Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

“ And we're talking about Junko Furuta,” I added, “and Lizabeth Worthy and Anita Morales and a bunch of other kids. And those are only the ones who are dead. Birdie, you couldn't dig your way out of all this shit if you hired a skiploader. You've got one chance, and I'm it.” Anita Morales had been the Mongoloid, and I'd found her picture in the 1987 Actors'Directory that Morris had given me, the same issue that had marked Junko's debut.

“It's not my racket,” he said, his nails beating a military tattoo on the phone.

“Of course not. You haven't got anything to do with it. All you do is take them down into your bomb shelter and turn them into zombies.”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“I'm the Man with No Name,” I said. “Or, if you prefer, you can call me the Masked Avenger. What I am is the end of the road unless you get a lot more helpful real quickly.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“Well, for one thing, I want to know why it's not your racket.”

“I could die for this,” he said.

“Woofers could die in the next fifteen seconds. While you're listening. And even after you hear her die I could still put you in jail forever. Wanna hear another yelp?”

“She did it all,” he said.

“Who, Woofers? That's hard to believe.”

“Mrs. B.,” he said. “It was Mrs. B.”

“Then how come so much of it happened in your basement?”

“Hold on,” he said. “I've got another call.”

I apologized to Woofers for pulling her ear while the newscast from some radio station droned global desperation through the line. I was learning that a remote subcontinent was largely underwater when a click announced that Birdie was back.

“I got stuck with it,” he said, so promptly that I immediately suspected that he'd put me on hold in order to think for a minute. “None of it was my idea. It all started with Mister.”

“Mister,” I said, ruffling Woofers' fur.

“We have to strike a deal,” he said. Now I was sure: no one had called. He'd been thinking.

“Tell me about the deal.”

“You're right about most of it. You're right about the Cap'n's and obedience school. But there's still something you don't know.”

“Is that so?” I said.

He drew a shaky breath, hoping he was right. “You don't know where they are.”

He was right. “I could always go to the cops,” I said. “They'd be a lot less gentle.”

“Oh,” he said, “give me a break . If you wanted to go to the cops, you wouldn't be on the phone now.”

“Then why am I on the phone?”

“Am I going to get Woofers back?”

“On a platter,” I said. The line crackled. “Alive and well, of course,” I added.

“You're on the phone because you expect to get something out of it,” he said, “and if you talk to the cops you won't get it. Maybe you just figured it out, I don't know, or maybe someone hired you to find one of the little shits. But if you talk to the cops, you can kiss it all good-bye.”

“Like I said, you can get Woofers back.”

“How about protection?”

“For whom?”

“For me, for heaven's sake.”

“I can try,” I said. “Depending on what you tell me.”

“I can tell you where they are. Which one are you interested in? Would you settle for one?”

“No.” I thought about the kids I'd seen at the Oki-Burger. “It's all or nothing.”

“Then I can tell you where they all are. Or, at least, where they'll all be eventually.”

I waited. When he didn't say anything, I asked, “Are they all in Los Angeles?”

“Most of them.”

“Are there any other dead ones?”

“Ella Moss,” he said promptly. “She was ten. It wasn't my idea.” He sounded desperate.

“I believe you. Where are the ones who are alive?”

“Tell Woofers to speak.”

“Like how?”

“Just say, ‘Speak, Woofers.’ ”

“Speak, Woofers,” I said. Woofers barked.

He made a sobbing sound. “Please,” he said, “take care of her.”

“That's up to you. Screw up, and she could be the main course in some Korean restaurant on Olympic Boulevard.”

“You want to know where they are. Don't you want to know how I got involved?”

Never interfere with the flow of a confession. “That'll do for a start.”

“It was Mister,” Birdie said.

“You've mentioned Mister twice. Who is he?”

“Mr. Brussels, of course,” he said waspishly. “He liked the little ones. He was crazy about Ella. That's why he got into this business in the first place. Being a kiddie agent is a pederast's paradise. All those pretty little girls with their ambitious mommies.”

“The agency was legit at first?”

“Of course,” he said. “Do you think I would have taken the job if it wasn't?” I let it pass. “It's still legit, for that matter, or at least part of it is.”

“When did it go sour?”

“When he realized that he could peddle the ones he got tired of. And then kids started running away from home and all the little babies hit the streets, and that was perfection, wasn't it? No parents, no guardians, nothing but profit.”

“And if they disappeared for good?”

“Well, they'd already disappeared, hadn't they? Most of them were hooking anyway. You wouldn't believe what you can buy on Santa Monica Boulevard if you know where to look.”

“Birdie,” I said, “right now there isn't much I wouldn't believe.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said impatiently. “We already know how smart you are.”

“So you were working for Mr. Brussels.”

He let half a minute slide by. “How do I know you're going to protect me?”

“You don't,” I said. “Listen, Birdie, let's look at the score. I know ninety percent of it, enough to put you somewhere where absolutely everyone is going to be bigger than you, where you can't buy shirts from the Philippines, and they don't take kindly to people who traffic in kids. In a month, no one will be able to tell you from a bean bag. And I've got Woofers. I'm holding out an olive branch to you. If I were you I'd take it even if it were only a twig.”

“Just asking,” he said.

“Well, don't ask again.”

“Can't we do this in person? My life is at stake.”

“Respectively, no, and tough shit. I might be able to protect you from the cops, but I can't do anything about your business associates.”

“You could kill them,” he said promptly.

“Yes,” I said, thinking about it, “there's that.”

“But will you?”

“Get me mad at them. We were talking about Mr. Brussels. Speaking of which, where's the missus?”

“With a legitimate client. She won't be back until later.”

“Mister,” I prompted.

“Mister started setting up his leftovers, renting them to producers and directors who like them little. There are lots of them. He was also doing a profitable line in video.”

“And you?”

“I was keeping the books,” he said defensively. “That's all.”

I didn't contradict him. “Only the books? What about the data base?”

“That was later. That was her.”

“When did she come on the scene?”

“He had a heart attack on top of some twelve-year-old. I managed to keep it out of the papers, and then they read the will and she found out she was bankrupt.”

“She was out of it until he died?”

“Was she ever. Helen Housewife, that's what she was.”

“And why was she bankrupt?”

“The agency account was empty. Twelve-year-olds are expensive. He'd been eating the profits, so to speak. And then, he had a weakness for cocaine.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“ You would have liked him,” Birdie said bitterly. “A guy who could kidnap a dog.”