Everything but the Squeal

“You're kidding,” the Mountain said, using his nauseating cheesecloth to swab at one of the many spots on Alice's fender as I got out of the car. He'd been standing forlornly in the center of the asphalt sumo ring, waiting for a fat guy to come along and challenge him. All the fat guys were still in bed, tucked warmly away in the gray morning, and he'd come over to the car the moment I drove in. “I haven't seen one of these since I rented LaBamba.”

“I wish I were kidding,” I said. I assuaged the twinge of disloyalty I felt by patting Alice on the driver's door. “She drives okay.”

“One of the players drives an old Chevy, too,” he said, wiping a headlight. “He's a real jerkoff.” I suddenly remembered Junko's pimp's car.

“Hey, Mountain,” I said in my best Wednesday-morning voice, which wasn't much, “how about I buy us both a burger?”

The Mountain lived on burgers, and he always wanted one or, more usually, two. Two it was. He set mine down in front of me and both of his in front of him, gave me a big yellow smile, and took the first burger like an aspirin.

“So?” he said around a mouthful of beef, bread, and onions. It actually sounded more like “Fo?” Some mustard landed on his plaid shirt, adding a nice touch to the edible Jackson Pollock that decorated it.

“What's his name?” I asked.

“Mark Intveld. A knife boy. Likes to call himself Marco. Got a little Okinawan girl. Tommy just about shit, first time he saw her.”

“Junko.”

The Mountain raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment.

“He's scared,” I said.

“Marco? Good. Hope he gets scared to death. He ever comes around here, I'll turn him inside out and use him for rubber gloves.” He amputated half his second burger in a single bite. “What's he scared of?”

“Me,” I said, “and this is between us.”

“Muumph,” he said, chewing.

“I'm serious. I'm not supposed to be talking to anybody. The truth is, I think I may need some help pretty soon.”

The Mountain made a gesture like he was zipping his lips closed and then realized that his mouth was wide open to take another bite. He lowered the hamburger with a supreme act of will and completed the gesture.

Although the place was empty, I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “There's a bunch of people who are dealing in kids. Not street pimps. This is a real business, not a cottage industry. They put the kids through something called obedience school to break them, and then they pass the kids around somehow. Whatever they do at obedience school, it scares the shit out of the kids. They also mark them by burning them with a cigar.”

The hamburger remained in his lowered hand. His little pig eyes glowed. I could have seen them across a dark room. “Who are they?”

“I don't know, exactly. I mean, I think I know, but I can't prove anything. They've got the little girl I was looking for.”

‘The little blondie?”

“That's the one.” The Mountain started to say something and then looked up.

“Whoops,” said a throaty contralto behind me. “E1 copperino.”

I turned to see Velveeta and Tammy. Tammy had finally gotten something warmer to wear, a ratty thrift- shop chinchilla that had probably begun life as a small herd of musk-rats. They were out pretty early, for them, and they both looked like they'd had a bad night.

The Mountain got up. It was like Mount Fuji taking wing. “What do you two want to be called today?” he asked. “Boys or girls?”

“Girls,” Tammy said primly.

“Well, girls, scram. We're closed to pre-ops until four. New health rule.”

“Jeez,” Tammy said. “Not even coffee?”

“To go,” the Mountain said.

“Come on, Tammy,” Velveeta said, tugging at the fur. Some of it came away in her fingers. “We'll take our trade elsewhere. Who wants to eat with cops anyway?” The two of them wobbled on their high heels back into the parking lot. The Mountain turned his attention back to the remainder of his burger.

“I think they pretend to be talent agents,” I said. “They tell the kids they're going to make stars out of them, take their pictures, fill their heads full of stuff. Then, I guess, they put them through obedience school and use the pictures to sell the kids to whoever’s on the circuit. Listen, do you remember a little Mongoloid girl on the streets a few years ago?”

“Anita,” he said promptly. Something like pain squeezed his features. “Sheeze. Hispanic, but everybody thought she was Oriental. She was only here a few days. I got her to go home, but her parents didn't want her, can you believe it? She was back in a week. Kid was seriously mental. Couldn't even get dressed right without help.”

“They got her too,” I said. “She did something wrong, and they killed her.”

The Mountain sat back and blinked heavily. He looked around at the empty tables as though he was trying to remember where Anita had sat. Then he picked up the remaining half-burger and threw it across the room. It hit another table with a flat, splatting sound.

“Fuckers,” he said. He reached up behind him, grabbed his greasy pigtail, and gave it a savage tug. The action seemed to center him. “You want help,” he said, “you got it. Anytime.”

“What do you know about the cops?”

“Like what?” His eyes were watchful.

“I've heard something about some of them being on the take. Do you know anything about that?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Kids talk. You know. I figured it was just an excuse not to get anywhere near them. Kids don't like cops.”

“What did they say?”

“That there were cops who weren't straight. You know, who were in the game.”

“Maybe they were right.”

“According to who?”

“Marco.”

“So you talked to old Marco.” He almost smiled. It wasn't a pretty sight. “You get his knife?”

“He'll get another one.”

“Yeah. Asshole can't pick his teeth with anything smaller than a bayonet.”

“I want to know if you hear anything else about the police.”

“That the help you wanted?” He looked disappointed.

“Only part of it. I may need you to kill some guys.” I was only half-joking.

“That's more like it.”

“So, now,” I said, “you've got something to look forward to.”

The Mountain put several chins on top of a massive palm and regarded me. “You're worried about the cops. That's why you're not going to them.”

“You got it,” I said.

“Hey,” a girl's voice said.

Apple hovered uncertainly over the Mountain's shoulder. “Hey, honey,” the Mountain said in an entirely new tone of voice.

“Have you seen Donnie?” Her enormous sweater was wrapped around her, but her lips were purple with the cold. She couldn't have weighed ninety pounds. Her hair looked better for the washing in the Executive Suites, but not much.

“Not since last night. He was in here last night.”

“He didn't come home.” She had a bruise on her cheek that hadn't been there the last time I saw her.

The hair on my arms prickled. “Was he supposed to?” I asked.