The Lockpicker

by Leonard Chang

  “Sure. Like old times.” She washed her hands.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Sure. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”

  She dried her hands. Jake noticed that she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. An uneasiness rose up in his chest. Staying here wasn’t a good idea. She put on a jacket and grabbed a purse. After a quick goodbye, she glided out of the apartment.

  Jake remembered his brother and Rachel at their wedding, a big affair at Paradise Park in Tiburon, an outdoor wedding with a seven-piece band and a woman in a tight red dress who sang jazz, swing, and Sheena Easton songs. It had started out smoothly, most of the guests arriving on time, dozens of bottles of wine and champagne being opened and finished, and the ceremony itself on the grass overlooking the bay couldn’t have been more picturesque. Rachel had cried when she gave her vows. Jake was moved by this.

  The brief cloudburst during the reception didn’t mar the event, but the mud caused a few problems. Two guests slipped after walking off the dance platform, their legs wobbly from the West Coast Swing. Shoes, pants cuffs, and dress fringes were splotched with dark spots. It grew cold very quickly, the breeze from the bay fluttering the decorations, and although nothing went really wrong, Jake sensed the anxiety in Rachel and her maid of honor, Julia. They hurried to the centerpiece candles on each table, securing the small vases against the wind. When it seemed that the guests were getting too cold, when fewer people went to the dance floor but stayed huddled at their tables, some hugging themselves and rubbing their arms, Rachel pulled Eugene onto the dance floor. Some mud had been splashed onto the platform, and Eugene pointed to her dress in alarm. Too late. Black streaks. Jake watched this from a table, where he was half-listening to another guest, one of Eugene’s college buddies. Rachel looked down at her dress, bunched part of it in her hand and held it up above her ankles. Eugene’s face was pained. Rachel said something like “Forget it,” or maybe it was “Fuck it,” and they danced. She whispered into his ear. He smiled. They hugged and slow-danced to the big-busted woman in red singing “For Your Eyes Only.” Jake thought of James Bond. Rachel swayed back and forth in Eugene’s arms, resting her head against his shoulder, and Eugene kissed her tenderly on her temple. She let go of her dress and held him with both arms, hugging him tightly. Jake stared at an edge of her dress dragging behind her.

  8

  Bobby Null heard his mother before he saw her. He was drowsing in and out of sleep, uncertain of time passing, hospital sounds of quick footsteps in the hallway, doctors being paged on the loudspeaker. Then a gravelly voice from down the hall said, “Where is room 214? Down here?” Bobby opened his eyes. Shit.

  When his mother walked in, he pretended to be asleep. She said, “For Christ’s sake. You’ve been out for two days.” She shook his arm roughly, and this jarred his head.

  “Hey!” he barked. “Stop that!”

  “I’ve had it, you understand? I’ve had it.” She was in her tan waitressing outfit, her hair pulled tightly back, and was carrying a small suitcase. She saw him look at it and said, “Yes, it’s your stuff. I said you can visit as long as you stayed out of trouble. Look at yourself. This is staying out of trouble?”

  “I was mugged—”

  “Like hell you were. I know you too well. Don’t you dare lie to me. You want to end up dead like your brother? Fine. I’m not going to watch it.” She dropped the suitcase onto the linoleum with a slap. “Don’t come back until you’ve cleaned up. I can’t go through this again.”

  “Mom,” he said, unable to stop the whine from leaking in. “I just got shot. You don’t got to do this.”

  She pursed her lips, then shook her head. She turned to leave, but stopped. She said, “Oh, and those people from L.A. have been calling. You owe them money?”

  The guy in the next bed looked over. Bobby said, “Fuck off.” The guy turned away.

  His mother said, “Did you hear me?”

  “They called? At the house?”

  “At my house. How dare you give them my number! Do you think I want some lowlife hoods knowing where I live? Do they seriously think I can pay them what you owe? Are you crazy?”

  “They said that?”

  “I’m changing my number, changing my locks. I don’t want you in Seattle anymore. Do you understand me? Go back to L.A. I should’ve known you coming up here wasn’t for your brother. You hated him.”

  “God, Mom, give me a break—”

  “At least he was honest with me! At least he tried to clean up!”

  Bobby said, “He was an asshole and deserved what he got.”

  His mother reached over quickly and slapped him. Bobby strained his stomach trying to avoid a second slap, and this sent a flash of pain so deep that he cried out. His mother said, “Don’t you ever talk about him like that again. He loved you.”

  Bobby smiled, and turned away. He remembered the time Kevin slammed his face into the toilet, telling him to lick the rim.

  “Do you hear me?” she said. “Go back to L.A.”

  A male nurse walked in and was startled by the sight of Bobby’s mother. The nurse said, “Hey! Ma’am, I told you to wait. The doctor said the police have to interview him before any visitors.”

  Bobby stiffened.

  “Don’t you tell me when I can see my own son!” his mother said.

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Now that he’s lucid I’ll have to call the police—”

  “What did he do?” his mother asked.

  “All gunshot wounds must be reported.”

  His mother turned to Bobby and said, “Don’t expect my help if you end up in jail.”

  “Leave me alone,” he said, closing his eyes. “I won’t bother you again.” He was thinking about the police. What if that old guy he had beaten reported him? Witnesses? Bobby’s head pounded, and he thought of all the shit around him. He knew Ron down in L.A. was adding juice to the ten grand Bobby owed. He had first hoped he could hit his mother up for some, but that was a laugh. Then the jewelry job looked good. Goddamn all this. Everything was fucked. He waited until his mother walked away, and he opened his eyes. It was time he got the hell out of here.

  He pulled himself out of bed and dressed slowly, every small movement sending ripples of pain throughout his abdomen and midsection. He couldn’t let himself cough, otherwise everything flared up, even his butt. His right buttock burned with any leg activity. Before the last round of painkillers, the doctor had told him that things were kind of churned up in there, the bullet doing a nice blending number. Four inches of his small intestines gone. How many did he have total? He had no idea. He had lost a lot of blood as well. No wonder he was so goddamn shaky. He was supposed to stay here for another night, but screw that. Not with the police around. Not with Jake humping his jewelry.

  Bobby picked up his suitcase, and wheezed from the pain. He waited for the trembling to stop, then limped out of the room, knowing the man in the next bed was watching. In the hallway, he felt naked without his gun and looked for some kind of weapon. He grabbed an I.V. stand, and pulled off the top, a foot-long angled piece of hollowed out metal. He shoved it in the back of his pants. He always needed something in there. He always needed protection.

  “Wait a minute! You! You can’t leave yet!” a voice from down the hall echoed.

  Bobby paused. He let out a slow, calming breath. Chill, he told himself. He practiced a smile. Then he turned, and said, “Yeah?”

  It was the male nurse who had spoken to his mother, and he waved a clipboard at Bobby. The nurse was dressed in blue scrubs, and had the soft, fleshy look of an overfed frat boy, a blondie. Bobby concentrated on the guy’s nametag, Thomas Stanley. “Hey,” the nurse said. “You haven’t been checked out yet. You have to stay in bed.”

  “I’m feeling okay.”

  “Yes, but still. Also, the police have to talk to you.”

  “I can drop by the police station if they want.”

&n
bsp; “No, that’s not how it works. And I’m supposed to get your insurance company information.”

  “I don’t got insurance.”

  The nurse sighed and shook his head. “Fine. You have to fill out some forms—”

  “Thanks, but I got stuff to do.” He turned and started to leave, but the nurse held his arm.

  “Hey, you can’t yet. Let me get a doctor.”

  Bobby felt the grip tightening. He’d have to try something else. He turned and asked if his mother had left.

  “Yeah. I know she’s your mother, but man she’s pushy.”

  Bobby blinked, took this in. He looked around: a few other nurses and patients at the far end of the hall. There was an unmarked door next to the water fountain. He asked, “What’s that room?”

  “Supply closet. Come on. I’ll help you back to your bed.”

  “What’s in it?” Bobby asked, walking towards it and opening the door. Inside were shelves filled with sheets and pillows, neat stacks surrounding a small walk-in space. He smelled bleach.

  “Hey! Jesus! Can’t you listen?” The nurse came in behind him and tried to pull him out.

  Bobby grabbed the nurse’s hand and yanked him into the closet, quickly closing the door and turning on the light. A ribbon of pain threaded through his body, but he ignored it.

  “What the—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Bobby took out the piece of metal and swung it at the nurse’s head, connecting over his ear. The nurse yelped, but Bobby covered his mouth and then shoved the tip of the rod into the nurse’s neck.

  “Shh, punk ass. I’ll dig this into your corn-fed throat if say anything.”

  The nurse’s eyes bulged. He stopped struggling. Bobby pulled his hand from the nurse’s mouth and the guy said, “Please…”

  “First of all, you little shit. No one ever talks about my mother like that, you got it?”

  He nodded quickly.

  “Second of all, don’t be shaking your fucking head at me like I’m some little kid. You got that?”

  The nurse nodded again. “Look, I’m sorry. I take it back. I didn’t mean anything—”

  “Who the fuck you think you are, you punk-ass piece of shit? Talking down to me like that? Your name is Thomas Stanley. I can find you. I can find your family. You say anything at all to anyone, I’m coming to visit.”

  The guy began crying silently, and Bobby thought, Give me a fucking break. Though it hurt his abs, Bobby took a quick step back and swung the metal rod into the nurse’s head, hitting his ear and scraping down across his jaw and neck. Bobby opened a nice gash, and the guy went down holding his face. Bobby was about to bend over and hit him again, but the pain shot up through his stomach and forced Bobby back, holding his gut. Thomas Stanley kept crying as Bobby left him and closed the door. Bobby’s insides blazed as he picked up his suitcase and shoved the rod back into his pants. He was getting soft. There was a time when he would’ve stomped the asshole until he stopped moving. He looked down and saw some spots of blood seeping through his shirt. He shouldn’t have swung so quickly. Fuck it. It’ll heal.

  He had more important things to worry about. Finding Jake was his job now. Find Jake and teach him a lesson, and not some little punk ass lesson. Teach Jake a good lesson he will remember for his short and sad life.

  9

  They ate at a Korean restaurant in Japantown, across from Japan Center and the tall Buddhist tower that Jake thought looked like the muzzle of a cartoon ray gun aimed up into the sky. Jake felt the awkwardness all night between Eugene and Rachel, and considered skipping dinner, even cutting his visit short. But he was curious. There was that odd moment when Eugene had walked into the apartment while Jake and Rachel were talking; Rachel was telling Jake about a small gym two blocks away that had mostly gay members, and she didn’t realize this for an embarrassing amount of time. “You know,” she was saying, “men work out together. They spot each other. So I didn’t think about it until I kept seeing a few men hugging. Now that’s unusual at a gym.”

  Then Eugene came in. He stopped at the edge of the sofa and said he was sorry he was late. Then he looked directly at Rachel and said, “Hi, Rachel.”

  “Hello, Euge. How was work?”

  “The same. Good to see you.”

  She nodded. “You mind if I tag along for dinner?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then Eugene broke it. “I should change,” he said, moving towards the bedroom. “I was thinking of taking you guys to the New Korea place. Sound good?”

  Jake noticed that Rachel’s cheeks were flushed, and he thought, Do I want to be here?

  Now, they sat in a booth and began picking at appetizers and condiments, the first stage of a large Korean meal with different kinds of radish and cabbage kimchi, pickled cucumbers, sesame leaves, fried bean curd, seasoned bean sprouts, and spicy zucchini—these were set out in a dozen small bowls around the sunken grill. Jake tried to fill the silence with carefully worded questions about Eugene’s job. That seemed relatively safe. Jake had never grasped the concept of the company his brother worked for, and Eugene explained that they made software for managers to manage their clients. It had started out well, but competition nearly drove them out of business. They were now trying to make their program cloud-based. “They’re integrating a central cloud add-on that will let companies stay in constant contact with clients,” he said.

  “How’s the latest version of ManageClient doing?” Rachel asked. Eugene said, “The reviews are coming out, and they’re not good. The programmers are jumping ship.”

  “When’s the new version coming out?”

  Eugene shook his head. “TBA. We’re sinking.”

  Jake still didn’t quite get it, but asked about the job: “So what’s your role there?”

  “I’m head of customer relations. Basically sales and support.”

  “He started as tech support,” Rachel said. “Clawed his way up.”

  Eugene quickly finished two beers, and ordered a third. Their main course was bulgogi, marinated beef that they cooked themselves on the small gas grill, a large vent directly above them. The smell of the strong marinade seeped into their clothes.

  Jake said, “I haven’t had this in years.”

  “No?” Rachel said. “Aren’t there Korean restaurants in Seattle?”

  “Sure, in the International District. But I hardly eat out.”

  “So you want to tell us what happened up there?” Eugene asked.

  “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

  “In Seattle?” Rachel asked. “Why, what happened up there?”

  “My little brother has a tendency to get into trouble.”

  Jake stared at Eugene. “It’s nothing.”

  “Yes, but where did the jewelry and cash come from?”

  “Jewelry and cash?” Rachel said. “I missed a lot.”

  Jake used his chopsticks to flip the sizzling beef on the grill.

  “Come on. Maybe we should talk about something else.”

  “You said you had a fight with your partner,” Eugene said. “About what?”

  Jake shrugged.

  “I guess what all partners fight about,” Eugene said. “Right?”

  “He tried to doublecross me,” Jake finally said.

  “How?”

  Jake sighed. “He wanted it all.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “You never wanted to know this stuff before.”

  Eugene stopped. He motioned to the waitress and ordered a fourth beer. Jake glanced at the empty glass, then said to his brother, “You know, it’s not what you think. I’ve been working at a restaurant, a regular job. I was an assistant chef.”

  “You were not,” Rachel said, smiling. “You cook?”

  “Well, just salads and pastas. Assistant cold side chef.”

  “So then what was w
ith the knapsack?” Eugene asked. Rachel said, “What knapsack?”

  “Temptation.”

  Eugene nodded.

  Jake felt someone kick his leg, and he looked down. Rachel said, “Sorry. I meant to kick Euge. What’s going on?”

  Jake said, “Me and this guy did a small job. He tried to screw me over. I ended up taking everything, so I had to leave town. That’s it.” He wasn’t going to reveal anything else. He imagined Bobby’s dead body being lifted in the dumpster, then shaken into a garbage truck, pneumatic whirring and grinding packing him in with rotting vegetables. He had to admit to himself that he had killed Bobby. He was a murderer. It was self-defense, but he had never taken a human life before. There wasn’t guilt or remorse, or even a hint of sadness; no, he was glad to get rid of the kid. But now Jake wasn’t just a small-time burglar anymore. He wasn’t someone who did an occasional job here and there to supplement his income. This was different.

  He was losing his appetite.

  “Eugene? Eugene Ahn?” called out a voice from across the room.

  Everyone turned. A thin, bald man with a goatee, dressed in a sportcoat and jeans waved to Eugene. Jake saw his brother’s mouth tighten, then smile. “Vincent,” he said.

  Vincent approached, shook hands around and was introduced to Jake, who learned that Vincent used to work with Eugene. “Got out in time, though, wouldn’t you say?” he joked to Eugene. Rachel asked him what he was doing now, and when he said he retired, Jake took a closer look at him. He couldn’t have been older than forty-five, and he had a trim, athletic build. No, early forties. No real wrinkles around his eyes. Retired?

  “Retired?” Rachel said.

  “Took some of my stock gains, invested and started a small company. It was just bought out, so I retired.” He turned to Eugene. “Just read the PC Insider reviews of 4.3. How’re things there?”

  Eugene tried to grin, “You know. A little stressed.”

  “I told you to get out.”

  “I know.”