Everything but the Squeal

in our thus-far unsatisfactory relationship, you said Tssss.’ I want to know what Tssss’ means.”

“Like I said, fuck you.”

“As I said. Jesus, is it really harder to speak good English than bad? It doesn't take any more words. Do your hands hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Well, here's something to take your mind off it. Pull in your tongue.” He did, and I slammed him under the jaw with my fist. “See?” I said as his knees sagged, “if I hadn't told you to pull in your tongue, you'd be standing here bleeding to death and pleading with us in broken English. Your problem is that you don't know who your friends are.”

“Your problem is that you're an asshole and you don't know what you're fucking around with.” He was sweating, and his tongue came out to lick off a drop that was rolling past the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at me and yanked his tongue back in as though it were the retractable cord on a vacuum cleaner.

“Well, tell me,” I said reasonably.

He looked away for a moment, thinking about it. Then he gazed over my shoulder at Jessica. “Who's the pretty little thing?”

I hit him in the stomach. “As I mentioned, there's an agenda here,” I said, flexing my knuckles to make sure they were okay, “and my job is to see that we stick to it.”

He made windy huffing sounds and then straightened up and gave me the worst look he could manage. “Man,” he said, “you can talk to me all night and you're not going to learn nothing.”

“Anything,” I corrected automatically. “And you're laboring under a delusion. You don't talk, and you're the steak for the evening. Unlike the Donner party, we've got fire. Jessica.”

“Yeah?”

“Go back to the car. Get the gasoline can and the tool kit and bring them back.”

“The gasoline can?”

“Do as you're told.”

Muttering, “Yes, massa,” she went and got them. The pimp looked at the can with some skepticism.

“You wouldn't dare,” he said.

“I don't think I'll have to,” I said, pulling my belt out of my pants.

“I'm scared to death,” he said.

“Wait,” I advised him. “Tell me a little later.”

I took the can from Jessica and used my belt to fasten it to the tree above his head. Then I opened the tool kit, took out a ten-penny nail, and punched a hole in the bottom of the can. A couple of drops of gasoline hit him on the right shoulder.

“God.” He sneered. “I've never been so frightened.”

“I don't suppose you did much physics in high school.”

“I didn't do high school,” he said with some pride.

“Jessica, explain to this little beast the effect of atmospheric pressure on the flow of a liquid.”

“Huh?” Jessica said, safely behind me. Her eyes were enormous.

“I have to do everything myself,” I complained. “The flow of the gasoline is slow right now because the top on the can is tight. But when I loosen it, like this,” I said, going on tiptoe and giving it a twist, “the weight of the atmosphere- which is fourteen pounds per square inch, by the way- pushes down on the gasoline and the flow increases.”

Sure enough, the gasoline began to drip steadily onto his shoulder.

“So?” he asked, but with less certainty.

“So,” I said, “do an experiment. Find a measuring device, anything that's more or less steady. Your heartbeat would do if it weren't about to speed up, which it is. Find something that doesn't give a shit about you. The crickets will work. Listen.”

I held up a scholarly finger and all three of us listened.

The crickets shrilled in the trees with monotonous regularity. “Count the pulses of the cricket noise and then count the drops of gasoline. The crickets don't care if you live or die. Count the pulses as I open the top a little further.”

We all stood there as the crickets rubbed their hind legs together. “Three drops to a pulse,” I said. I gave the top of the can a twist or two. “Now we've got five. Atmospheric pressure, you see.”

“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?”