Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

“Big deal,” he said.

“What does Tssss’ mean?”

“Nothing. Fuck yourself with a fire hydrant.”

“Ah, vivid speech. Good for you. Spunk is so appealing. But I'm afraid you don't fully understand your position. You see, the gas is only one problem. Here's the other. Think what it would have meant to the Donner party.”

I pulled his miniature butane torch out of my pocket and thumbed it. A blue lizard's tongue of flame flickered forth. He drew in his breath with a sound like ripping silk.

“I don't believe it,” he said.

“And you shouldn't. I'm not going to set you on fire. You are. Here's the plan. Jessica, the tape.”

She got the roll of electrician's tape, and I taped the butane torch open. The flame licked at the air. I built up a mound of loose earth and put the torch on it, pointed at his ankle. “Okay,” I said. “We're going to talk. Just to cut through the bullshit, I'm going to take the top off the can.” I leaned up and did it. The dripping turned into a trickle.

“The laws of physics are in charge,” I said. “When the gasoline saturates the cuff of your pants, we're going to roast our marshmallows and go home. You're not. You're going to spend eternity, or at least as much of it as you need to worry about, against this tree.”

He mumbled something, his eyes on the flame. The reek of gasoline was overwhelming.

“Your shirt's getting wet,” I said. “What do you know about Aimee Sorrell?”

“Nothing.”

“You recognized her picture.”

“No, I didn't. I'd never seen her before.” He was blinking his eyes against the fumes, and tears were beginning to run down his cheeks.

“You recognized her and you said ’Tssss.’ ”

“I said shhhh. I wanted Jennie to shut up.”

“Let's try something,” I said. I took his knife out of my pocket and crouched at his feet. “Kick me and I'll cut your nuts off,” I said. I made five or six little slices in the cuff of his right pants leg and tore upward, creating a ragged fringe that hung from the knee. It reminded me of Ben Gunn in TreasureIsland . I cut off a strip from the back of his jeans and rolled it up in my hand where he couldn't see it.

“What are you doing?” Jessica asked.

“More physics,” I said. “I'll explain in a minute.” I got up and looked at him. “Wet to the waist,” I said.

He had his head pulled as far to the left as possible to get away from the steady trickle of gasoline, and his eyes kept going down to his body and then farther down to the flame. His focus was none too steady, and I guessed that the fumes were beginning to make him dizzy.

“Aimee Sorrell,” I said. “Where’d you meet her?”

He licked his lips and looked down at himself again. The gasoline was seeping down onto the front of his pants. “Oki-Burger, the Oki-Burger.”

“You tried to put her on the string?”

“Sure.”

“When was this?”

“A few months ago.”

“She wouldn't do it?”

“She had some geek rent-a-cop.”

“Poor Wayne,” Jessica said. The pimp gave her a startled glance.

“Then what?”

“Then she was back on the street.”

“Who got her then?”

“Don't know.”

“Oh, but you do. And you know why somebody put out a cigar in her belly button, too.”

He closed his eyes. I went nearer to him and put up my hand as if to lean on the tree. “Fumes getting to you?” I asked. The gasoline trickled onto the strip of cloth wadded up in my hand.

He nodded.

“Tough. Who got her? Who hurt her?”

He shook his head.

“Why did they hurt her?” The strip of cloth in my hand was soaked. I took my hand away and put it behind me. “How did you know they hurt her?”

“I'm getting sick,” he said. He looked a little green.

“You're getting wet, too. It's almost to your knees. Who hurt her?”

He summoned up all his bravado and spit at me.

“Physics lesson number two,” I said, kneeling at his feet again-to the side this time, to make it harder for him to kick me. “Gasoline actually is not very flammable. It's almost impossible to get liquid gasoline to burn. You need extremely high temperatures.” I fluffed up the ragged strips hanging over his ankles. “Gasoline fumes , on the other hand, are flammable as hell. Mix those gasoline molecules with oxygen, and you've got the recipe that runs the world.” I got up, and his eyes followed me. He wasn't quite as woozy as I'd thought. “What I've just done to your trouser leg, aside from having a kind of rakish charm, has the effect of increasing the surface area of the denim. More surface area, more fumes. Like raising a wick on an air freshener. I'd say that that ankle is where you'll explode first.”

“Don't stand so close to him, Simeon,” Jessica warned. “You don't want to be there when he goes off.”

“Why did they hurt her?” I asked. Behind my back I let the saturated strip of cloth in my hand dangle free. The torch flickered blue on the ground, its sharp little tongue darting at the fringed ankle. The smell of gasoline was almost unendurable. “Down to mid-calf,” I observed. “My least favorite length for a skirt.”

“Don't,” he said suddenly.

“Let's just give it a little fluff,” I said, kneeling down.

“No, no. Don't.”

“Why did they hurt her?” I loosened up the strips of trouser leg and waved them around a little. I let the end of the fabric in my hand touch the flame, and when it ignited I pushed out breath all the way from my diaphragm and said, “Fwoooosh.”

Jessica screamed. I jumped back, and the pimp tried to rip himself away from the tree, eyes jammed closed, shouting, “ Obedienceschool .” He shouted it twice, and it echoed from the hillsides opposite. A long moment passed. Then he realized that he wasn't on fire and he opened his eyes to see the strip of cloth burning on the ground. He sagged bonelessly against the cables, closed his eyes again, and emitted a high-pitched noise that was halfway between a giggle and a sob.

“That was dress rehearsal,” I said. “What's obedience school?”

At first he just hung there against the cables, his head down, a white caricature of a lynching. Then he said, “It's where they scare the kids before they put them out.”

Jessica started to say something, and I put up a hand. “What happens?”

“They get knocked around. They get put in a cage for a while, whipped or locked in a closet if they do anything wrong. They get left in the dark a lot. They're not allowed to wear clothes. Ever. Different people fuck them. Different ways. Everything that's going to happen to them when they're out.” He took a deep, fume-laden breath. “Once in a while, they kill someone in front of you. Someone who fucked up.”

“Tell me about the belly button.”

“That's like graduation. That's the last thing they do to you. They tie you to a table, faceup, and the guy smokes a cigar and then they put it out in your navel.”

“The guy,” I said. “Is there someone who isn't a guy?”

The pimp shook his head. “Don't ask.”

“How do you know about all of this?”

“Junko.”

“How does she know?”

He looked down at his feet. The fringed cuff was beginning to grow damp. “Could you move the torch?”

I didn't stir. “How does she know?”

“She went through it,” he said, his eyes on the flame. “They did it to her.” He sucked in a breath, full of gasoline, and leaned back against the tree. He was beginning to turn olive drab, and his face glistened with sweat.

“Tell me about when they kill somebody.”

“They get as many kids together as possible and do in whoever done wrong. Like a lesson, right? Keeps people on a pretty short leash.”