“Are you in trouble?”
Still groggy from his nap, he said slowly, “Define ‘trouble’.”
“Oh, shit. Don’t tell me that you’ve gotten—”
“Nothing is wrong. I just ran into a little, uh, complication up there.”
“Does it involve the police?”
“No. A partner, a former partner of mine—we got into a little fight.”
“All right. I don’t want to hear this. Just tell me that everything’s okay, and nothing down here is affected.”
Jake nodded. “Everything’s okay, and nothing down here is affected.”
His brother walked into the kitchen. He asked if Jake wanted a beer.
“No thanks. So why did Rachel leave?” “I’d rather not get into it now.”
“Are you guys splitting up?”
Eugene popped open the beer can and drank deeply. He sighed. Finally he said, “I don’t know.”
“Christ.” Jake had assumed their marriage was a constant. He remembered when he had first met Rachel when she and his brother were engaged, about ten years ago; they were renting a small one-bedroom apartment in the Richmond district. Eugene had recently changed careers and was working for a small software company. Rachel worked as a bank teller. They couldn’t stop touching each other. They linked index fingers. Jake was embarrassed. Had that been ten years ago? He was startled by how quickly a decade had passed. He was even more startled to see that he had nothing to show for it.
“When did she go? Where did she go?” Jake asked.
“Two days ago. Staying with friends in Marin.”
“No wonder this place is a mess.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what happened—”
“Look, I’m beat. I’ve got to sleep. I’m going back in at six.”
Jake said, “Mind if I sleep here on the couch? I’ll be out of the way in a couple of days.”
“Take the guest room. Stay as long as you want. You’ll have the place to yourself.”
“Thanks,” he replied, and stared at the top of Eugene’s head. His hair was thinning, and Jake said, “Are you losing hair? Shit, does this mean that’s going to happen to me?”
Eugene laughed, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “No, that’s my fault. Apparently I’ve been rubbing my head in my sleep. I have to wear a cap now.”
“In your sleep?”
“You know, like this.” He demonstrated, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Stress?”
“I guess.”
“Euge, I’ve got to tell you. You don’t look so good.”
Annoyance crossed his face, but then he seemed to sag. “Yes, I know. It’s been a rough six months.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Eugene stared at Jake and said, “You’ve been touching that knapsack like it’s a baby. What’s in it?”
“You sure you want to know?”
“Yes. If it’s something illegal I don’t want it here.”
“All right. I’ll get a safe deposit box.”
“Jesus. It’s not drugs or anything—”
“Of course not. Just some jewelry, some cash.”
Eugene’s face tightened. Jake added, “I’ll do it in the morning. First thing.”
“All right. I don’t care. I’ve got to rest. I’ll try to get off early tomorrow. We’ll grab dinner. You still like Korean food?”
“I do.” Jake watched his brother pull himself up slowly, struggling with his own body. He finished the can of beer and said good night. Jake was alarmed to see the life flickering from his brother’s eyes. Eugene was dying as well.
5
Jake’s former partner, Bobby Null, pulled himself out of the dumpster, his rage so sharpened and crisp that he couldn’t feel the bullet in his gut. He wouldn’t get the full range of pain until after the surgery, when four inches of his small intestines would have to be removed because the bullet shredded part of his ileum and the abdomen muscle around his groin would have to be sutured and stapled. He would live because the bullet had first been deflected by his belt buckle, had torn through his intestines, travelled along his hip bone and had lodged into his left gluteus maximus. The surgeon would later tell him that had his large intestines or bladder been hit, he might have had to wear a colostomy bag for his feces, and a catheter for his urine. His prostate was safe, but he could have been impotent as well.
But before all that, Bobby had to live. Jake had shot him in the gut and left him in the garbage. Jake had made a mistake by not shooting him again, but Bobby had passed out inexplicably after the first shot, and perhaps he had seemed dead; it might have had to do with Jake’s punches to his face while they were fighting for the gun. Jake was stronger than Bobby had thought. When Bobby awoke, he had no idea where he was. He knew he had been shot, though. He was surprised to be alive. His head pulsed so loudly, he felt the beating in his hands. He smelled rotting chicken and grass clippings, but then realized something was really wrong with his stomach. When he looked down and saw that his shirt and pants were soaked in blood, he felt his heart fluttering, and he moaned. He tugged at his shirt. He thought of germs, of maggots. He hated bugs. Bobby had been shot with his own goddamn gun. He slowly pulled himself up, his fingers scratching the rusty metal. He stopped. Something was moving in here. He yelped, and with a scrambling burst of energy he yanked himself out of the dumpster, the pain making him dizzy. He burned at the thought of Jake leaving him here to die.
He collapsed on the pavement, the pain ricocheting through his head and clouding his vision. The lust for revenge kept Bobby moving. No way he was going to let this end here and now, in a fucking dumpster with all that money and jewelry gone. Bobby had found the jewelers, had studied their routines, and had brought Jake in. It was Bobby’s job. The fact that Jake improved it and did the actual stealing didn’t matter. It was Bobby’s job. He deserved more than half. He definitely didn’t deserve this.
Bobby tried to stand, but he was too weak, and his legs buckled. He fell to the ground and let out a string of curses. He had lost too much blood. He was woozy. The street lamps in the distance blurred. He knew where he was—along Portage Bay in the U-District. He and Jake had chosen this place because it was so quiet at night. He needed to get to the road. He doubted their car was still there, but he needed help. He began crawling, dragging his legs behind him, his fingers scraping gravel. There was a marina a few hundred feet ahead. He had to find someone. He clawed himself forward a few feet at a time. He was growing weaker. His legs were cold. He saw bugs beginning to notice him, moving towards him.
He heard laughter and stopped. He listened for more. Nothing. Then he realized it was his own laughter he had heard. He was delirious. What the hell. He had tried to screw over Jake and it ended up like this: slithering on his fucking hands and knees, his guts spilling out. He laughed again. He was going to find Jake and make him crawl like this. He was going to shoot out Jake’s knees and put a few bullets into his stomach, and watch him twitch on the fucking ground. The thought of this gave Bobby more strength. He inched closer to the road, but his arms were wobbly. His shoulders ached. Something was pinching him in his stomach. The bugs were circling him, readying for the kill. Fuck. Keep away.
He wasn’t going to make it. He couldn’t focus. His head grew heavier, and sank to the ground. The gravel dug into his cheeks, something long and sharp scraping his chin. He couldn’t even turn his head. Fuck. He was blacking out again. He could really die. Not like this. Not fucking like this. The bugs began advancing. Get the fuck away. He tried to pull himself up, but his arms no longer worked. He was breathing hard. He heard footsteps, but thought he was imagining it.
“Hey, hey. You all right? Something wrong?” a voice said.
“Doctor. Help. Hospital,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if he had said that aloud.
“Shit. Hold on. I’ll call 9-1-1.”
Bobby lost consciousness. He heard the bugs moaning in disappointment.
6
&nb
sp; At the Yamachi Bank two blocks from Eugene’s building Jake opened a checking account with two thousand in cash, and rented a safe deposit box. He offered his Washington driver’s license for identification, but gave Eugene’s apartment as his current address. Using a private booth, Jake catalogued some of his jewels, mostly diamond rings and gold wedding bands, again surprised by the amount. He really hadn’t had time to examine all this carefully.
Look at this.
He hadn’t expected the jewelers to bring home most of their store jewelry, just the important items they didn’t want to leave at the store safe. It looked as if he might have cleaned out half their stock. He estimated the value of some of them, checking the hallmarks for the gold and the gemstone cuts, the mountings, the workmanship. Many of the diamonds were inferior—poor colors, flaws in the facet angles. He ignored the little white tags hanging from some of the pieces, the prices ridiculously high. But he stopped and studied a diamond, possibly one-carat, solitaire in white gold. A Tiffany setting. The lighting in this booth wasn’t great, but the color seemed okay, maybe a G or H, and using his jeweler’s loupe from his backpack estimated the clarity to be VVS2 or VS1—just a guess without any standard comparison stones and appraisal tools. Maybe four or five thousand retail?
The other pieces were crap, though. The 14-karat chains were machine manufactured with hollow links and high porosity. Some of the rings were just terrible: sloppy mountings with scratches, rough polishing, and even burrs on the cheaper wedding bands. Scrap. Cheap, imported shit. The diamond engagement rings were slightly better, though he found a few with glaring facet cut errors, and the colors looked off, possibly as bad as an M or worse. Still, there was an eternity ring, in which the diamonds were set partially around the band, that looked good, as well as that diamond solitaire in white gold that he would have to store for a while. He guessed that half of the jewels here would end up at a wholesaler as scrap. The rest he could sell on consignment as estate jewelry. If everything sold, he could bring in maybe thirty thousand total. That and the cash made this his biggest job. Especially since he was no longer splitting the proceeds. He stopped and thought about Bobby. Hell. He tried to tell himself that it hadn’t really been his fault, that Bobby had tried to screw him over.
After packing most of the expensive jewels and keeping some samples to test the market, he buzzed the guard and returned his box to its slot. He stopped at a McDonald’s and had some fries, sitting on a stool at the window. The street was crowded, dirty, and jammed with clothing and furniture stores, a few restaurants and coffee houses. He noticed a small group of homeless kids sitting on their knapsacks and rolled-up sleeping bags while asking for money from pedestrians. Large trucks double parked, their engines still running and puffing out black exhaust, clogging the already dense traffic.
He wasn’t seeing death everywhere this morning. The banker who helped him open his account was alive, her eyes bright and pleasant. She was young, though. Maybe that had something to do with it. He knew all this death had to do with Bobby, and the fact that he had probably killed him. A gut shot like that was fatal, and he was out cold when Jake had left him.
He pushed this away. Focus on now. He’d have to check the Seattle papers to follow up what happened, see what the police did. The worst case: the police connect Bobby to Jake and start searching. But Jake had been careful. The only link was Chih, his fence, and even Chih didn’t know Jake’s last name, address, or anything too personal. Everyone had been careful after the Malloy mess, something like a dozen guys going down because of one talkative asshole. Someone shot Malloy on his toilet. No one was surprised.
But all this taught Jake something. His father used to say there was a lesson in everything. He wondered if Eugene remembered that. Jake had avoided the police for this long and now he knew he couldn’t depend on his luck. Bobby was a good example of this. No one had tried to doublecross him before. He thought he could read people. He thought he could sense subterfuge.
Part of the problem: Jake had been scaling back, and maybe this had dulled some of his skills. He had been doing fewer jobs, and actually was working part-time at an Italian restaurant on Capitol Hill. He was a cold-side assistant, slapping together cold pastas and salads. The pay wasn’t great, but he had free meals and didn’t mind the routine. In fact, he liked the change. He didn’t have to worry about getting shot. He had moved from bus boy to buffet refiller to cold-side assistant chef. Not bad. Before that he had worked in the mailroom at InsurCo, and had quit after cursing out his manager. The restaurant was low-key, an extended family thing, and no one rode him. Christopher, the head cook, even mentioned more hours for him, if he wanted. The restaurant was a pit stop, a temporary oasis. He liked to think there.
That was all shot to hell now. He hadn’t even given notice. Fuck it.
So what’s the lesson here, he thought. Never trust anything handed to you. Never trust anyone who couldn’t keep still. Work alone.
A black man smoking a cigar passed by Jake’s window. He stopped, looked at Jake, and waggled his finger in a disapproving gesture. Startled, Jake turned around and checked behind him, unsure who the target of this was. But there was no one near Jake. He turned back. The man frowned, and continued walking. Jake stared, then laughed. Some people could read souls though the window of McDonald’s.
7
Jake entered the apartment with Eugene’s extra key. He saw someone who wasn’t his brother slip across the hallway. Startled, Jake leapt for cover, rolling behind the sofa. He waited, listened. His back broke out in a sweat. His groin ached and he closed his legs. His thoughts scattered, flew away.
“Uh, Euge?” a woman’s voice said.
Jake steadied himself. Rachel was peering at him from the bedroom doorway. When he stood up, her face froze. Jake quickly backed away and said, “It’s me, Jake. Eugene’s brother.” He noticed that her hair—once long and silky—was now short. Although Rachel was Anglo, her hair had had that Asian gloss. “You cut your hair.”
Rachel recognized him and stepped out. “Jeez! What the hell are you doing here?”
Jake smiled. “Eugene said the exact same thing when he saw me.”
“Holy moly. I just had a heart attack.” She was wearing a dark skirt and a wrinkled short-sleeved white blouse, the first few buttons undone, exposing a thin gold chain necklace. Her cropped hair made her neck seem longer, slimmer, and she squinted at him. She placed her hand over her heart. “You scared me.”
“You scared me too.” He moved out from behind the sofa. He fanned his shirt.
“You’re a little jumpy,” she said as she looked down where Jake had rolled.
“I thought you were in Marin.”
She stiffened. “You spoke to Euge.”
“Just briefly last night. Are you back?”
“Am I back,” she said slowly, trying this out. She nodded. “For now.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. He stared at her hair, cut so close to her scalp that it followed the contours of her head. Everything seemed sharper—the angles of her cheekbones, her jaw. Her small, wiry earrings matched her necklace. Threads of lit gold wrapped around her. He said, “Your hair.”
“About a year ago. I needed a change.”
“It looks good.”
“Really? Most people don’t like it.” “I like it.”
She gave him a wry smile. Then it quickly disappeared. “What did Euge tell you?”
“About you? Visiting friends.”
She took this in, then said, “And you’re here.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
He told her he had left Seattle and was passing through. “Eugene offered me the guest room for a few days. I hope it’s okay.”
“It’s okay. This place is a mess, though.”
“It is. Eugene doesn’t seem so hot either.” She turned to him. “Oh? How so?”
“He’s pulling his hair out.”
Smiling, she said, “That’s been going on for a while. Did he
wear his get-up?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“The head gear and the mouthguard—”
“The what?”
“Mouthguard. He grinds his teeth. He needs to wear a plastic mouthguard.” She laughed. “When he goes to bed it looks like he’s going into battle.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
She stopped. “You’re right. It is.” She moved to the kitchen and began cleaning up the counter. Jake followed, and helped. He wiped the sink of grease stains. She said, “I’m just here for lunch. I have to get back to work soon.”
“You still at that bank?”
“I am. Not for long.”
“A better job?”
She shook her head. “I’m quitting and taking some time off.”
He said, “I remember the last time I was here you talked about how much you hated it.”
“I did? When was that?”
“About five years ago.”
“Five years? Has it been five years?” She dumped the old pizza into the trash. “Now that’s sad. What a waste.”
“The pizza?”
“The past five years,” she said. “My life.”
“What’re you going to do when you quit?”
“That’s the big question.” She turned to him and folded her arms tightly to her chest. “Are you sure you didn’t talk to Euge about me?” “He came in past midnight, inhaled a couple of beers, and went straight to bed. He left this morning before I got up.” Jake noticed the sculpted muscles on her arms. She noticed him noticing. He said, “Have you been working out?”
She nodded. “You like?” She curled her arm and showed him a bicep knot.
“I like.”
“Almost two years. Three times a week.”
“Not bad.”
“You still?”
“Yeah. You should show me the local gym.”
“I’ll bring you as my guest.”
“Looks like Eugene could use a little working out.”
Her face closed up and she turned back towards the counter, running her hand over the edge of the sink. Jake wasn’t sure what he had said. He cleared his throat and asked, “He’s taking me out to dinner tonight. You’re coming, of course.”
The Lockpicker Page 2