He looked up. “No. This is cubic zirconia, I think. You should bring it to a jeweler, but it’s cut like a zircon.”
“How much do you think it’s worth?”
“The gold is real, but it says here it’s only 10 karats. I’d say this single earring is about ten bucks, maybe twenty retail.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Where did you learn about all this?” she asked.
“A friend taught me about appraising jewels,” he said, thinking of Chih.
Jake dangled the cheap earring and held it up to Rachel’s ear.
“What do you think?” she asked, tilting her head towards him, posing.
“Looks good. But you need the other one.” His hand brushed lightly across her cheek as he pulled away. He dropped the earring into her open palm, and said, “Thanks for taking me to the gym.”
“Thanks for spotting me. I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” She rolled her shoulders and neck.
“I’m sore now.”
She said, “You can take a long shower after me. I won’t use all the hot water.”
“We can take a shower together, conserve water.”
She smirked. “Ha, ha. I forgot about your sense of humor.”
She walked down the hallway to the bathroom. He studied the whorls of his fingerprints with his loupe, listening to Rachel hum to herself as she closed the door and turned on the faucet. He whispered to himself, Careful, careful.
14
Jake was half-asleep in the guest room, his body aching, when he heard his brother come into the apartment. The gravity changed. His bed tilted towards the living room. He heard Eugene ask what there was to eat, and Rachel replied that they had saved him some pizza.
Pizza? Again?
It was late. We just picked something up after working out. Don’t we have anything real? I have to eat something real.
Pizza’s real. You could’ve picked something up.
I was working.
So it’s my responsibility to get food all the time?
Did you work out at the gym? Are you having fun? Did you get to watch a lot of nice TV? You couldn’t pick up a goddamn salad for me?
Sh. Quiet.
Jake ignored this and rolled over, burying his head in the pillow. Their voices fell, but he still heard Eugene talk about work. Eon was spinning off a software division that would compete directly with ManageSoft. There was a leak in the company. Everything was falling apart, people were leaving.
So, you leave, Rachel said.
It’s not that easy. I put in a lot of time there.
So?
If there’s a buyout, though. What’s the likelihood?
I don’t know. They’re talking about that later this week with the bankers.
Why can’t you tell Aaron off, get him to do something, for God’s sake?
You don’t think we’ve tried? Now there are rumors of me and Janine trying to undermine him. We have to be careful.
You’re letting this happen.
Jake waited for his brother’s response, but there was none. He heard the hiss and clip of a beer can opening and heavy footsteps moving towards the bedroom. Rachel stayed in the living room. Separate sleeping arrangements. Jake heard her raise the TV volume, then lower it. She changed channels.
Eugene was a brooder. Jake remembered as kids when their father finished a bottle of Southern Comfort and slowly began grumbling to himself, the prelude to a fight with their mother, or, after their mother had left, the prelude to telling Jake and Eugene how weak and stupid they were, sometimes deciding to toughen them up, Jake used to get scared, jumpy; he used to feel trapped. But Eugene seemed to shut down. His eyes drooped, his shoulders slumped. He reminded Jake of a turtle. Chaddayut! their father would yell. Stand at attention. He’d slap Eugene in the back and tell him to stop slouching. His father swayed drunkenly, his face red and sweaty, and Jake felt disgusted. Then his father would see Jake’s glare and hold up his fists. You want to fight me? You want to show me how strong you are? On one occasion, after his father kept pushing and taunting him, Jake couldn’t stand it and tried to punch his father. His father was a third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and even though he hadn’t practiced since he was in the Korean Navy, and even though he was drunk, he was still fast. Jake ended up on the ground, the wind knocked out of him; he hadn’t even seen the elbow strike.
Later, Eugene scolded him for letting their father get to him. That’s what he wants, Eugene said. You can’t give him what he wants.
Jake had stared at the blue and green bruise on his chest, and felt something inside him harden. His brother then took out the daily chart, and marked that night’s fight. Eugene graphed their father’s moods, trying to track the intensity of the fights. Tonight had been an eight, because he had hit both of them, though only once each. The rating stayed below five if there was no hitting. Eugene was meticulous about this log, and sometimes Jake would watch his brother flip to previous weeks and months, searching for patterns, always the technician.
15
The pawnshop was in the Tenderloin, squeezed narrowly between a second-hand clothing store and a corner bar open at eleven in the morning. It was dark inside the bar, a neon Miller sign and a weak wall lamp the only source of light. The clothing store next door had a large display window with a mannequin dressed in a wedding gown, a number of severed mannequin heads with wigs lined in front.
He entered the pawnshop, surveying the long glass counter and a back wall shelved with radios, small TVs, cell phones, and guitars. The other side of the room was stacked with computers and laptops, but Jake was interested in the counter, the display lights illuminating an array of knives, lighters, watches, and—drawing him—jewelry.
He peered down. The jewelry, as in most of the pawnshops, was limited to cheap, gaudy items without much melt value. A large, bearded man walked slowly towards him from the other end of the counter, taking his time. “Can I help you?”
“Are you accepting any jewelry right now?” he asked.
The man studied Jake, and said, “Depends on the jewelry.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few rings and the chain, first showing the man the wedding bands. “How much for these? They’re 14K gold.”
The man picked them up and squinted at the hallmarks inside. “I can give you twenty bucks for both of them.”
Jake didn’t react, but said, “They’re over sixty bucks each retail.”
“This isn’t retail.”
“They’re brand new. I can get the receipt if you need it.”
The man shook his head. “No. Can’t give you more than that.”
Jake said, “How about this?” and pointed to the gold herringbone chain. “Eighteen inch 14K gold. Also brand new. Three-fifty retail.”
The man studied the chain, weighed it on a small scale, then checked the clasp. “You got the receipts?”
“If you need them. But I’d have to come back with it.”
“Forty for this,” the man said.
He held out the diamond ring. “And this? Last piece. 14K gold, with, I think, a one carat diamond.”
“You think?”
“This one’s estate. I just inherited it.”
The man said, “Can I take this in back? There’s a girl who knows more about diamonds.”
Jake worried about a switch, but knew that this particular ring had a poor mounting, and he’d recognize it. “Go ahead,” he said.
The man trudged along the counter and disappeared behind a black-curtained doorway. Jake heard voices. For a moment he had a paranoid thought that they knew the jewels were stolen and were calling the police. He shook this off. Impossible. He wasn’t worried about the crappy pieces, the inferior rings and necklaces that he might even have to sell for scrap if pawn shops or jewelry stores weren’t interested, but the more expensive pieces would probably have to stay in storage for a while. The jeweler’s trade papers might mention them, war
n jewelers of stolen diamonds resurfacing. It was a remote possibility. There was a column in one of the Gemologist newsletters, called “Stolen Gems,” in which they profiled high-grade stolen jewelry, based on jeweler’s reports and the Federal Stolen Goods Database. But even then the pieces he had weren’t that good.
The man returned with the engagement ring and shook his head. “Mary in back said the diamond’s not that great. Also it’s less than one carat.”
“How much for it?”
“Seventy.”
“Seventy?” Jake wondered how much a wholesaler would give him. Probably not much more. He said, “How about one-eighty for the whole lot?”
Looking down at the pieces and calculating, he shook his head. “One-thirty.”
“I’ll sell the chain and the wedding bands, but not the diamond.”
The man said, “Okay. Hang on. I’ll write you a claim ticket.”
While the man did this, Jake pocketed the diamond ring. Maybe he’d find a big jeweler to consign the better pieces, but this was probably how he’d have to unload the crappy ones. He considered calling Chih. No. Sever all connections for now. He had no idea how much the police had found out about Bobby.
Jake walked out of the pawn shop with sixty dollars in cash and promptly bought an extra pair of jeans from the clothing store. He should check the Seattle newspapers to find out about Bobby. The prospect weighed on him; he just wanted to forget about the mess up there. He should blame Chih, really, for even thinking Jake could work with Bobby. Chih was getting sloppy.
16
When Jake studied the Korean couple’s store that Bobby had told him about, Good Luck Jewelry, he found it wasn’t as small-time as Jake had expected. It was in a mini-shopping complex on 45th in Wallingford, not Laurelhurst as Bobby had said, but in a good location with many shoppers. Jake watched the foot traffic in the area, then went into the store to look around. The clerk was a young man, not Korean, and when Jake asked about the Korean couple, the man said that they would be in later. Jake saw the infrared sensors near the door and front window, the contact breakers at each opening and mercury switches along the glass. There was also a pull-down aluminum gate which would bar the front door and window. The back was easily viewed from the street. They probably lit it up at closing. This place was secure. He glanced at the gleaming jewelry in the displays, felt the clerk watching him, and took off. He began to get interested.
He took a bus past University Village and got off in the vicinity of where the storeowners lived. He walked around a neighborhood of large, expensive houses. The address that Bobby had given him put the house towards Ravenna, and Jake eventually found it in a cul-de-sac off 55th. An occasional car drove by, then turned the corner into a tree-shrouded, winding neighborhood. He walked slowly, counting off the numbers on the houses, feeling relaxed.
Nestled between two larger houses with wooden front porches, the jewelers’ house was stuck in a small hill, the lower half buried in the ground, the garage almost a cave, the upper half sitting as high as the roofs of the surrounding houses. There was a small front yard with a flower garden to the side, wooden blocks laid on the ground as steps leading up to the door. The front was too exposed, especially if this was supposed to happen during the day, and not just any day, but a Sunday. He saw the name “Chun” painted on the front mailbox, then noticed an ASA alarm sticker in the front window; this wouldn’t be a problem since he already knew ASA’s layouts, but it definitely meant he had to avoid the doors, which were wired with contact breakers impossible to alter from the outside.
He studied the surrounding houses, noticing how quiet it was. This was looking good. He decided to return later tonight to find the house’s weak entry. Every house had a weak entry.
17
Jake returned to his brother’s apartment and found a note from Rachel: “We’re really sorry about last night. It won’t happen again.” She was referring to the fight, which Jake hadn’t thought twice about. He had left this morning while Rachel was in the shower. Maybe she thought he was being discreet.
As he roamed through the empty apartment, Jake entered the main bedroom and found the bed crisply made, a book on the dresser table. He glanced at the title—Ancient Philosophy—and checked the bookmark. Rachel had been reading about presocratic philosophers. He stopped at one line which had been starred: “Most presocratic philosophers believed that there was a basic substance—either concrete or abstract—that was the foundation for all change.” He puzzled over this for a moment, then put the book down.
He thought about Mary Lim, and Rachel’s suggestion of calling her. Mary had accused him of being directionless, of not wanting enough. She didn’t have time for dawdlers, she had said. Her move to Oakland had been for work, and she cut Jake loose pretty quickly.
He went to Rachel’s panty drawer and pulled out a pair of her open-crotch black panties, holding it to his face and inhaling faint detergent smells. As he pictured Rachel in her tight spandex outfit from the gym, he grew excited, and unzipped his jeans. He pushed his erection through the open panties, trying to imagine what it would be like having sex with her. He stroked himself. He remembered watching her as she used the Stairmaster, her back to him, when he had to force himself to look away, thoughts of him entering her from behind flashing through his mind. She leaned forward and rested on her arms, her legs climbing and climbing. He was about to come, and looked for a tissue, but couldn’t find any. He tried to walk to the bathroom but didn’t make it. He soiled her panties, the rough lace scratching him. He leaned against the wall, and caught his breath.
He examined the panties guiltily, and tried to clean them off with bathroom tissue. Hm. This wouldn’t work. The tissue left white lint all over the black fabric. There were two basket hampers next to the small closet in the hallway. He decided to chance it, and shoved her panties deep into the colored clothes basket, amidst T-shirts, jeans, and a blue sweat suit. He closed the hamper. He was acting like an over-sexed teenager. He needed to get out more.
18
Bobby Null waited until Chih began closing up. It was six-thirty and the sun was setting, long orange shadows hitting the streets. Bobby was tired, and popped a couple of dexies to stay awake. He’d been watching Chih’s store for the past four hours. He wasn’t sure if Jake had already shown up while Bobby was in the hospital, but Chih was the only way Bobby would find out anything. His goddamn butt ached. His stomach felt mushy. The dexies and the bennies probably weren’t that good for him, but he needed the juice. He felt soft around the edges. He felt blurry. The doctor had said something about eating only light foods and liquids. He didn’t say anything about jump starts.
Bobby sat in the employee entrance of a furniture store. He chain-smoked out of boredom. Chih looked busy all afternoon. This was the dumbest jewelry store Bobby had ever seen, with postcard and map stands on the sidewalk, and a tray of ugly trinkets by the front door. Bobby had walked by the entrance a few times, to see what Chih was doing inside, and he had caught a glimpse of the black felt trays—tourist trinkets with “Seattle” and fake Indian necklaces. But people were buying the shit.
A cold breeze kicked up. He shivered. He hated Seattle. He was always cold. Lying in a dumpster for most of the night hadn’t helped.
He thought about his mother. She never gave him a chance. Bullshit. The first thing she said to him when he showed up for Kevin’s funeral was, What do you want? She could go to hell.
Chih put a “Closed” sign in the front window, though there were a few customers still inside. Bobby stood up. His head spun, and fuzz clouded his vision. The dexies were kicking in. He felt a hiss of calm and clarity. Fucking A. After a second, he walked across the street and into the store.
Chih looked up from the counter and started to say, “We’re closing up—” but stopped. He nodded. Bobby waited by the counters. The tourists eventually left, and Chih locked the front door. “Where the hell have you been? Where’s Jake?”
Bobby weighed his cha
nces. Chih was getting old and fat; he was thick all over. Slow. “He didn’t come here?” Bobby asked.
“No. I tried contacting him, and you, but couldn’t. Your mother disconnected the phone.”
“I’ve been in the hospital.”
“Why?”
Bobby stared. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“You’re fucking lying. He’s been here.”
Chih frowned, and said, “I take it something went wrong. What happened?”
“He gut-shot me and left me in the fucking garbage is what happened.”
“Jake?”
“Fucked me over.”
Shaking his head, Chih said, “No. Something else. I know him. He wouldn’t do that. What really happened? You try to pull something on him?”
This did it for Bobby. He took a few quick steps towards Chih, and then gave him a running kick to his groin. Chih doubled over and gagged, collapsing on his side. Bobby felt something pulling in his abdomen, but ignored it. He frisked Chih, then turned off the lights so people on the street couldn’t see in. Chih kept coughing, his face purple.
Bobby went behind the counter and looked for a weapon. He found a small nickle-plated automatic, and checked the magazine. Full. He stood over Chih and pointed the gun at his temple, unlocking the safety. “Did he come here or not?”
Chih shook his head.
“If you’re lying, I’ll shoot off your balls.” He lowered the gun towards Chih’s groin.
“Not…lying,” he said, and coughed. He covered his groin and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Where does he live?”
Chih said, “Don’t know.”
Bobby yelled, “You fucking with me?”
“No! I don’t even know his last name!”
“How do you find him?”
“You’re crazy. If your brother could see you now…”
The Lockpicker Page 6