The Lockpicker

by Leonard Chang

  Creak, creak.

  Outside the door. Rachel walking quietly towards the door. Stopping. Two feet in the line of light. Waiting, listening. Was he making noise? Stop. Quiet. Touching the door? Shit. Coming in? Shit. No. Stopping and listening. Listening for what? Listening for him. Come in. Come in right now. I’m waiting for you. Come in right now. Come in. Open the door. Walk in. Come to the bed. Sit down. Put your hand on me. Rest. Touch. Lean in.

  Line of light brighter. Feet gone. Creak, creak. Sounds of settling in the sofa. TV on, then off. Light off, then on, then off. Shhhh. Quiet. So close.

  35

  There were no problems selling the jewelry. Jake was surprised by how fast the consigned pieces went at Pacific Gems. He had called ahead and learned that everything, even the cheap bracelet and the diamond ring, had sold. He had four hundred and thirteen dollars waiting for him, and Tom, the man in charge of buying and consigning, had told Jake to bring more rings, if he had any.

  Jake had plenty. He decided to bring one important piece to be appraised. It was a round brilliant cut diamond set in platinum, maybe three carats, with two quarter carat bagette diamonds on either side. He had missed it earlier because it was untagged and unwrapped, thrown in with what looked like a cubic zirconium ring, but as he spent more time in the safe deposit examination room, sorting and categorizing, he realized this wasn’t a cheap imitation. The cut was near perfect as far as Jake could tell, the table facet and crown height looked to the naked eye beautifully proportioned. He needed an appraiser to check the actual proportions as well as the crown angles, but he suspected this was a GIA-certified Class One diamond. If that was the case, he was looking at twenty grand easy. But it worried him that the ring was so carelessly mixed with the cheap stuff. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he was reading it wrong. He needed a second opinion, but had to be careful. This was the kind of ring that was listed in stolen jewelry alerts.

  He’d also bring the tiffany-setting, one-carat ring, the eternity ring, and a couple of the cheap engagement rings. He wouldn’t sell or consign them all; he wanted a better sense of value. This job was larger than he had thought—maybe that newspaper article was accurate about the value of the take—and as he left the bank and walked towards Pacific Heights, he thought about the Korean family he had taken this from. He had cleaned them out, and even with insurance they were in serious trouble—jacked up premiums, bad publicity, coming up with new inventory. Chih had a friend who had been robbed, and the insurance red tape had gone on for years. By the time the friend had received a check—and it wasn’t even for replacement value—he had gone out of business.

  Jake stopped walking. He was one block from the jewelry store and looked around. He had the feeling of being noticed. Cars drove by, cutting each other off as they raced through yellow lights. Pedestrians across the street waited at the corner for the Walk sign. Jake scanned the area. Maybe someone had seen him a few days ago heading to the jewelry store, and noticed him again. It was possible. He never ignored his instincts. Jake had learned that a feeling—even a fleeting one—of something amiss was usually grounded on a perception not fully registered, a glimpse of a familiar figure, even a sound of a voice or a cough that barely reached his ears.

  The rings in his pockets were sending out signals. They were singing an aria of money, and Jake was an easy, unarmed target. He should be wearing a “Rob Me” sign. The paranoid get no rest.

  He turned a corner and headed in the opposite direction. No need to see the jeweler right now. He’d go for a nice long walk. He saw movement in the shadows, and thought, Zombies wait and watch.

  36

  Bobby took a bus to Capitol Hill and walked along Broadway, searching for Molino Restaurant. Everything seemed cleaner here compared to his dumpy hotel in Pioneer Square, and he did a double-take when he saw two men holding hands. He thought, A homo neighborhood? Then it made sense: if Jake was hiding out, here would be a good place.

  Bobby found the restaurant, part of a small brick building, and stopped at the front window. It was open for lunch, most of the tables filled, and he was getting hungry. Rather than go in and possibly expose himself to Jake, Bobby decided to locate the rear entrance. He walked around the building until he saw parking spaces with the sign “Molino Restaurant and Capitol Video Employees Only!” He walked into the restaurant and found himself in a hallway next to a small locker room. A man was putting on a waiter’s uniform. Bobby said, “Hey, is Jake working today?”

  The man, a young guy about Bobby’s age, with silver glasses, said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  Bobby thanked him and continued down the hall until he came into the kitchen, white-aproned cooks at the stove and counters, a row of different pasta and meat dishes heating under red lamps. A few people hurrying by glanced at Bobby, but didn’t say anything. He kept alert, expecting to see Jake any moment. A waitress ran in and said, “The specials are popular. Get ready for more.”

  A cook at the stove raised his spatula.

  Bobby didn’t see Jake and asked one of the chefs adding whipped cream to a dessert, “Is Jake here?”

  “No, that flake hasn’t shown up in days. Where the hell is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Bobby said. “Where’s the manager?”

  “He’s helping in front. The guy in the suit.”

  Bobby left the kitchen and walked out into the dining area. He saw the man in the suit on the phone and writing in a reservation book at the front counter. Bobby waited until the man hung up. Bobby approached and said, “I’m looking for Jake.”

  The man answered. “You and me both. That guy left us shorthanded.”

  “He hasn’t been in at all?”

  “No, not since last week. He’s not answering his phone either. Who are you?”

  “He owes me money.”

  “Can’t help you. If you do find him, let him know he’s in trouble.”

  “Did he have any friends here? Someone I can ask about where he might’ve gone?”

  “Don’t think so. He was a quiet guy.”

  “What did he do here?”

  “Cold side chef—”

  “He was a chef?”

  The man shrugged. “Cold side is different. He just put together pastas.”

  Bobby said, “Do the other chefs know him?”

  “Why don’t you ask them?”

  So Bobby did, but none of the chefs knew much. He realized that Jake had been very careful, and for the first time since all this had happened, Bobby wondered if he might not find him. Then it occurred to him that Ron might not get his money. Bobby could never return to L.A. Everything was fucked. His abdomen flared, the pain pulling down into his butt. He cursed quietly.

  He saw a waitress going out the back for a smoking break and he followed her. He asked her if she knew Jake.

  “I saw him around. He did long night shifts.”

  “He didn’t have any friends here?”

  “Not really.”

  “He didn’t talk to anyone?”

  She shrugged. “I think he had a brief thing with Arlene, but that was a while ago.”

  “Who’s Arlene?”

  “Another waitress.”

  “Is she here?”

  “Uh-uh. She’ll be in tonight, though.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Short, thin. Long dirty blonde. Kind of mousy.”

  “You got another cigarette?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She tapped one out of the pack and handed it to him. She stopped and pointed to his stomach. “You’re bleeding.”

  He looked down. Spots of blood were seeping into his shirt. “Shit,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said, walking towards the street. “Thanks for the smoke.”

  “You want me to tell Arlene?”

  “I’ll come by tonight,” he said.

  Bobby hurried down the street, trying to fan his shirt to keep the blood off it. He ran into a
Starbucks and pulled out a wad of paper napkins from the dispenser, and blotted the stitches. The pain worsened. He grimaced and limped out onto the street, ignoring the stares of the customers. Arlene, he thought. Mousy Arlene.

  37

  “Branded” diamonds are labelled and advertised as such in order to guarantee a specified proportional cut, insuring that the diamond you buy is of the highest quality. This was new to Jake. As Tom, the buyer at Pacific Gems, analyzed the four-carat diamond ring Jake had brought in, drawing a diagram that showed the Eppler proportions of a 56% table width, a 57.7% crown height, and the bezel area at 14.4%, Jake realized that he hadn’t been keeping up with new developments in diamonds. He asked, “So is this a Class One?”

  “It falls within Class One specs, but it’s also ‘branded’ as an Eppler cut, and is worth even more.”

  “When did people start doing this branding business?”

  “A few years now.”

  “The body color looks great,” Jake said. “Is it ‘E’ or ‘F’?”

  “I’d say maybe even ‘D’. The clarity is VVS2. I can have another guy confirm all this, but this is a really good diamond. I’m not even talking about the baguette diamonds on the sides.”

  “How much?”

  “You want to sell it?”

  Jake shook his head. “Not now.”

  “We can do a professional appraisal, have it documented. You should get this insured.”

  “Give me a ballpark figure.”

  “The entire ring? At least thirty-five thousand.”

  Jake let out a slow breath. “You’d give me thirty-five grand for that?”

  “No. I’d give you twenty-five maybe, but I’d want to see proof of ownership, documentation, everything.”

  Taking the ring and staring at it, Jake shook his head. “I don’t want to sell it. It was my mother’s favorite ring, but now I know why.”

  “It looks new.”

  “She had it redone, added the baguettes. The big one came from another ring.”

  “What about these?” Tom said, waving to the other rings Jake had shown him.

  “Which do you want to buy, which would do better consigned?”

  “Sell me the tiffany and the eternity. Consign those cheap ones.”

  “How much?”

  “Three thousand for the tiffany, fifteen hundred for the eternity.”

  “What would you price the others?”

  “Those two,” he said, pointing to the gold engagement rings with quarter carat diamonds, “might go for a couple hundred each. The others are lousy. I couldn’t charge more than sixty or seventy for them.”

  “All right. I’ll sell you the eternity, consign the cheap ones, but hold onto the tiffany and my mom’s favorite ring.”

  “You sure? I like the tiffany. I might offer you more if I can get a second opinion on the diamond.”

  Jake shook his head. “Not yet. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Let me draw up the paperwork. Be right back.” He went into the back room, and Jake pocketed the two rings he wanted to save. Thirty-five thousand dollars for one ring. His take for this job just doubled with this one ring.

  He examined again the security: infrared motion detectors, two small video cameras, a wireless link with a private patrol company, but this time he moved behind the counter and saw what looked like a huge one-ton safe with an escutcheon plate as large as the door itself in the back. There was also security grilling along the back room, probably pulled down at closing.

  After signing the paperwork and receiving two checks, one for the previously consigned jewelry and one for the eternity ring, he headed to a check-cashing store, where he would use one of his fake driver’s licenses and social security card. The jewelers knew him as a “William Han,” his ID courtesy of Chih. He was making good progress and wondered why he had never done this before. Time had been a factor. It was also easy with Chih offering to buy everything. The low-balling and the 10% cut must have made Chih’s percentage more than Jake’s each time. No wonder Chih was always eager to get Jake involved.

  Then it happened again: the feeling of being noticed. He stopped and turned around: a man in a business suit hurrying across the street; a teenaged couple holding hands; an elderly Asian woman with a shopping bag; another man in a jacket and tie; cars driving by. Jake sat down on the steps of an apartment building and waited. More pedestrians walked up and down the street. Jake didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. No one stopped or dawdled. Jake remained sitting for another fifteen minutes. He decided not to return to this store for a while.

  He stepped into a doorway, took out the branded diamond ring, and held it close to his eye, letting the sparkles fleck his vision. Rainbow colors flashed around him, then disappeared. This was life viewed through thirty-five grand, through his “mother’s” ring.

  His mother had only one diamond ring that Jake knew of. It had been stolen off her finger when she had been rushed to the hospital. Before that, though, he remembered feeling the cool metal on his cheek once, when she told him to sleep. He had been very young. She touched his cheek with her palm, and said, Please sleep. He hadn’t thought of that in over twenty years. He pocketed his ring and wandered down the street.

  After a half hour of walking, he stopped, confused. He was standing in front of Franklin & Sons Jewelry. He had intended to return the two rings to his safe deposit box, but instead found himself in a different neighborhood, walking into this store, doing a quick scan of the interior. There were wall displays, glass cases with angled felt mountings, small lamps shining down onto the gleaming gems. One long display counter in a U shape filled the room, and Jake saw the alarm control unit, an old one, that was deactivited with a key. This wasn’t a combination coded alarm, and he traced the wires to the door—a simple magnetic break sensor—and the windows.

  “Can I help you?” a large, beefy man asked as he entered from the back room. His puffy cheeks were ruddy, his forehead shiny.

  “Just looking around,” Jake said.

  “For anything in particular?” The man folded his arms and stood in the doorway. He looked Jake up and down. “We have some nice men’s rings that came in last week.”

  “Oh, yeah? Let’s see them.”

  The man pointed to the end of the counter, and began taking out two displays. Jake saw immediately that they were cheap machine-manufactured rings, the gems glued on without any prongs, tiny burrs on the one he examined. The price, $85.00, was about triple what it was actually worth. Jake smiled.

  “What’s the matter?” the man asked. “A little overpriced, don’t you think?”

  “No. That’s fourteen k gold and a good sapphire.”

  “Man-made sapphire?”

  “No,” he answered quickly.

  Jake suspected he was lying. He said, “The gold spot price is pretty low these days.”

  The man frowned. “This isn’t a negotiation. That’s the price. Take it or leave it.”

  “Then I’ll leave it. Let’s see your diamond engagement rings.” The man put away the displays and said, “You going to buy something?”

  “Depends.”

  “You’re going to waste my time?”

  “Depends on the rings.”

  The man looked him over again, and said, “They’ll probably be out of your range. I mean, if that sapphire was too much for you—”

  “Are you joking?” Jake looked down at his jeans, his scuffed shoes. He was wearing an Oxford shirt, and thought he looked fine. “I want to see the engagement rings. Are you going to show them to me or not?”

  “They’re right there,” the man said, pointing to the other end of the counter.

  “Look for yourself.”

  “What’s your name,” Jake asked.

  “Why?”

  “Are you Franklin or one of the sons?”

  “Neither. There is no Franklin and sons.”

  “Are you the owner?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you an assho
le to all your customers?”

  “Just the cheap ones.”

  Jake smiled, shook his head, and walked out the door. He heard the man mutter, “Cheap bastard.”

  Jake stopped. He was tempted to go back in, and almost turned around. But instead, he swallowed this and continued. Jake patted the rings in his pocket and told himself to keep cool.

  38

  On the way to the check-cashing store, he felt it again. This time he was worried. He began looping around the block, unsure if he was becoming paranoid, and kept stopping to look around. Nothing registered. Nothing, that is, until he began searching the cars driving by, and he noticed a black car a block down that had pulled to the corner, parking illegally. He thought it might be the police, but then, after a moment, recognized the car: it was Eugene’s. He cut across the street, and saw Rachel in the driver’s seat. She sunk lower when their eyes met. He knocked on the passenger side window, and she unlocked the door. He climbed in.