Everything but the Squeal

“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.”

“Junko told you this?”

“Sure. Move the fucking torch.”

“Who'd they kill?”

“That's why she'll never leave me.” I took hold of his chin, and he rolled his eyes wildly to keep the flame in view.

“Who?” I said.

“One of them, one of the ones in Junko's group, was a Mongoloid, you know, one of those idiot kids who looks like an Oriental? God only knows where they found her. I mean, that kid wasn't going to tell anybody anything, but they put her through obedience school anyway. And when she made a mistake, like the little dope was bound to do sooner or later, they offed her. Junko was watching, with a bunch of other kids. Said she threw up all over the floor. Right up to the point where they cut the little dummy, she figured they were only fooling, even after what they'd done to her. They made her clean up the mess, I mean both messes, hers and the dummy's. So, see? I look like a pretty nice guy.”

“How did you get her?” I felt like throwing up myself.

“They used her up,” he said with an obvious effort. “Please move it.”

Jessica started toward it but I waved her off. “Don't touch it. He's got a minute or two, unless the fumes kill him. What do you mean, they used her up?”

“They got tired of her. They passed her around to every- one a few times and then nobody wanted her anymore. They always need new ones. New babies.”

“How old is she?”

“Now?” He looked at the horizon and tried to focus his eyes. “Sixteen. Then, she was twelve.”

“Four years? They've been at this four years?”

“Just about. She was one of the first ones.” He kicked out feebly at the torch and missed. “Please,” he said, “I'm talking to you. I'm talking to you, right?”

I reached down and picked it up. “They just let her go?” I asked.

“Sure. What's she going to do? She came to me.” He kept his eyes glued to the torch as though he thought I was going to touch the flame to him.

“How long ago?” I asked.

“About a month.” Bingo, I thought.

“Why wouldn't she go to the police?” Jessica said.

“That's the first thing they teach you,” he said. He sounded like he'd run a marathon. “Don't trust the cops.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Money,” he said. “These people are making lots of money. Cops like money, same as everyone else. You go to a cop, it might be the wrong one. Then you'd be dead, just as simple as that.”

“She didn't come to you,” I said. “You bought her.”

“Wrong,” he said.

“You bought her. You're connected with them. That's how you know they had Aimee. In fact, you gave them Aimee, didn't you? A month ago. And they gave you Junko.”

“Please,” he said, sounding very young. “I'm getting real sick.” I realized for the first time how young he was,