Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

“Fucking hell,” Bruner fumed. “What are you fruitcakes good for, anyway?”

“He had a head start,” either Pete or Jackie said plaintively.

“He had a head is what he had,” Bruner said. “You assholes haven't had a new idea since you learned to jerk off.”

“The children,” Mrs. Brussels said. For an insane moment I thought she was reprimanding him for swearing in front of them, but then she added, “We've got to get them out of here.”

“Keep your pants on,” Bruner snapped. “We'll be gone in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes. Clutching my newly empty bucket, I stepped lightly onto the floor and slid on my back underneath the truck. The concrete floor was cold.

“Marty,” Bruner said, “get your ass outside and circle the block. Maybe these cretins missed him.” The cretins murmured dissent in injured tones. “Look for a low-rider's Chevy,” Bruner continued. “If you see it, slash the tires.”

“I haven't got a knife,” Marty said as I stared up at the underside of the truck. It hadn't been maintained, and rust was rampant. Also, there was blood in my eyes from the cuts on my forehead. I wiped it away with my sleeve.

“Take Marco's,” Bruner said acidly. “I don't think he'll need it.”

“You should kill him,” Mrs. Brussels said. “Poor baby.”

Somebody, and it had to be Marco, let out a gabble of pain and protest. It was cut short by the spanging sound of Bruner's gun, echoing between the warehouse's bare walls. End of Marco. “Now,” Bruner said, “now will you get the fucking knife and get out of here?”

The door closed behind Marty. I stared up at an expanse of rust.

“Children,” Mrs. Brussels said. She clapped her hands. “We're not going to hurt Marie if you behave. You all like Marie, don't you?” There was something that might have been assent. “For right now, you stay close to Pete and Jackie. They're going to take care of you. Marie, you're group captain. I've saved your life, and I'm depending on you to make sure that everybody's good.”

I'd worked my belt partway off, arching my back so I could tug it through the loops in my pants. The tongue of the belt was sharp between my fingers, but not sharp enough.

“We're all going for a nice drive,” Mrs. Brussels continued in the same implacably insane voice. “If we're all good, no one will get cut. If we're not good, Marie will get cut first, and then we'll cut whoever was bad.” Now I had the belt all the way off. I sharpened the cheap metal tongue on the concrete floor.

“I'm going upstairs,” Bruner announced.

“Not by yourself, you're not,” Mrs. Brussels said curtly. “You just wait. Pete, Jackie, keep them together.” Feet shuffled as Pete and Jackie pushed the children into a tight group. At the far end of the warehouse I could see fat black shoes and small bare feet. “What do you say, Marie?” Mrs. Brussels asked, Miss Manners gone berserk.

“Thank you,” said a tiny voice.

“And what else?”

“We'll be good.”

“I only hear one voice,” Mrs. Brussels said threateningly.

“We'll be good,” the children chorused raggedly.

“Let's go, Max,” Mrs. Brussels said. A moment later I heard the two of them climbing the circular iron stairway to the foreman's office.

That left Pete and Jackie, and they had their hands full with the kids. They mumbled resentfully at each other and herded the children toward a corner, and I found what I was looking for.

It had to be right. Nothing else could be that big. Trucks the size of this one took lots and lots of whatever the hell they ran on.

After I'd rubbed the tongue of the belt against the concrete a few more times, I tested the point. It was sharp enough to puncture my left index finger, which it promptly did. I sucked on the finger, swallowed yet more blood, and shoved the new point at the end of the tongue against the bottom of the fuel tank. This was my week for petroleum products. I was sweating and bleeding at the same time, and my eyes kept clouding over.

Rust or no rust, it wasn't easy. While I was working the spike back and forth, trying to make a hole, the door swung open and closed. Marty had come back in.

“I found the car,” he announced proudly. “It was right in front.” Then he paused. “Where are they?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” either Pete or Jackie said. “Scamming the loot, probably.”

“We'll see about that,” Marty said quietly. “Anyway, I slashed his tires. He's not going noplace.”

“I thought he was already gone,” either Pete or Jackie said.

“Ummm,” said Marty, sounding less certain, and at that point I punctured the bottom of the tank, and diesel fuel poured out onto my face.

“You saw the car?” Bruner boomed at Marty from the top of the stairs.

“Right where he left it,” Marty said. “But it's totaled.”

“Then he's still around,” Bruner said. “Jackie, you dipshit, get out there and find him.” I heard Bruner's shoes click as he came down the circular stairway.

I positioned the yellow plastic bucket beneath the stream. The gasoline hitting the bottom of the bucket made a sound I hadn't anticipated, a rattling noise like someone pissing on a tin roof.

“What's that?” Mrs. Brussels asked.

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Bruner replied. “Stop imagining things. We'll need the truck at the end.” That was the truck I was under.

“No, listen,” Mrs. Brussels said insistently.

I hoisted the bucket until it touched the bottom of the tank. Now it sounded like someone pissing into a pond. The bucket was getting heavier, and the smell of petroleum made me choke.

“He's here,” Bruner said wildly. He'd given up on poise. “Son of a bitch, he's here. Get Jackie back. No, skip it. Go get him. Kill the motherfucker.”

The bucket was full. I hoisted it away from the hole in the tank and shoved the tongue of the belt into the hole as hard as I could. The stream stopped and the belt dangled down from the tank like a rattler anesthetized in mid-strike.

They were so busy looking around the other end that I could climb back on top of the truck without being heard. It was harder than it had been the first time because I had the bucket in my hand. I gave up and heard the children crying, and then I didn't give up. Back on top, bucket in hand, I waited.

Marty was the first one I saw. From the far end I heard the children being organized again. It had to be Pete. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, and I put one hand over my mouth to silence myself.

“Nobody,” Marty said after a cursory look around, his bald spot gleaming. He sounded relieved. He wasn't being paid enough for this. Heaving a sigh, he moved away from beneath me and into the darkness.

“Bullshit,” Bruner said from some distance. “You didn't look carefully enough. He's here.”

“Get the kids into the truck,” Mrs. Brussels said. “Open the door.”

The door she meant could only mean the airplane door, and the truck she meant could only be the one I was on top of. It was the closest to the door.

“What about her ?” Bruner asked.

“We'll get her before we roll,” Mrs. Brussels said. “It's not as though she could go anywhere. Or maybe we'll just let her burn. Now, open the damn door.”

A quiver ran through the metal skin of the truck, and I looked down to see Pete pulling open a hatch at the back of the refrigerated compartment. The children huddled there in their sheets, small heads bent downward. Pete pulled the hatch open, and the children, with Marie bringing up the rear like a good group captain, started to climb in. I ducked back. There was nothing I could do without hurting the kids.

Then I heard a ratchety sound and looked to my left. Bruner was pulling on a chain that connected two iron pulleys, one above the door and one below. The pulleys were anchored to the wall with heavy bolts. The chain ran from the floor to the ceiling.