The Lockpicker

by Leonard Chang

  “I have cash. How much?”

  “Eight.”

  He pulled out a small wad of bills, and handed her eight dollars. She looked down and said, “Is this good money or bad money?”

  “You mean counterfeit? I don’t have counterfeit.”

  “No. Stolen money or earned money?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.”

  “Earned money.”

  They walked upstairs, and at the front desk she filled out a form and paid for him. They separated to change in the small locker rooms. When he came out, she was already at the free-weight bench press, loading the bar with twenty-fives. She wore a different Lycra outfit, this one navy blue with a silver stripe running down the side, interrupted by her bare midsection. Jake stared. As he approached, he noticed that every Stairmaster and treadmill was taken, the cacophony of differently pitched whirring and buzzing as oppressive as the heat. There were more women tonight, and Jake saw Rachel wave to an Asian woman on a treadmill. He waded through the muggy air, and Rachel said to him, “Spot me. I’m trying for twelve.” She lay down.

  “Is everything okay?”

  She paused and looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Today was my last day at work, and I’m feeling odd.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a bit of a let-down. I’m not sure what I expected.” She inhaled deeply, exhaled, and lifted the bar up. She began her set, and started having trouble at seven. The bar tilted and swayed, so Jake came in and steadied it. At eight she couldn’t lift it and cursed. Jake helped push the bar up. She said, “One more.” She struggled, and her arms shook. The bar froze a few inches above her chest. Jake began lifting it off her, and when he slipped it into the hooks, she sighed. “Damn. I’m getting weaker.”

  “Maybe you’re tired.”

  She sat up and turned towards him. She stared. He waited. “Yeah?”

  She cleared her throat and asked, “Did you have to beat an innocent bystander?”

  Jake kept his face blank and said, “What?”

  “The hardware executive. He lived next door. You two beat him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “In Seattle.”

  Jake blinked, then said, “What hardware executive?”

  “Did you beat someone when you were stealing the jewelry?”

  Jake shook his head slowly, trying to figure out how she could know this.

  “There was only one big jewelry burglary reported in the newspapers recently. It wasn’t you?”

  “This was in the newspaper?”

  “Online,” she said. “So why did you do that, beat him?”

  Jake said, “Is he okay?”

  “Hospitalized, but he’ll recover.”

  “What else did they report?”

  “Why did you beat him?”

  Sighing, he finally said, “I didn’t do that. My partner did it. Ex-partner.”

  She drew back in surprise.

  He said, “What newspapers?”

  “The Seattle Times and the Post-Intelligencer.”

  “What did they say?”

  “A jeweler’s house was burglarized. The next-door neighbor came across the two men and was beaten.”

  “Could he describe them?”

  “Not really. He was confused.”

  “Any other witnesses?”

  “No.”

  “The police have anything?”

  “No. Nothing it seems,” she said. “So it was you.”

  Jake didn’t reply, and added ten pounds to each side. They switched positions and he began his set. He did ten reps. He asked, “There was nothing else?”

  She shook her head. “About the burglars? No. Why?”

  “Can I take a look at those articles?”

  “Tonight, but I want to know more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what happened.”

  They switched positions, and Rachel reduced the weight back to the twenty-fives. She lay down and began her set. She had trouble with the second rep, and Jake helped her. They didn’t talk, and moved onto the other weights. Jake wanted to ask her more, especially about police leads, but knew she would demand his story. He could wait. They did shoulder presses, curls, tricep raises, and lat pulldowns. Then they moved onto leg exercises. By the time they finished, Jake had trouble lifting his arms, his back and shoulders aching. His calves were cramping up. They moved slowly to the mats, and began stretching. Rachel winced as she tried to touch her toes, and she pointed to her hamstring. “I strained it.”

  “Here,” he said, moving towards her. “I can put some pressure on it.”

  She turned over, and he slowly lowered the heel of his palm onto the back of her thigh. She nodded. “Ow. Yes.” She was lying on her stomach, resting her head on her clasped hands. She turned towards the mirror and said to him, “Near the knee. Ow.”

  Jake stopped.

  “No. That’s good.”

  He rolled his palms across her leg, pushing and kneading. He glanced at her butt, then looked at her reflection, and saw her staring at him. His hands were unsteady. He let his fingers touch her bare calves lightly, then returned to her hamstring. He massaged the area behind her knee, and went up near her butt. He could feel his heartbeat quickening.

  “Shouldn’t you two get a room?” the Asian woman said as she walked over from the treadmill.

  “Hi, Marie,” Rachel said. She quickly rolled away from Jake.

  “I’m next,” Marie said, smiling and pointing to her legs.

  “Marie, this is Jake, my brother-in-law.”

  He shook her hand.

  “Brother-in-law?” Marie said. “I thought this might be the mystery husband.”

  Jake glanced at Rachel, who said, “She’s never met Euge.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t exist. She tells people about him so no one will hit on her.”

  “He exists,” Jake said. “I’m his brother.” To Rachel he asked, “People hit on you here?”

  “She’s kidding.” Rachel smiled at Marie.

  “It looked like you two were killing each other on the weights,” Marie said.

  Rachel laughed and sat up, rubbing her arms. “I forgot how spotting can really work you.”

  “You certainly look good,” Marie said to her.

  Rachel waved her hand dismissively. “Not there yet.”

  “I’ve got to go, but one of these days I’m going to meet the mystery man.” She waved to Jake, then walked towards the locker room. Jake watched her.

  “She’s a lesbian in a fifteen-year relationship,” Rachel said. “Can you believe it? Fifteen years. And stop looking at her ass.”

  He laughed and felt himself redden.

  “Busted,” she said, laughing too.

  They stood up slowly, preparing to leave. Jake felt his hands tingling.

  26

  When Bobby Null returned to the Mail & Copy store, the nose-pierced college girl wasn’t there anymore. Now there was a tall, goateed kid with glasses. Bobby looked through the small window of box 400, and saw the envelopes still there. He pulled at the knob, but it was secure. The goatee glanced up at him, then went back to sorting mail. Bobby tried to figure out how to play this. He approached the counter and asked where the girl was.

  “Shift ended,” he said, barely looking up.

  “Could you get my mail in box 400? I left my key at home.”

  “Got ID?”

  “Not on me. But I can tell you my name, address, all that.”

  Goatee shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Need ID.”

  Bobby saw that the mailbox slots were around the wall, and all he had to do was step behind the counter and grab the mail in 400. Goatee looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “Will you get me my mail? I’m not going to walk all the way home and then come back just for ID. Get me box 400.”

  “No can do. Sorry.”

  Bobby stared at him and th
ought, Everyone in my fucking way. He shrugged and acted as if he were leaving, walking towards the door. When Goatee returned to mail sorting, Bobby turned and walked directly behind the counter and towards the boxes. Each open cubby had small labels above it, light filtering in from the tiny windows on the other side. Cardboard boxes were piled along the other side of the wall.

  “Hey, man. What the hell you doing?”

  “Getting my stuff.” Bobby had trouble finding the box. There. The hundreds towards the right. He scanned the labels.

  Goatee walked towards him. “Hey! You can’t be here!”

  “Fuck you.” Bobby kept looking, overshooting the numbers at 500 and backtracking. There. The 400’s. He found 400 and pulled out the envelopes. Goatee grabbed his arm.

  “Put that back. You can’t do this.”

  Bobby looked down at the kid’s hand touching him. “Get the fuck off me.”

  “I’ll call the police. You’re stealing mail.” The kid suddenly looked uncertain. “Put it back.”

  “Get your hand off me.”

  “Put the mail back.”

  Bobby reached into his waistband and pulled out the automatic. The kid let go and moved up against the wall. Bobby aimed the gun at the kid’s chest and said, “Do you get paid enough to die for your job?” The kid’s mouth moved but nothing came out. He shook his head quickly.

  “Let me see some ID,” Bobby said.

  “What?”

  Bobby raised the gun to the kid’s face. “Let me see some ID.”

  The kid scrambled for his wallet, and pulled out his driver’s license, holding it up. Bobby grabbed it and said, “Taylor Brown. Is this your current address?”

  He nodded.

  “Taylor, I’m going to take this license. If you call the police or tell anyone what has happened, I’m going to visit you one night. Do you get it?”

  He nodded, his eyes on the gun.

  Bobby then hammered the gun into the kid’s ear. The kid cursed and fell down, holding his head and crying, “Please don’t…”

  “Remember, Taylor. You talk, and I’ll visit.” Bobby walked out from the behind the mailboxes, and shoved the gun back into his pants. He heard the kid whimpering.

  Walking down the street and opening Jake’s mail, Bobby threw out the junk mail, a few bills, but stopped when he saw the letter from SeaTac Bank. It was a form letter, but it had Jake’s social security number at the top. The letter thanked Jake for his patronage at SeaTac Bank, and they were sorry that he was closing his accounts. They hoped Jake would consider them in the future. That was all, but the social security number was important.

  Bobby and his friend from L.A., Jules, used to steal mail and look for credit card applications. They’d fill them out, and when they needed the social security number—if it wasn’t already in their other mail—they’d call Jules’ sister, Lavelle, who worked in the financing department of an auto dealer. She had access to anyone’s credit report. All Bobby needed was a full name and address, and she’d pop up a social security number.

  Bobby immediately called Jules, who said, “Where the fuck have you been and when the fuck are you going to get Ron off my back?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “He’s getting serious. He and his asshole friends are beginning to bother me. Where the hell are you?”

  “Seattle. I’m coming back down soon. I’ll have the money.”

  “I hope so. He’ll come after you if he thinks you’re fucking with him.”

  “I’m not. My brother was killed. That’s why I’m up here.”

  “Oh. Didn’t know that.”

  “I need Lavelle’s number.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to do a credit thing.”

  “You’re not getting ten grand from a credit—”

  “Just give me the fucking number. I’m not doing that credit card scam. What’s her number.”

  Jules gave him the phone number, and Bobby hung up on him in mid-question. He then called Lavelle.

  “I don’t know. I can’t keep doing this. I can get in trouble. They list inquiries,” she said.

  “We haven’t asked in a long time. Just this once more.”

  “All right. Spell me the name, and give me the social security number.”

  “What can you get me?” Bobby asked.

  “The address, credit cards, debts, things like that.”

  Bobby spelled out Jake’s full name, then read off the social security number. She said she’d call back in fifteen minutes. He thought about Ron bothering Jules. Ron had his asshole army, and Bobby might have to call him soon. Tell him the money’s coming. Then again, who gave a fuck? He’d get his money. Once Bobby found Jake, everything would be okay.

  When Lavelle called back, she told him that this guy had no credit history. “He doesn’t have credit cards, has no debt, and looks like he goes under the radar.”

  “Address?”

  “A few of them. He’s moved around Seattle a lot.”

  “The last address?”

  She read off an Eighth Avenue address in Seattle, which was a few blocks from University. Jake wrote this down with a smile. “Lavelle, you’re great.”

  “When you coming back down here?”

  “Just as soon as I finish up my business. I’ll take you and Jules out on the town.”

  They hung up and Bobby walked towards Eighth. He tasted bile in his throat, and spit a few times onto the sidewalk. He had trouble ridding his mouth of the sour taste. Backwash from too many bennies? He spit again. He hoped Jake was there. His abdomen flared as he adjusted his gun against the small of his back.

  27

  Jake came out of the bathroom, and saw his brother and Rachel at the small dining room table. They looked up. Rachel’s hair was still wet, slicked back from her shower. The tense look on Eugene’s face made Jake stop. “Everything okay?”

  Eugene said, “Just some problems at work.”

  “You want me to go out and buy you two dinner?”

  “Thanks,” his brother said, “but I’m going back to work in a minute.”

  Jake nodded. Rachel’s laptop computer lay on the table. He went to the guest room and changed, hearing Rachel’s questioning tone followed by Eugene’s somber answers. By the time Jake came back out, Eugene was putting his coat on, and told Jake, “I’ll just be a few hours. Sorry I’m being such a terrible host.”

  “No, it’s fine. You’re busy.”

  “Tomorrow night we’ll take in a movie or something. I promise.”

  Jake shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  His brother left, and Jake turned to Rachel. She said, “It’s complicated. People stabbing each other in the back.”

  “In his back?”

  “Possibly. That’s why he’s meeting his supervisor outside of work. They’re going to talk strategy.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  Rachel looked up at him and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Shit.”

  She smiled sadly. “He’ll be fine. He’s a plugger.”

  “A what?”

  “Plugger. Plugs away. He’s like my mom.”

  “He is a plugger,” Jake said.

  “I know.”

  “What does your mother do? Is she still working?”

  “Oh, yes. Hotel administrator. Started out in janitorial. Same hotel company for twenty-three years.” Rachel said, “The sight of hotel-sized soaps and shampoos make me ill. That’s all we used when I was growing up.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “She’s a soldier. When my father died, she had never had a job. Married young, that kind of thing. We had no money and she had to support me. She went out and plugged away.”

  “Do they get along?”

  “Euge and my mom? Sure. She had a little trouble with the Asian thing at first.”

  “Really.”

  “She didn’t know any better, but once she got to know him, it was fine. You
met her at the wedding.”

  He did? Jake then recalled a short, squat woman bossing the caterers around. “She was the one who made everyone dance.”

  “That was her.”

  Jake pointed to her laptop.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “How about showing me what you found.”

  She smiled. “We have a deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “I show you, but you tell me what happened.”

  Jake was about to contradict her, but then said, “Let me see what you have.”

  She lifted up the screen and turned the laptop on. It chimed. Jake sat down next to her. She said, “I didn’t save the first one, because it was just about the hardware guy reporting the beating. They didn’t discover the burglary right away.”

  She clicked on a file and text filled the screen:

  SEATTLE – The Seattle Police Department has new leads in the assault of Gregory Hanson, the hardware executive beaten in a neighbor’s yard. At first believed to be a mugging gone awry, the beating is now seen as connected to a burglary of a neighbor’s house, Won Sil Chun, owner of Good Luck Jewelry in Wallingford. Mr. Chun hadn’t noticed jewels missing until the next morning, at which time he called the police. The investigators found evidence of a sophisticated burglary. “We now believe the beating victim must have surprised the burglars,” said Sergeant Jim Keller, Seattle PD spokesman. “We have a description of a car, a navy blue or black Ford Escort, in the vicinity at around that time, and a preliminary description of the two attackers. Our sketch artist is working with Mr. Hanson, and we’re following every lead.” Sergeant Keller asks anyone with relevant information to contact the Seattle Police Department.

  Jake stared at the names, and found it jarring to connect people with what he had done. He said, “What about those sketches.”

  She pulled up another story, which said the sketches were inconclusive, and there were no real leads. The estimated value of the stolen jewels and cash amounted to over sixty thousand dollars. Rachel said, “That’s it.”