Lock Artist

by Steve Hamilton

  I thought it could be that simple. I really did.

  By the end of that week, I could do all eight safes in one sitting. Rolling that chair from one to the next. It took all afternoon, and by the time I opened the last safe my back would be wet and my head would be pounding, but I could do it. The next day, the Ghost would have all of the combinations reset and I’d do the whole thing again.

  By the end of the next week, I could do them all without killing myself, in about half the time. I still had the portable lock set at home, too. I’d go see Amelia in the evenings, of course, but then I’d spin every night when I got home, just to keep my touch.

  One day, another of the pagers went off. I could tell it was a different pager, just from the sound. The Ghost left the room to make a phone call, but this time when he came back he wasn’t shaking like a little kid called down to the principal’s office.

  “Buncha fucking amateurs,” he said. Saying it to himself and not really to me. “Aren’t there any real pros around anymore? Guys who know what the fuck they’re doing?”

  I listened to him say stuff like that, but I still didn’t really know what he was talking about. Who these people were on the other end of these pagers. I just kept doing my thing. Getting better and faster. I’d go down to Detroit every day, spend my time with the Ghost, then go have dinner with Amelia. Sit in her room, draw, go out on the bike. Come back. End up in her bed sometimes. More and more often, actually, as it occurred to me that nobody was stopping us. Her father would leave the house for hours at a time. Even when he was there, he’d make a big point of staying in his office, like there was no way he’d ever come upstairs and bother us. It’s kind of sick looking back at it now, just how much liberty he must have felt he owed me. Even in his own house.

  Then, finally … the day came. It was the middle of August. I went down to West Side Recovery, and from the moment I walked in the place, I could tell that something was up. The Ghost sat me down and rolled up his chair in front of me. Then he started talking.

  “First rule,” he said. “You work with people you trust. Nobody else. Ever. You got me?”

  I sat there looking at him. Why was I getting this today?

  “I need you to let me know that you’re hearing what I’m saying,” he said. “I don’t think that’s fucking too much to ask, is it? So give me some kind of indication here. Are you with me on the trust issue or not?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  He took a moment to settle himself down. Then he continued.

  “I know you don’t know shit about anybody yet. So you’re gonna have to use your gut. You get a call, you hook up with somebody, you ask yourself one simple question. You ask yourself, do I trust this person with my life? With my life? Because that’s really what you’re doing. You look them in the eye and you ask yourself that, and your gut will tell you. If there’s anything wrong … I mean anything, you walk away. You turn right around, and you walk. You got me?”

  I nodded.

  “Being a little nervous is okay. But if they look too nervous? Jumping all over the place? You turn and walk. They’re loaded? They’re high on fucking speed or something? You turn and walk.”

  He fiddled with the chain that held his glasses as he thought about it. This man who dressed like a homeless ex-librarian, telling me these things.

  “Too many people. You turn and walk. What’s too many, you ask? Depends on the situation. Simple in and out, deal with an alarm maybe, somebody looking out, somebody driving. You got what, four people? Five, maybe? So what happens if you show up and you see ten fucking guys standing around? It’s like bring-a-friend-to-work-day or something? You turn and walk. Because that’s the last thing you need, right? A few more idiots to get in the way? Or run their mouths about it afterwards? Let alone the fact that your share gets smaller with each extra guy on board. Who needs it, right? You turn and walk.”

  I kept sitting there in front of him, with my hands locked on my knees. I felt a little numb.

  “You know what else? Here’s another thing. You don’t carry a gun. You do not so much as touch a gun unless it’s an emergency. You got that?”

  I nodded. That one I could agree to without a problem.

  “It’s not your job to carry a gun. It’s not your job to do anything except open a box. That’s the only reason you’re in the fucking room, and that’s the only thing you do. You’re like the doctor in a maternity ward, right? They’ve got nurses to do all the other shit, run around like crazy while the baby’s getting ready to come out. Then when it’s time, and only when it’s time … call the doctor! He comes in, boom. Baby’s out, everybody’s happy. Doctor goes back to the wherever, the doctors’ lounge. He acts like he’s too good for everyone else, and his time is way more valuable than anybody else’s time. Because, yes, you’re damned right! It’s the truth! He knows it and everybody else knows it. He’s the doctor and everybody else ain’t worth shit.”

  I was too hot under the big green plastic shade. It was one of those late August days that didn’t get the memo about summer being almost over.

  “Bottom line, kid. Bottom line. You are an artist. So you get to act like a fucking prima donna. They expect you to. If you didn’t, they’d think something was wrong. Hell, they’d pull the plug on the whole thing. We were expecting an artist, and instead we got this schmuck. So what the fuck, eh? Let’s all go home.”

  He inched his chair a little closer to me.

  “There aren’t many of us left,” he said. “That’s the simple truth of the matter. Without you, they gotta go in, they gotta carry that safe out, they gotta do God knows what. You’ve seen what they have to do, ripping that box apart. Without you, it turns into a fucking demolition project. So you get to call your shots. You hear me? Never be afraid to do that.”

  He looked especially tired today. Especially pale and old and used up. I couldn’t help but wonder if this had done that to him, this work he was telling me about.

  “Let me show you what I’ve got here,” he said, picking up the shoebox from the floor and putting it in his lap. “This is very important, so listen carefully.”

  He opened the shoebox and picked up one of the pagers.

  “You know what these are, right? Pagers, beepers, whatever you want to call them. Somebody wants to reach you, they just dial a certain number and the pager will go off. Their number will get stored right here in this little readout. You see this screen? There’s a memory, so you can go back and find the number if you don’t happen to see it.”

  He pushed a little button and showed me.

  “It’ll usually be a secure number they leave, in case you’re wondering. A pay phone, maybe. Or some kind of temporary situation. As long as it’s clean. Anyway, you get a number on one of these, you call it.”

  I waited for him to see through to the obvious problem. He gave me one of his rare little half-smiles and shook his head.

  “Yeah, I got it, hotshot. I know you don’t call people all that often. Don’t worry. The people who need to know about you will know that you’re just calling to listen. If they don’t, then hell, that’s just one more way to know who not to work with. You don’t even have to leave the house.”

  He put the pager down, picked up another.

  “As you can see, I’ve got these all marked with different colors. Make sure you keep them straight. The green one here … hell, I don’t think this one’s gone off in two years. I don’t even know why I have it anymore.”

  He put it back in the box and picked up another.

  “The blue one … they don’t call that often. Once a year, maybe? Twice a year? From the East Coast, mostly. They’re pros, so you can feel good about it if these guys call. Okay? You got that part?”

  That one went back in the box. Another came out.

  “Okay, yellow. You’ll get beeped on this one. Problem is, you’ll never know exactly who you’re dealing with. Or where the call is coming from. Hell, it could be from
fucking Mexico or something. That’s why I’ve got it yellow, you see. Yellow, as in yellow pages, meaning that just about anybody can get this number and call you. Also, yellow as in proceed with caution. You got it?”

  Back in the box, one more out. He shook this a few times.

  “The white pager,” he said. “Never a problem here. These guys are money. Okay? They’re fucking money in the bank. They stay out west mostly, and I gotta admit, they’re a little unorthodox. Whatever they set up, it’s usually some kind of slow play. They set up a situation and they know they won’t see you for a few days, but they know you’re the guy they need and they’ll be willing to wait for you. If it rings, you go, because like I said, these guys are as good as it gets.”

  He put that one back, picked up the last one. He held it carefully, as if even the pager itself would be more dangerous than the others. He moved his chair another inch toward mine.

  “Okay, here it is,” he said. “The red one. I’ll put this in simple terms so there’s no chance of misunderstanding. If this pager goes off, you fucking call the number as soon as you can. You listen to what the man says. If he wants to meet somewhere, you go and you meet him. Are you hearing me?”

  I nodded.

  “The man on the other side of the red pager is the man who allows you to do what you do. Everything else that happens, happens because he lets it happen. In fact, if any one of these other people ever uses your services, this man gets a cut right off the top. You got that? He’s the boss, and if you ever get on the wrong side of that, you might as well just go kill yourself and save everybody else the trouble. Because this man will fuck you and everyone else around you in ways that you have never even imagined. Are we totally clear on this point?”

  I nodded again. I had a fairly good idea I knew who this man was. The man I had met in Mr. Marsh’s office. The man in the suit, with the strange cologne and the foreign cigarettes.

  “The red pager goes off,” he said. “What do you do?”

  I made a telephone with my thumb and little finger, and held it to my ear.

  “How soon do you do it?”

  I pointed to the floor. Now.

  “I know that seems to contradict everything else I was telling you about being a prima donna and walking away from things. But trust me. When he needs you, you better come through.”

  He put the red pager back in the box and closed the lid.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “He won’t call that often. It’s not like he needs a lot of help in life.”

  He held out the box to me. He waited for me to take it.

  “You’re ready. Take them.”

  No, I thought. I am most definitely not ready.

  “You realize, this isn’t something for you to choose at this point,” he said. “You already chose. Not to get too heavy or anything, but that next call on the red pager will be for you, whether you like it or not.”

  I took the box. The Ghost got up from his chair.

  “Make sure you keep spinning, every single day. You know if you stop, you’ll lose your touch.”

  He reached into his pocket and took out a ring of keys. He tossed them to me.

  “That big one’s the front door. The silver one’s the office. Some of those others are for the cabinets in there, I think. That last one’s for the back gate. Probably doesn’t even open anymore.”

  I looked up at him. What the hell did I need these for?

  “I don’t suppose you feel like running this place. So you’d better keep it locked up. Make up a sign, say we’re closed for renovations or something. You can still come in and practice.”

  I pointed at him. Where are you going?

  “I told you,” he said. “My daughter needs me. In Florida. Dream come true, right? She lives in one of those ‘manufactured homes,’ which is just a fancy way of saying a double-wide trailer. A swamp out back with alligators that come out and eat all the little dogs.”

  I gestured to everything around us.

  “Yeah, how could I ever leave this? Don’t worry, I’m not that sentimental about most of it. None of it’s mine, anyway.”

  I put my hands out.

  “Who owns it, you’re asking? Who do you think?”

  He pointed to the red pager.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to say good-bye to the ladies.”

  I knew who he meant, of course. I left him there in the back lot of West Side Recovery, so he could spend his last few minutes in the Garden of Safes. I rolled my bike out onto the sidewalk, the shoebox tucked under my arm. There was an overflowing garbage can just a few yards away, in front of the dry cleaners. I could just leave this box right on top, I thought. Ride away and never come back.

  Instead, I opened up the little storage compartment behind the seat and put the box in. It just barely fit.

  As I was standing there on the sidewalk, I saw the car parked across the street. I got one look at the driver’s face, before he picked up a newspaper and hid behind it. It was the man who had come to visit the store that one day, the man who had walked all the way back to the safes. The name came back to me. Harrington Banks. Who his friends call Harry.

  Gotta be a cop, I thought. I mean, who else would be doing this? I could go knock on his window, get a pad of paper and write down everything I know, before it goes any further.

  I put my helmet on and took off for Amelia’s house.

  Amelia’s father was gone. She was upstairs in her room. As soon as I saw her, I knew something was up.

  “How was work today?” she said.

  I gave her a shrug. It was okay.

  “It’s funny, I went by the health club and you weren’t there.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Nobody had ever even heard of you there.”

  I sat down on the bed. She turned around in the chair to face me.

  “What are you doing for my father every day?”

  This is not good, I thought. What the hell am I supposed to tell her?

  “Tell me the truth.”

  She picked up a pad of paper and a pen. She brought them over to me and then sat on the bed next to me. She waited for me to start writing.

  I’m sorry I lied to you, I wrote.

  Then I crossed that out and wrote something different.

  I’m sorry I let your father lie to you.

  “Just tell me,” she said. “I want to know what he’s making you do.”

  He’s not making me do anything.

  “Michael … Tell me what you’re doing.”

  I thought about it for a few seconds. Finally, I wrote the only words I could think to write.

  I can’t tell you.

  “Why not?”

  I’m trying to protect you.

  “Bullshit. Is it illegal?”

  I had to think about that one.

  Not so far.

  “Not so far? What does that mean?”

  I’ll tell you someday. As soon as I can. I promise.

  “Whatever you’re doing, it’s the reason those men aren’t coming to see my father anymore. Is that true?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s the reason he let me come back home.”

  I nodded again.

  She took the pad from me.

  “How do I even figure this out? I am so mad at him for what he’s gotten all of us into. I am so mad at you for going along with whatever stupid idea he came up with.”

  She got up and put the pad on her desk. Then she stood there, looking down at me.

  “And I am so mad at myself for wanting to be with you every single second. No matter what.”

  She put her right hand against my left cheek.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  One idea came to me. I pulled her down onto the bed with me and showed her.

  ______

  My trips down to West Side Recovery … they remained the one secret I kept from her. Even though it felt strange to be there without the Ghost. Just me and the safes. Me and the l
adies. Almost like I was cheating on Amelia with these eight mistresses.

  I didn’t see Banks again. Either he was no longer watching the store, or else he was getting better at hiding it. I’d look around for him, and then I’d open the door with the key the Ghost had given me, stumble over the junk in the darkness, and spend a couple of hours spinning in the back. All the while I’d keep imagining that I was hearing footsteps.

  The last few days of summer went by. Then it was time to go back to school. I was a senior at Milford High now, remember, and Amelia was a senior at Lakeland. Along with good old Zeke. So that first day back at school was tough. Griffin was long gone to Wisconsin, and even my old art teacher was nowhere to be seen. He was out with some sort of chronic fatigue syndrome and wouldn’t be back on the job until God knows when. So we had a long-term substitute art teacher, some sixty-year-old ex-hippie with gray hair down his back. Who was way more into three-dimensional art than “flatlander art,” as he called it.

  So it was already looking like a long year.

  When I got back home that afternoon, I took my helmet off and put it on the seat. The engine and the wind were both still roaring in my ears. So I almost walked away from the bike without hearing the beeping noise.

  I opened the back compartment, took the box out, and lifted the lid. I sorted through them until I found the pager that was going off. It was the red one.

  Go to the park, I thought. Go down to the river and throw the whole box in. Watch it float away. That’s the first thing that came into my mind.

  I went inside and dialed the number. Someone picked up on the other end. A voice I’d heard before. He didn’t say hello or who is this or how may I help you. Instead, he simply gave me an address on Beaubien Steet, in downtown Detroit, and a time, eleven o’clock sharp. Tonight. Knock on the back door, he said. Then he hung up.

  I was with Amelia that evening. We had dinner to mark our first days back at school. For better or worse. She told me she hated being back at Lakeland. Especially now, knowing that I was across town at Milford. I kept checking my watch, because I knew I had somewhere to be at eleven. When I left her house a little after ten … well, she knew something was going on. I could never hide that from her. Not then, not ever. But she let me go.