brylcreem.

The lawyer was looking through an impacted Rolodex. “Let me see…”

Cleg said to Pellam, “You play the horses.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Pellam admitted.

The slim man was dismayed. “Well. I got a lock for you, you interested.”

“What’s a lock?”

“Bet,” Cleg responded.

“A bet?”

“That you can’t lose.”

“Thanks anyway.”

He stared at Pellam for a moment then nodded as if he suddenly understood everything there was to know about him. He searched his pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes.

“Here we go,” Bailey said. He jotted a name on a yellow Post-it that had been reused several times. He took two bottles of liquor from his desk, slipped them into large interoffice envelopes along with smaller packages that contained, presumably, Pellam’s former cash.

He handed Cleg one envelope. “This’s for the Recorder of Deeds, the clerk. He’s the fat man on the third floor. Sneely. Then this one goes to Landmark Preservation. Pretty Ms. Grunwald with the cat. A receptionist. She gets the Irish Cream. As you probably guessed.”

Greasing gears.

Or maybe clogging them.

The man nestled the bottles among his sporting papers and left the office. Pellam saw him pause outside to light a cigarette then continue toward the subway.

Bailey said, “The A.D.A., Ms. Koepel, asked for a postponement of Ettie’s arraignment. I agreed.”

Pellam shook his head. “But she’ll have to stay in jail longer.”

“True. But I think it’s worth it to keep the bitch happy.” His head dropped toward the chipped mug he held. “Koepel’s a madwoman. But then there’s a lot of pressure to catch the firebug. Things’re getting worse. Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” Pellam asked.

“There was another fire this morning.”

“Another one?”

“A loft. It wasn’t too far from here, matter of fact. Destroyed two floors. Three dead. Looked like it was a gas explosion but they found traces of our boy’s special brew – gas, fuel oil and soap. And one of the victims was bound and gagged.” Bailey shoved a limp Post toward Pellam. He glanced at the picture of a burnt-out building.

“Jesus.” Pellam had scouted for a lot of action adventure films. Most of the spectacular explosions on screen, supposedly C4 or TNT or dynamite, were actually containers of gasoline-soaked sawdust, carefully assembled by the arms master on the set. Everybody kept far back when he rigged the charges. And stuntmen who thought nothing about free-fall gags from twenty stories up were damn cautious around fire.

Bailey looked over his notes. “Now, what’ve I found, what’ve I found?… Goddamn air conditioner! Jiggle that switch. It’s the compressor. Jiggle it. Did it go on?”

Pellam jiggled. No response from the dusty old unit. Bailey grumbled something inaudible over the throbbing motor. He pulled a fax off his desk. “The prelim arson report about Ettie’s building. Getting it cost most of your money. I made a copy for you. Read it and weep.”

Privileged and Confidential

MEMORANDUM

From: Supervising Fire Marshal Henry Lomax

To: Lois Koepel, Esq., Assistant District Attorney

Re: Preliminary findings, Fire of Suspicious Origin, 458 W. Three-six street

At 9:58 p.m. on August tenth, a call was received from box 598 on Tenth Avenue regarding a fire at the 458 W. Three-six street. A 911 was received at 10:02 p.m., regarding same. Ladder company Three Eight responded to the first alarm assignment and the captain at the scene concluded that because of the gravity of the fire and the presence of injuries a second alarm assignment was needed. This assignment went out at 10:17 p.m.

Present at the blaze were Two Six Truck, Three Three Truck, Four Eight Engine, One Six Engine, and One Seven Ladder. Lines were run immediately, and water was laid down on the three top floors. Access to the premises was gained by entry through the third floor and the building was successfully evacuated.

The captain on the scene concluded that the flames had so weakened the top floors that access through the bulkhead on the roof was inadvisable, and pulled the firefighters back. Shortly thereafter the roof and top two floors collapsed.

The fire was finally knocked down at 11:02 p.m. and all units took up at 12:30 a.m.

The captain requested a fire marshal because certain observations about the fire suggested it was of suspicious origins.

I arrived at 1 a.m. and began my investigation.