Everything but the Squeal by Timothy Hallinan Page B

moment before. Junko moaned.
    “You and me,” the hardcase said, stepping away from her. “Back to the pinballs.”
    “I don't play pinballs,” I said, looking at the fat man's knife against Junko's tongue.
    “You're not going to play,” he said. “I am.”
    It didn't sound good, but there wasn't any alternative. Junko hadn't swallowed in half a minute.
    “He's a cop,” Muhammad said from behind me.
    “Yeah,” the hardcase said, “and I'm Cary Grant, you dumb immigrant. After you, jerkoff.”
    “You do anything to her,” I said to the fat man, “and I'll come back for you.”
    “Careful,” the hardcase said. “You might make his hand shake.” The fat man let loose an explosive chuckle, and one of Junko's hands flew up in a gesture of pure desperation. I headed for the pinballs.
    “Against the wall,” the hardcase said, “facing me. Right between the machines.”
    I backed up until I felt a cold wall behind me and a pinball machine touching either hip. Even the most optimistic real-estate salesman couldn't have called it anything but a dead end. Cold sweat trickled its way down my sides.
    “Hands behind your back,” he said, glancing toward the big window that fronted onto Hollywood Boulevard. I followed his gaze and saw his point. From the street, anyone curious or stupid enough to look in would see the fat man's leather-clad back, between them and Junko, Muhammad polishing glasses, the ice-cream pimp and his lady enjoying their Cokes, and a couple of old friends having a chat between the pinball machines. I put my hands behind my back, feeling the rough texture of the stucco.
    He lowered the hand with the knife in it. “Hope you hang left,” he said. Then, very quickly, he stuck me through my jeans with the tip of the knife, just to the right of my fly. I felt a pinpoint of pain and my legs turned to water. “Move and you'll leave with her tongue in your pocket,” he said. “Let's try a little lower.” He stuck me again twice, jabbing the knife in and pulling it out so fast I could barely see it move.
    “Three's the charm,” he said, grinning lopsidedly at me. His teeth were rotted and brown; too much cocaine leaches away the calcium. I wished briefly that I were his dental hygienist, going after his tartar with a jackhammer. He must have seen something in my face, because he said, “But four's for fun,” and he stuck me again, deeper this time. I had to fight to remain standing.
    “What you're going to do now,” he said, “you're going to go away. And you're not going to come back. Are you?” He gave me another little jab, in the hip this time.
    “No,” I said. “I'm gone.”
    He backed away, folding the knife and slipping it into his pocket. “Then get the fuck out of here, chickenshit,” he said. He thought better of it. “No,” he said, smiling with the half of his mouth that moved, “hold on.”
    With a little grunt, he dug deeper into the pockets of his jeans and came out with something that looked like an aqualung for a skin diver from Lilliput, a flat black tanklike affair with a nozzle at the end of it. The whole thing couldn't have been more than five inches long. Well, the anopheles mosquito is even smaller than that.
    He did something to the end and a needlelike blue flame flicked its tongue at me. He brought it up under my nose.
    “Ever do any welding?” he asked. He was having fun.
    “No.” The heat of the flame pricked against my upper lip.
    “You ever want to, this'll do the job.” He held it a little closer to my face, and I let out an involuntary moan.
    “Knock it off,” advised the fat man. “Or else hold it lower. People can see.”
    “Skin melts,” the knife pimp said. “Next time you're back, we'll melt some. Understand?”
    I nodded.
    He gave me the half-grin again and lowered the flame. “Scram, pussy,” he said.
    I passed him as widely as possible, feeling like the Guitar Player being tossed out of the Oki-Burger. When I passed the fat man,