The Lockpicker

by Leonard Chang

  “I know that.”

  “What really happened up in Seattle?”

  Jake kept still. He tried not to show any expression, and wondered if she had been planning to ask him this all along. “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Rachel leaned back and crossed her legs. She said, “The surest way to get me interested is not to tell me.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell you once everything settles.”

  “Will you tell me something else?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about your father.”

  Jake sighed. “Man. Don’t you believe in small talk?”

  She laughed, then said, “I’m tired of small talk. My whole life is small talk.”

  “You don’t want to hear about that stuff.”

  “I do. Tell me how he came to the U.S. How’d he meet your mother?”

  Jake told her that his father had been in the Korean Navy, enlisted for the Korean War and rose to become a captain. After the war he came to the United States to study engineering, but never finished his degree, and went through numerous jobs relating to nautical engineering, each one leading further away from his original goal. He ended up fixing boat engines for a small company in Marina del Rey. His marriage had been arranged by his grandmother back in Seoul. His new wife was not quite a new wife—she had been married before, but the marriage had ended in scandal when her new husband ran off. In order to start over, she had to leave the country. So she remarried, this time to a stranger in California.

  “Why would she do that?”

  Jake shrugged.

  “What happened with the previous marriage?”

  Jake shrugged again. “It’s all murky. I don’t know. I never asked.”

  “Then you two were born.”

  Jake said, “Yeah. Why do you want to know this?”

  She shook her head. “Not sure. I’ve been thinking a lot about this stuff lately. Did you know that my father, for example, died in his mid-forties and did nothing he wanted to?”

  “Like what?”

  Rachel told Jake about her father’s love of building things. He had a small workshop in the garage for woodworking projects, but Rachel knew he had only built a birdhouse, a spice rack, and a small bookshelf. He had the blueprints for dozens of projects, ordered from woodworking magazines, and had promised Rachel that he would build her a small playhouse out back. But his job kept him too busy.

  His job? He was a salesman for a cardboard packager. He sold boxes.

  She said, “That was his life, selling empty boxes. Whenever I think about it I get scared. I mean, what was the point? When he died, me and my mom had to clean out that garage, with all those woodworking plans with notes written on the back about how he’d modify everything. You know, ‘add window’ or ‘use pine’. It scares the hell out of me.”

  “That’s why you quit your job?”

  “Partly. I mean, what’s the point? What’s the point of all this?” Jake hesitated. He had never seen her like this, and wasn’t sure what to say. He thought about her question, and it seemed clear to him. “The point is to survive.”

  She smiled. “Maybe you’re not so different from your brother.”

  Jake was tired, and stifled a yawn. He said, “I’m going to turn in. I’ve got to run a bunch of errands tomorrow.”

  “What kind?”

  “Errands,” he said. “Can we work out again soon? That was great.”

  “I’m keeping you up. Yes, maybe tomorrow night. Hey, thanks for listening to me rant.”

  “I like listening to you.”

  He stood, and returned to the guest room. He heard Rachel start up her laptop, a chime ringing across the living room. The conversation had agitated him. He lay down and stared up into the darkness. For a number of years he had chosen not to think about it, not to stir it up. Their father beat the shit out of their mother. The few times early on, before his father began locking them in the basement, Jake had seen an entire fight from beginning to end, and it was beyond his comprehension. His father would punch his mother straight in the face. She would go flying back, the power behind the blow lifting her off the ground. She would crash into the wall, and crumple to the ground. His father would smack her a few times, then kick her a few times, hard, really hard, until she screamed. She cried and begged. His father would bellow in Korean and give her a few more kicks and stumble away. Jake and Eugene would wait until their father fell asleep, then go to their mother. She would try to hide her face, and push them away. “Go! Go to bed!” Her teeth were bloody.

  One day she packed a suitcase and disappeared.

  The world is fire. Strange, but it made sense to him. He saw flames flickering around him. Everything was bright and fiery. He slept, his skin burning.

  22

  Bobby Null found the Mail & Copy store on University, the place where Chih left messages for Jake. It was only four or five blocks from where they had brought the jewels and cash, where Jake had shot Bobby. Jake must live near here. Bobby felt his abdomen twinge. A few copy machines were lined up on one side of the room, and on the other side was a wall filled with mailboxes. He searched for number 400 and saw through the tiny window a few letters wedged inside. There was a young woman with a nose ring at the front desk, and he approached. He told himself to keep cool. When he asked how people got a mailbox, she said all you had to do was fill out a form and pay ten dollars a month for the smaller boxes.

  “What if someone wants to contact me at my mailbox?”

  “Mail it, or give me a note. I can put it in the box.”

  “Is the real address on that form?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Do you want an application?”

  “Can I see the form for number 400?”

  She hesitated. “Oh, I can’t do that. That information’s private.” Bobby studied her. She looked about nineteen or twenty, maybe a college student doing this part-time. He said, “I’ll give you twenty dollars if you just show me the form. Just leave it on the table for a second.” He pulled out the roll of bills he had taken from Chih. He lay a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. She glanced around the store, which was a good sign.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not allowed.”

  Bobby smiled, and slowly peeled off another twenty. He dropped it on top of the other one. He said, “Just for thirty seconds. It’s a joke on my friend. He bet me twenty bucks I couldn’t find out where he lives.”

  “But you’ll be down twenty,” she said, motioning to the bills. “It’ll be worth it.” He smiled again. He considered grabbing her hair and flashing his gun, but then he saw her eyes lock onto the bills. He relaxed.

  She reached behind the counter. Bobby heard her opening a file cabinet. She pulled out a sheet of paper, placed it on the counter, and quickly took the two twenties. She said, “Thirty seconds.” She walked to the other end of the counter.

  Bobby turned over the form and saw the permanent address information. First he saw that Jake’s full name was Jacob Ahn, which he jotted down on scrap paper. The address was 98785 Adali Lane. The college kid came over and pulled the sheet away. “Thirty seconds.”

  “Where is Adali Lane?” he asked.

  She pointed to a Seattle map on the wall next to the copy machines. Bobby thanked her and looked up “Adali” in the index. He eventually found the coordinates. According to the map, Jake lived next to the University Bridge, again near where they had stopped to sort the jewelry. He walked out. He patted the gun in the back of his pants.

  It took him fifteen minutes to find Adali Lane, but as soon as he saw how tiny the street was—with four houses, numbered 100, 200, 300, 400—he knew it was a fake address. He sat down on the curb and cursed. His insides hurt. Everything hurt. Even his goddamn butt hurt when he sat.

  Now what?

  He stood up slowly and began knocking on all the doors. Most people weren’t home, but he asked two old folks who answered the
ir door if they knew a Jacob Ahn. They didn’t. He walked around the block and searched for any signs of Jake. He didn’t expect to see anything.

  He considered waiting at the mail drop for Jake to appear, since there were letters in the box. But that would take too much time. Then he realized that those letters might reveal something—another contact, an address, anything. He headed back to the Mail & Copy store, his limp getting worse. He popped two bennies and waited for the rush.

  23

  Jake approached Pacific Gems off Van Ness, and was pleased to see the “We Buy Jewelry” sign at the bottom of the window. He had made a list of jewelers in the neighborhood, and wanted to start testing the market. When he walked into the store and noticed a small jewelry repair station near the back with mini burners, tool sets, and a large illuminated magnifying glass on a flexible arm, he knew they would probably want almost anything. They could fix or modify his poorer pieces. A young, heavily made-up woman in a blue blouse appeared from the back and asked Jake if he needed help.

  “I just inherited some jewelry. I was wondering about selling it.”

  “Just a sec,” she said, turning and calling out “Tom!”

  They waited, and Jake looked up at the alarm system: motion detectors, and the control box was housed in steel with what looked like a cell phone antenna springing from the top. Remote connection to an alarm company, probably with a separate power source. He tried to see what was in the back room, but the repair tables and shelves blocked his line of sight.

  When Tom walked in, an older, bald man in his fifties, he had a jeweler’s loupe strapped tightly to his forehead. He blinked and refocused on Jake. The woman said, “Selling.”

  Tom asked, “Gems or gold?”

  “Both.”

  “Let’s see.”

  Jake pulled out the diamond ring and a few other newer pieces he had recently retrieved from the safe deposit box: a diamond pendant, gold and diamond earrings, and a blue and white sapphire bracelet. He said, “I actually will be getting more. They’re coming to me in small shipments.”

  Tom began examining the pieces, starting with the ring and pendant. His long, thin hands flipped the ring deftly. He said, “These look new.”

  “They are. My mother was always buying. I don’t think I’ll sell the old stuff yet.”

  Tom nodded, pulled the loupe over his eye, and peered down. He clucked his tongue. “The fire’s bad. The mounting’s bad. Oh, no, this is cheap stuff. The facets look off.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “And the colors too. You can tell.”

  Tom checked the earrings. “These are better. I’ll need to check the color and clarity more closely, but it’s clean in there.” He examined the bracelet and shook his head. “This is cheap stuff.” He looked up, pushing away the loupe. “You want to sell all this outright?”

  “Do you consign?”

  “Yeah. The cheap stuff,” he motioned to the bracelet and diamond ring, “might do better consigned. We take fifteen percent.”

  “How much for the ring outright?”

  “I’ll give it a closer look, but no more than a hundred, max.”

  That was thirty more than the pawn shop. Jake said, “The earrings?”

  “Maybe three hundred? Not sure yet. I want to check the cuts too.”

  Jake said, “Can you handle a lot? Consigned or buying?”

  “We have three stores in the Bay Area. We can handle it. Also, we know wholesalers and designers interested in junk for melting.”

  Jake nodded slowly, pretending to consider it. But he was thinking, Bingo.

  24

  Jake climbed through the Chun’s window, making sure that he held onto his tools and that no clothing snagged, and he found himself in a teenager’s room. A computer with a screensaver—a woman in a bikini—caught his eye. Clothes and lacrosse equipment lay all over the floor. He moved quickly out into the hallway, and searched for the master bedroom. He smelled a familiar scent: Korean food. A hint of spices and soy sauce marinade. He had never hit a Korean house before.

  Entering the master bedroom, he quickly opened and searched the drawers, the bureaus, and stopped when he found a small jewelry box in one of the night tables. He emptied it on the bed and scooped up the gold necklaces, diamond rings and earrings, depositing them into his waist pack. The rest—fake costume junk—he returned to the box and returned to the night table. But where was the strong box?

  He went through their closet, but there were only a few gold tie clips and a pair of silver cufflinks. Nothing. He began sweating. It had to be here somewhere. He thought back to last night when he had watched the Chuns return home from the jewelry store. The living room lights went on first. Then the kitchen. Then the lights upstairs. Maybe it was in the living room.

  He stepped carefully down the stairs into the living room, keeping his eye on the alarm control unit next to the door, a red light blinking slowly. He checked around the room again for motion detectors, and stopped when he saw two wires running out from underneath the front mat. He stared. Shit. An alarm on the floor mat? Had he underestimated them?

  Moving slowly across the carpet, steering clear of the front mat and checking his path for any other pressure-sensitive alarms, he saw another room next to the kitchen, a small office, separated by a bookshelf and a doorway without a door. He cocked his head. He hadn’t seen this room in his surveys, since it was hidden from the windows. It looked like a converted walk-in closet. As he approached this small office, he checked the doorway, the carpet, and the interior for any extra alarms, but there were none. He stepped in and headed straight for the metal desk, tugging on the file cabinet drawer. It hissed smoothly opened. The strong box lay there in the center, amidst papers and a few files. He held his breath, and thought, All right.

  He pulled the box out slowly, weighing it, and checked the latch. Locked, as he expected. He shook it and felt the weight of jewelry.

  “Fuck,” Bobby radioed. “The neighbor is watching me. He keeps looking out the window.”

  Jake whispered into his unit, “Drive away. You look suspicious. Go around the block. I’ll radio you when I need you.”

  “Okay.”

  Jake closed the drawer and began retracing his steps upstairs, thinking ahead of what he had to do now: bring the jewels to Chih, and split the money. He had to work at the restaurant tonight.

  Before he climbed out of the window and shut it, he drew the curtains, certain that this would give him more time, hiding his small hole in the window. The son would probably change out of his clothes and then spend the evening in the living room, watching TV, as he had done the last Sunday night. If Mr. or Mrs. Chun didn’t check the desk drawer right away, it would be twelve hours before anyone even suspected a theft. He radioed Bobby. “Come and get me. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m around the corner.”

  Jake shimmied down the tree, the strongbox clipped to his belt, and once he hit the ground he stayed behind the fence, waiting.

  Bobby pulled up in front of the house, but before Jake could walk out, there was a voice from the other yard. “Excuse me, can I help you?” A man in a sweat suit was walking onto the sidewalk, directing his question at Bobby.

  Jake fell back and stayed hidden. He knew this had been too easy. He held his breath, and hoped Bobby didn’t screw this up. Bobby stayed inside in car, and the man looked through the open passenger-side window. “Can I help you with something?”

  Jake thought, Keep calm. Bobby, cornered in his car, said something that Jake couldn’t hear, something about waiting for a friend. He climbed out of the car and looked around. He said, “I was supposed to pick him up ten minutes ago.”

  The man said, “Oh, are you friends with Roger? You mean Roger Chun?”

  Bobby nodded.

  Jake thought, Good. Roger Chun must be the teenage son.

  “You might have just missed them.” The man turned and motioned to the house. “You have the right place, but they always go out on Sundays…
”

  Jake saw Bobby pulling out a gun from the back of his waist, and something caught in Jake’s throat. He yelled, “No!”

  The man and Bobby turned to Jake, and Bobby jumped towards the man and slammed the butt of his gun into the back of his head. The man stumbled forward, letting out an “Ah” but he didn’t collapse. Bobby brought the gun down again, this time harder, and the man groaned and fell onto his hands and knees. Bobby quickly grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards the yard. “This way, asshole.” The man tried to get up, but lost his balance.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jake said.

  “What the fuck else do I do?” Bobby turned to the man, who was sitting on the ground, stunned, rubbing his temple. Bobby ran up to him and kicked his head. There was a thump when he connected, and the man’s head snapped back, and he slumped on the ground. “Please, God,” he managed to say.

  “Stop,” Jake said. “Take it easy.” He saw Bobby’s gun, a .38. He hadn’t known Bobby was carrying.

  “You got it?” Bobby asked, nodding to the strongbox.

  “I got it. Let’s go.”

  Bobby glanced at the man on the ground, and gave him one more kick to the head. The man passed out. Jake was already moving towards the car. It was the middle of the day and they were in full view of the other houses. Jake climbed into the driver’s seat, and Bobby jumped in, shoving the gun into his pants. Jake glanced at the gun but didn’t say anything. As he drove off, he knew there was going to be a problem.

  25

  Jake awoke from a nap, and heard rustling in the living room. When he walked out, he saw Rachel in her sweats, packing a water bottle into a gym bag. She turned to him, smiled, and said, “Good evening.”

  “Gym?” he asked.

  “Yes. Care to join me?”

  He hurried back into his room to grab shorts and T-shirt. While they were in the elevator, Jake said, “Today was your last day.”

  “It certainly was.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She nodded slowly, her attention distracted. They left the building and walked down Van Ness, but it seemed more crowded than usual, so they soon veered onto the side streets, winding their way towards Laguna. Jake was still groggy from his nap, and they were quiet the entire walk to the gym. At the doorway she said, “I think the guest pass expired.”