Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

There was a flurry of motion to my left, and a small figure darted through the door, looking down at the one on the floor. “You son of a bitch,” the small figure said to me. It was wearing two green plastic trashbags, sweat pants, and a brave hat that said dodger blue above its brim. “You leave him alone.” The one on the floor moaned.

“Move and I'll shoot you,” I said, just for insurance. I looked at the two of them. Probably they were part of the new community on this abandoned block, human hermit crabs who had hoped to shrug the deserted homes onto their backs as protection against a rolling tide of social indifference. “Put your arms over your head,” I said to her. She seemed the more dangerous of the two, if only because of her fierce determination to protect him. She looked at the gun and then down at him, and raised her hands.

“Whatever you want,” she said, “we haven't got it. Except if you want us to move, we'll move.”

“I don't want you to move,” I said. “I don't really want much of anything. It's just that you scared me.” I held the gun up, away from both of them, and gave it a little shake. Then I tucked it into my pants. She crouched down next to him, still distrustful. The smell of fear and failure rolled off the two of them.

I held up my empty hands and gave them a hearty politician's smile. “I don't suppose,” I said, sitting down on the floor, “that either of you got twenty thousand dollars in the mail recently.”

When everyone had finished laughing, I gave them each ten bucks and they told me what time the mailman came and gave me a remarkably accurate description of the person who'd checked the mailbox for the last couple of days. We shook hands all around and I got back into Alice and drove home. At home I could drink Singha until the image of Junko floated away. At home I could finish making friends with Woofers. And at home I could finally tuck myself away into the warm dark until the start of business hours on Monday, until the time I could twist thumbscrews through the nails of Birdie Skinker.

The kid who carried the envelope to Birdie was skinny, eager, and as fraudulent as a campaign slogan. I'd found him jingling a fat tin can half-full of change up and down the sidewalks of Sunset, inspiring guilt in the patrons of the expensive shops just east of Tower Records and west of Mrs. Brussels', demanding donations to send nonexistent children to a nonexistent camp. It was the usual social scenario: the right money in the wrong place. When I'd offered him twenty bucks to carry an envelope to an address half a block away, his face had lit up like a Borscht Belt comic being booked into Caesar's Palace.

“Twenty bucks?” he'd said. Then, squinting with the ready suspicion of the deeply dishonest, he'd added, “I only gotta deliver one?”

“For now.” I waved another twenty in front of him, and his eyes followed it like a lizard homing in on a mosquito. “There's a parking lot behind this building,” I said. “Come back and tell me how he reacted, and you'll get this too.” I palmed the twenty and made it disappear for effect and then materialized a ten in my other hand. “Come back in five minutes, and you'll also get this.” It had taken me hours with the HoudiniHandbook to learn to do that when I was a kid, and I'd finally found a use for it.

His eyes widened and he stared at my hands. Then he nodded, folded the first twenty four times, tucked it into the tin can, and sped away.

I put all the money back into my pocket. It wasn't that I didn't trust him. Well, yes, it was that I didn't trust him. Maybe I was souring on teenagers. The parking lot I'd chosen was on two levels, the upper a good twenty feet above the lower, offering a fine view of a smog- and cloud-socked Los Angeles. Far to the west was the dismal, squall-soaked gray line of the Pacific, bad weather all the way to Japan.

I'd parked Alice on the edge of the upper lot, and now I climbed the hill through the new spring growth, chanting Iranian-style wishes of death to the foxtails and puncher-weeds that were penetrating my socks and gouging my ankles. By the time I reached the top, I was equipped to carry a balanced biosphere of bothersome plant life to a newborn volcanic island. I climbed into Alice and started yanking the sharp little seeds out of my socks, keeping my head low and my eye on the parking lot below.

He was back in four minutes and twenty-two seconds, just enough time to have cut a fevered deal. He was smart enough to have told Birdie to wait before making an appearance, but not smart enough to avoid forfeiting the extra thirty bucks. After a minute, which the kid spent searching frantically for me, Birdie rounded the corner.

Birdie looked like a man ready to explode. His blue Philippine shirt provided a vivid contrast to his bright red face. Clenched fists hung like deadweights at the ends of the forearms he'd borrowed from Bluto, and the veins on his forehead were thicker than the transatlantic cable. He glanced frantically around the parking lot, but he didn't look up. People never look up. You'd think they'd learn. After exhausting the limited possibilities of right and left, he grabbed the kid by his shoulders and shook him like a terrier shakes a rat. I could hear the change in the kid's can rattling all the way up the hill.

But it was no go. The kid didn't know where I was, and Birdie had nothing but the kid. After a few additional shakes, more out of sheer frustration than because he thought they'd get him anywhere, Birdie let go of the kid's shoulders and stepped back, the ridiculous shelf of hair that was usually glued across his forehead drooping almost to his chin. The moment Birdie released him, the kid was gone. He jingled around the corner and onto the street, already sniffing out the next sucker.

Birdie stood alone in the parking lot, shoulders slumped, watching the kid's sneakers twinkle as they carried him around the corner. He wiped his face with a forearm as furry as a sheepskin seat cover, and then his legs buckled. He collapsed clumsily onto the asphalt of the parking lot, dead center in a space stenciled compact . Well, if there was anything Birdie was, it was compact.

Like a pauper in a Rilke poem, he buried his face in his hands, but I wasn't in danger of developing any sympathetic worry wrinkles. I just sat in Alice, feeling remote and Olympian and godlike, and watched him cry. I would have felt more godlike if I hadn't been pulling foxtails out of my socks. After a good fifteen minutes, during which several people parked their cars, got out, and walked past him without giving him a glance, Birdie hauled himself upright and headed for the sidewalk. His feet were dragging so heavily that they should have left gouges in the asphalt. It was only nine-thirty, and if I had my way, Birdie had a long day ahead of him.

After two false starts I got Alice running and drove two blocks east to Ben Frank's, Sunset Boulevard's eternal coffee shop, to eat their version of breakfast-some acidic coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a liberal portion of curled lip from a waitress who took it personally when I didn't order a five-course meal topped off with baked Alaska. Other people were scarfing down two-pound slices of ham and half a dozen brutalized eggs. I forced myself to sip slowly at my coffee until practically everybody else was finished, partly to annoy my waitress, and partly to let Birdie work up a good lather. That was the absolute least that the little shit had coming to him.

There was a phone booth just outside of Ben Frank's. I dialed the number and waited.

“Brussels' Sprouts,” Birdie snapped.

“Listen,” I said, striving for an intensity of regret that would have put the Mock Turtle to shame, “I'm sorry about the picture.”