The blocks west of Tenth Avenue, past the railroad cut in Hell's Kitchen, have always been a no-man's-land, an anything-goes kind of place where bad things can happen to good and not-so-good people alike. So when the big bald-headed guy with the pit bull stepped into the concrete courtyard of an aging industrial complex now filled with artists' living lofts, bellowing that he would kill the next person who called the authorities on him, it wasn't the biggest shock in the world for... More >>>