Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

He was tapping the keys. “What computer language, I mean.”

“Well,” I said, feeling dumb again, “no.”

“There are only so many,” he said. He banged at the keys faster than Horowitz doing scales and looked at the result on the screen. It was the same junk I'd seen.

“Who knows?” he said to himself. Seated at the keyboard, he was back in his element. He yanked out the first one and slid in the next. “What are these numbers on the labels?” he asked.

“I don't know. I just copied the numbers on the originals.”

He looked up at me. “These aren't the originals?”

“I told you, I stole them,” I said. “If I'd taken the originals, they'd have missed them.”

I heard Jessica draw in her breath behind me. “Simeon,” she said, “you mean, they're-”

“It doesn't matter where they came from,” I said quickly. “Morris doesn't need to know where I got them to figure out what they are.”

Morris gave me a glance that was full of curiosity. “That depends,” he said. “Are they from some kind of scientific facility?”

“No.”

“Math? Computer specialists?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Well,” he said, looking back to the screen, “they're specialized somehow. Are they all like this?”

“I don't know if they're identical. All I know is that they all come up in English when you boot them, and then they turn into gibberish. Also, they seem to have lots of space on them when you do a directory, but after you type a few words into the English part they come up with a disk full message.”

“Very interesting,” Morris said. “Very, very interesting. Some kind of hidden files, then. Or else somebody's just balled them up.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I think whoever created them knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Or she,” Jessica said. She was sitting up on the bed now, staring at the screen as Morris tried some more wizardry.

“Let's assume you're right,” he said, tapping away. “Let's assume that somebody has hidden information on these things. What do you think it is?”

“Illegal,” Jessica said.

“No, I mean, what kind of application? Is it language, or math, or what?”

“I think it's some kind of data base,” I said.

“Well,” Morris said, looking at me as though I were a performing monkey who wasn't performing very well, “why didn't you say so?” He moved crablike across the room on the stool, which, I saw, had wheels, and pulled open a drawer in one of the filing cabinets. “Data bases,” he said, gesturing at the drawer.

It was absolutely jammed with bootlegged software, stacks of photocopied manuals wedged in every which way, sandwiched between disks. He grabbed a handful of disks and wheeled back to the computer. “This could take a while,” he said.

I sat down on the bed, next to Jessica. For forty-five minutes or so, Morris tried one program after another, humming happily to himself. It was like watching submarine races. I had absolutely no idea what was happening. Jessica dozed off, emitting zippery little snores.

“This is pretty neat,” Morris said at last.

Jessica started and opened her eyes. “What is it?” I asked.

“That's what's neat,” Morris said. “I haven't got the faintest idea.” Jessica made a small groaning sound. “It's pretty cute, though, whatever it is,” Morris said, his eyes glued to the screen.

I looked at my watch. It was almost nine, and I had somewhere to go. “Can I leave them with you?” I asked.

“Sure, sure,” Morris said without looking around at me. “I'll call you when I figure it out. Maybe tomorrow sometime.”

I stood up, and Jessica stood next to me, yawning. “Don't bother leaving your number,” Morris said. “I'll get it from Jessica when I need it.” He darted an anxious look at her and then turned back to the screen. He was clacking away at the keys when we left the room.

“Nice guy,” I said as I started the car.

“You and my mother,” Jessica said. “He'd be great if his voice didn't break windows. He makes me feel like I'm singing bass.”

“Women,” I said. “Lift up, would you?”

She hoisted her bottom from the seat and I grabbed the army blanket she'd been sitting on and threw it into the back. I'd brought it down from the house when I left. I planned to use it later in the evening.

“What's that for?” Jessica asked, looking back at it.

“It's an army blanket,” I said, shifting into reverse. “I'm thinking about joining the army.”

“Are you going somewhere?” She settled back down into the seat as Alice's headlights illuminated the driveway.

“Yes,” I said.

“Something to do with all this?”

“Yes.”

“Can I go?”

“No.” We turned right onto Old Canyon.

“Why?”

“It might be dangerous.”

“Okay,” she said sweetly. “So you like old Morris, do you?”

“He likes you.”

“He likes anything that can wear a dress without getting arrested.”

“He's got a good head.”

“Except for the point.”

We pulled into her driveway in silence. She kissed me demurely on the cheek and said, “You'll call when I can do something, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“I think Dad and Mom would like to see you for a few minutes.”

“Fine,” I said, killing the motor. I probably couldn't accomplish anything for an hour or so anyway.

I followed her into the house and she told Annie and Wyatt where we'd been and went up the stairs. “I've got to work on my math,” she said.

Annie watched her go, openmouthed. “I don't believe it,” she said, when Jessica was gone.

“Maybe it's Morris’ influence,” I said.

They didn't particularly want to see me, but we talked for a while anyway, and then I went out and started Alice up and headed for the great department store of flesh called Hollywood.

I know now that what I meant to do that night was a mistake. I suppose I even knew it then, as I got off the freeway and headed north on La Cienega.

I told myself that I wanted information. I told myself that it couldn't hurt Aimee. I told myself that I didn't want to lose four days while Mrs. Sorrell was waiting for the results of her useless ransom payment. I told myself a lot of things and they were all bullshit. I didn't really want information. I wanted revenge.

What I was relying on was fear. I figured I was mad enough to make someone really afraid, and I figured that he was already afraid. Add the two up, I thought, waiting for a red light to turn green, and he'd keep his mouth shut and behave. I was wrong.

Because I was wrong, somebody got killed.

Half a block east of Jack's, Junko stood on the curb and trolled the traffic in a little white middie blouse like the ones Japanese schoolgirls wear. She had a wad of chewing gum in her cheek. She'd chosen this corner, I figured, because of the pay phone. I was parked across the street when the first John picked her up. She was cute enough that it didn't take long. As I'd guessed she'd do, when she finished leaning in through the car window and outlining her deal, she went to the pay phone-the one I'd used when I'd talked to Tabitha and her friend-and dialed a number. She said two or three words, hung up, and got into the car. Now Mr. Wonderful knew she was employed. Groceries tomorrow.

Almost exactly thirty minutes later she was back, smoothing her blouse and running her fingers through her hair. She bought a Pepsi at Jack's, like any kid, and resumed her stance at the curb. By then I was checking my rearview mirror every few seconds, but I was wasting my time. The change was still too small to bother about.