Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

“Twenty,” the old dame said, studying the bill. “She doesn't look that old.”

“I've led a sheltered life,” Jessica piped up.

The lady looked from her to me and back to her again, then made a clucking sound with her mouth. “Suit yourself, dearie,” she said, “but I've had guys, they showed I.D.'s that said their girlfriend was a hundred. Name your price and get the cash first, if you know what's good for you, which I doubt.”

“He's my godfather,” Jessica said. “I trust him. Golly, he's friends with my daddy.”

I summoned up a grin from some dim subterranean depth.

“And you,” she said to me with a fearsome squint, “you oughta be ashamed of yourself.” She was wearing what had to be the world's last muumuu.

“I'm going into therapy tomorrow. In the meantime, can I have a key?”

She shoved it through the little hole and snatched her hand back as though mine were Germ Warfare Central. “One-oh-five,” she snarled, “all the way to the left.” To Jessica she said, “If anyone knocks in the middle of the night, it'll be the cops.”

Jessica wrapped both arms around herself. “Oh, good,” she trilled. “I feel so safe.”

I grabbed her by the sleeve of her blouse and yanked. “That's what I like,” she said. “Forceful. Young guys are such wimps.” She rolled her eyes. Lillian Gish couldn't have done it better.

“Someone's going to ask for her,” I said to the old dame. “Her name is Aimee.”

“Better and better,” the gorgon said nastily.

“Just make sure he gets the right room,” I said. I held up another twenty, and she started to reach under the plastic for it. I slapped her hand. “Ah-ah,” I said. “Make sure the man finds her.”

“That's what I mean,” Jessica said to her, “he's so forceful.”

When I had her outside, I pinched her arm. “You're overacting,” I said.

“Yummy, yummy,” she said, jerking her arm away, “another bruise.” She lowered her voice. “How do you know no one's listening? Jeez-o-crips, look at all these windows.”

“Just behave,” I said in a whisper. “There are limits on how scummy I'm willing to feel.”

“That's your problem. It wouldn't bother old Blister.” I shut up.

The room was small, dirty, and painted that peculiar shade of pale green that's usually reserved for veterans' hospitals. Fluorescent tubes hummed, and a single queen-size bed offered shade for the cockroaches. Other than that, there was nothing but a chipped desk with a blotter, a ball-point pen, and a couple of dog-eared postcards advertising the glories of Hollywood.

“God,” Jessica said, “it looks like they painted it with Linda Blair's leftover vomit.” She surveyed the room critically. ‘That's got to be the John,” she said, nodding at the far door, “and I get it first. Girls, you know. It has something to do with the relative length of the urethra. What do you think about the relative length of the urethra?”

“I think it means you go first,” I said.

“I'm not real fast.” She started to pull the door closed and then turned back to me. “I don't think this locks,” she said.

“I’d be surprised If it did.”

Fast she wasn't. Eight minutes later, when the knock sounded on the door, she was still inside. I went to the bathroom and rapped twice.

“Don't you dare ,” she said.

“Oh, for Christ's sake. He's here. You stay inside until he's gone.”

“Okay,” she said. “But if you get into trouble, I'm coming out.”

“I can't tell you how much better that makes me feel.” I tugged at the door once to make sure it was closed, and wiped my hands on my pants. They were wetter than I would have liked them to be. I hadn't counted on Jessica being around when I talked to someone who might have kidnapped Aimee Sorrell. On the way to the front door I stopped at the desk, picked up the ball-point pen in my left hand, and put it behind me.

He rapped at the door again, more urgently this time. A husky voice whispered, “Aimee?” I positioned myself on the hinged side, counted to three, and then pulled it open very fast.

“Yow,” Wayne Warner said, stepping away. I reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and manhandled him into the room. Before he could say anything else, I slammed him around, facefirst, into the wall-he didn't weigh very much- and pushed the sharp end of the pen into his back, hard.

“ Hey , ” he said. “Don't. Don't, please? I thought you wanted to talk.”

I pushed the pen a little harder into a spot just above his left kidney and wiggled it. “I'm not a surgeon,” I said, “but I think I could get that kidney out if I had to. Can you get along on one?”

“Holy Christ,” he said. “I didn't do nothing. Holy Christ, I can't stand knives.”

“You didn't do nothing,” I said. “You didn't do nothing to Aimee Sorrell?”

“I gave her a hand.”

“You gave her more than a hand, from what I've heard.”

He was twitching. He was jiggling around like a bag of tics held together by a belt, some buttons, and a zipper. I wiggled the pen around some more.

“Hey, man,” he said plaintively. “Don't do that. I'm jumpier than a flea circus. I'm a nice guy, honest I am. She was just too cute. There wasn't nothing I could do about it.”

“Wayne,” I said, “shut up. Now, put your arms above your head, palms flat against the wall. Spread your fingers, spread your legs. Not a word, now, you hear?”

He did as he was told, but his knees were shaking so badly that I wasn't sure he could remain standing. He had a breast pocket stuffed full of pens and, hanging from a loop fastened through his belt, a pocketknife and a bunch of keys. Other than that, the search told me nothing that I didn't already know except that he wore knee-length white socks, none too clean.

“Use your left hand,” I said. “Reach down slowly and unfasten the knife and give it to me.”

“No problem,” he said shakily. “No problem. Look, watch, I'm doing it. You want cooperation? You got it.”

“Good boy,” I said as I heard the ring unsnap. “Now hand it to me.”

“You got it,” he said breathlessly, extending his hand behind him. I opened the knife and tossed the ball-point to the floor.

“Turn around,” I said, “but slowly.”

He did, trying to keep his hands up on the wall behind him. I heard one of his shoulder joints pop. “Relax,” I said, waving the open knife under his nose. “No point in dislocating your shoulder.”

“Thanks,” he said, staring cross-eyed at the knife. “I do that from time to time. Hurts like a son of a bitch, too.” He lowered his arms to his side and looked penitently up at me. I felt more like his confessor than his interrogator. He couldn't have weighed more than one hundred twenty pounds and he wore a wispy white little Ho Chi Minh goatee. An aging hipster: probably went home in the morning after work, smoked a little grass, played the Modern Jazz Quartet, and leafed through back issues of the EvergreenReview , looking for the juicy parts.

“Aren't you a sorry sight,” I said.

“I used to be okay,” he said.

“I'm sure you were,” I said mercilessly. “I'm sure you used to be six-four, too.”

“Aw, come on,” he said, heartened by the fact that I hadn't killed him yet. “What kind of thing is that to say?”

“Sit on the bed,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “I'll sit anywhere you like.” He looked around the room. “Are we alone?”

“As alone as we're going to be.” I pulled out the chair next to the desk and straddled it, facing him. I tapped for attention on the back of the chair with the knife blade. “Tell me about Aimee.”

He swallowed, and his Adam's apple did a swan dive. “Why?”