The Lockpicker

by Leonard Chang

  “The brother? In the city. He worked at some kind of techie place.”

  “Name?”

  She shook her head.

  “What kind of techie place? Computers?”

  “He didn’t know.”

  “Jake didn’t know what his brother did for a living?”

  “Just that it was tech-related.”

  He sighed. “What about other friends?”

  “He had no friends, really. He always kept to himself.”

  “What about other family? Parents?”

  “He told me his parents split up when he was young, and he hadn’t spoken to either of them since he was a teenager.”

  Bobby stared at her, then said slowly, “Have you ever watched a cat choke to death?”

  She began crying. “Please, I swear I don’t know anything else.”

  “My brother, who’s dead by the way, used to do crazy things like that, just to freak me out. Once there was this neighborhood cat that I liked.” He stroked Mary’s cat, and it purred, settling into his lap. Bobby said, “He saw that the cat liked me better. You know, it came to me when I called it, but not to him. You know what he did?”

  She shook her head and wiped eyes.

  “He grabbed it around its neck with both hands, lifted it into the air and began squeezing.” Bobby had tried to stop him, but Kevin had kicked him viciously in the leg and Bobby went down. He said, “My brother’s arms were getting all scratched up. I mean really bloody, but he just smiled and squeezed harder and harder. He was really strong, and the cat was trying to fight back. You know, clawing and trying to hiss at him. It was one of the worst fucking things I’ve ever seen.”

  “Your brother did this?”

  Bobby nodded. “I don’t know why he hated me so much. I was just a kid. Anyway, the cat stopped moving, and he flung it at me. He said, ‘Now call it and see if it comes.’ I’m not kidding you. This really happened.”

  “What did you do?”

  “His arms were all scratched and bloody, and I was completely shitting in my pants. The cat just lay there. I went screaming for my mother.”

  “And?”

  “And he told her that they cat went wild, and he was trying to protect me. The story I told was just so bizarre. She didn’t believe me. She never did. He was her favorite.”

  She covered her face with her hands, and said, “Please go.”

  “You can’t help me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you love your cat?”

  She nodded, her face still covered.

  “All right. I’ll go.”

  She looked at him.

  “What, you think I’d hurt this cat? After what my brother did? Hell, I’d sooner choke a person to death than a cat. What the fuck did the cat ever do to me?” He pushed the cat gently off his lap. It hopped onto the floor. Bobby said, “Let me ask this: If you wanted to get in touch with him again, what would you do?”

  She waited until the cat left the room. She said, “I’d call his number in Seattle.”

  “And if he wasn’t there anymore? If the number was disconnected?”

  “I’d send a letter to his address and hope it got forwarded.”

  He said, “No forwarding address.”

  “I’d try to find his brother.”

  “How?”

  “I’d call every Ahn in San Francisco.”

  Bobby nodded. “Yeah. I guess that’s what I’ll do.” He stood up slowly, wincing. His head now ached from the fall. He grabbed his gun, and said, “I’ll go now. You’re not going to call the police or anything, are you?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  “I know where you live. I know who you are.”

  She nodded.

  “All right. Sorry about scaring you. I had to know if you were lying.”

  “Please go.”

  He walked out of her house, hearing her lock and bolt the door, and he limped towards his car. It bothered him that his mother never knew the real Kevin. Even getting shot by the police hadn’t changed her mind. She wanted to sue the police. She believed that it was all a mistake. Bobby had missed the funeral, but saw how his mother had moped around the house for days. She would drift into Kevin’s room, fixing his bed and cleaning his windows. Bobby knew she’d keep it a goddamn shrine, and the thought of it pissed him off. Kevin once smothered Bobby with a garbage bag, seeing how long Bobby could survive without breathing. Bobby, a kid at the time, saw the world through white plastic, his lungs squeezed, his body convulsing, and when Kevin pulled off the bag, Bobby cried. Kevin smiled.

  Bobby wished Kevin was still alive, if only to show their mother what a true piece of shit he was.

  54

  Jake didn’t stay on the phone with Chih’s wife for long, but learned the essentials: it was a daylight robbery, and they had only taken the cash in the register. Chih’s handheld panic button—something that Jake had once laughed at—prevented the robbers from getting the jewels. His wife said no one had seen anything, and no one had been caught, even questioned. Jake said he was sorry, and after a moment asked about getting Hunt’s number. Chih’s wife looked up the name in an address book and gave Jake two numbers of two different Hunts. Jake then asked if he could do anything for her, and she said, “Do you know who could’ve done this?”

  Jake said, “No.”

  “Then there’s nothing you can do.” She said goodbye and hung up. He was suspicious of Chih’s death occurring so closely after the Chun job. The worry grew when he considered that Bobby’s death had never been reported in the news. He needed to check the Seattle newspapers again. All this could be a coincidence, but the vague feeling that Bobby might be alive turned his mood grim. A bullet in the gut, kicked a few times in the head, and left in the garbage. Could Bobby have survived?

  He pocketed the two Hunt phone numbers, and found himself rattled for the first time since coming down here. Chih was dead? They had only taken the cash. It might have been a hit and the stolen cash just a way to make it look like a botched robbery. Chih had more cash in a safe, and Jake couldn’t believe that none of the jewels, not even the ones openly displayed, were taken. The alarm had possibly thwarted that, but he didn’t know.

  Maybe Chih was into something that Jake didn’t know about. Maybe this was a coincidence.

  He sat down on the sofa. Poor fucking Chih. He was a cheat, a liar, and, as a fence, screwed everyone over, but Jake had liked him.

  Jake saw a philosophy book Rachel hadn’t yet packet, and he flipped it open to the Presocratic section. He read some of the translated fragments. War rules everything, and it’s through the conflict and strife of opposites that we find harmony. Death and life are one.

  Tell that to Chih, he thought.

  55

  Jake woke up when his brother entered the apartment. He heard Rachel stirring, the sofa bed creaking, and she said in a loud, crisp voice, Not again.

  We desert people have eyes in the back of our heads, Eugene said.

  What?

  The sounds of the kitchen faucet mingled with Eugene gurgling.

  Jesus, Euge, you’ve got to get your act together.

  You’re packing?

  Shh. Yes.

  Look what you’re doing to me.

  Don’t blame me for this, Rachel said, her voice low.

  My limbs are falling off.

  You’re drunk. You need help. I need a sculptor.

  What?

  I need Michelangelo.

  God, you can’t even hear me, you’re so drunk.

  I hear you. I am drinking because I lost my fucking job and my wife is fucking leaving me, and I have no fucking money, and I’m drowning in fucking debt. Is that all right?

  Jake sat up.

  Don’t talk to me like that—

  I hear you all right. I hear you because my ears haven’t fallen off and my head is still attached for now—

  Keep your voice down—

  And you’re leaving me because you haven’t go
tten what you wanted. Well let me tell you something, you think I wanted all this bullshit? Do you?

  Eugene, please…

  You think I wanted to live in an overpriced piece of shit apartment and bending over for an asshole boss and not have a family? You think this is what I wanted? You think I’m fucking happy with the way we live? Do you! Do you! Do you!

  Jake listened. Rachel was quiet.

  Eugene muttered, My arms fell off. Leave them there. I’ll get them in the morning.

  He walked heavily down the hallway.

  Jake heard Rachel crying.

  56

  Jake and Rachel took a bus to Lomax’s building. It was late afternoon, and for the previous two hours Rachel had been checking online for any stories about Chih or Bobby. She and Jake had found a brief story of Chih’s murder in The Seattle Times, but that was it. There was no follow-up, no stories of leads or investigations, and Jake wasn’t surprised to find other news, such as a Greenpeace demonstration and arrest, getting more coverage. Chih was a small-time jeweler. It was just another robbery and murder. There was also nothing about Bobby Null, about any dead bodies found in a dumpster, about a gunshot victim in the U-District. The crimes of petty thieves seemed irrelevant. During the crowded bus ride, Jake was certain he had shot Bobby squarely in the gut, a slow, but fatal wound. Bobby had been unconscious and the only way he could’ve survived would have been if someone had found him in that dumpster. That was impossible, yet why wasn’t there any news of it?

  “Thanks for not mentioning last night,” Rachel said.

  “No big deal,” he said. He noticed that she had changed into black sneakers and black jeans. “You have on a creeper outfit.”

  She shrugged. “This is comfortable. Did you talk to him this morning?”

  “He asked me if I thought he was drinking too much.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said yes.”

  “Good. What did he say?”

  “He said I should start looking for a place because after you leave, he’s going to sell the condo.”

  “What? He said that?”

  “He did.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Something about getting the car repaired.”

  She nodded and stared out onto the street. “You think he’s going to go drinking again?”

  Jake shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “About Chih. He was a friend.”

  “The guy in the paper. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “We go back a while.”

  “You didn’t mention it.”

  “I know. I’m still a little surprised.”

  She said, “Do you know who could’ve done this?”

  “No,” he said. “Probably a random crime. I think.”

  After a moment, she said, “You were close to him.”

  “Close?” He realized he didn’t need to be so secretive. “He was my fence and a guy who taught me a lot about jewelry.”

  “Oh, I see. Are you going back up for the funeral?”

  He hadn’t even thought of that. He should’ve been more consoling to Chih’s wife; instead he had pumped her for Chih’s contacts. Nice. He told Rachel, “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you think his death is connected to what you did?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.” A line of people filed off the bus. Jake thought of Chih bouncing around the store, overcharging tourists for cheap jewelry. He said, “There was a moment, once I began visiting his store more, when we both realized at the same time that we were dealing with stolen jewelry. It was funny.”

  “Why?”

  “I was doing what I’m doing here, selling jewelry, and after I brought in some diamonds, we began talking. It was just the way we were careful about where I got the diamonds, and how he liked to deal in cash. All these clues. Then I said something like I had more, and then he looked at me, and we both knew.” There was that moment when their eyes met and Chih gave him a slow, knowing smile. They had continued to speak indirectly about the jewels-for-cash deal, testing each other, until Jake knew he was a fence.

  “So he was a legitimate jeweler?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t start out that way, but soon had a pretty good store.”

  “Was he married? Kids?”

  “Married. I don’t know if he had kids.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “We didn’t talk about personal things,” he said, and felt a tinge of regret. Personal tidbits leaked out from time to time, and Jake suspected Chih did have kids from something he had once said about the lousy schools in Seattle.

  Rachel pulled on the cord over the window, signaling the driver. She said, “We get off next.”

  They left the bus, Jake disoriented and following Rachel as she moved briskly through a crowd of people waiting to board. They walked for three blocks in silence, their steps in unison. At one point Rachel linked her arm in his, and Jake tightened his elbow around hers. She smiled, but stared ahead. The side streets were darker with more homeless settling in for the night in doorways and alleys by the larger warehouses. They approached Lomax’s block, and Rachel asked where they should be.

  “Let’s check if his car is here yet.”

  The parking lot was empty except for one pick-up in the corner. Jake wanted to watch the front entrance, so he and Rachel hid across the street by an office supply building. They found a spot beside a garage door, a high concrete curb as their seat. Except for the darkening dusk sky, there wasn’t much lighting on this side of the street, so Jake wasn’t worried about being seen. Most of the traffic ran on Howard and Folsom. The smell of cheap wine and motor oil seeped into their clothes. They settled in.

  During the next thirty minutes, as they watched the sparse traffic in silence, Jake kept thinking about Chih getting killed. The newspaper report said only that he was fatally shot; it didn’t report how. In fact, most of the details had been left out. Did he suffer? Jake didn’t want to consider this.

  “There’s someone leaving,” Rachel whispered.

  They watched a man in a white T-shirt and jeans hurry through the front door and out the security gate, letting it slam loudly on its own. He jogged around the building. Soon, the pick-up pulled out of the lot and turned a corner. It was quiet again. Jake asked, “What day is it?”

  “Friday.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Friday night. People going out.”

  Jake said, “Without work I’m losing track of the days.”

  “Me too,” she said. “You mean the restaurant?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me what you did there. How’d you get to be a chef?”

  Jake told her about starting as a part-time bus boy. He had wanted a crappy job just to keep busy, and to supplement his income. When the owner needed a volunteer to come in on Sunday morning at five a.m. to help prepare the brunch buffet, Jake was the only one interested. He spent all morning filling the carts with ice and arranging them in the dining room, then setting up the Steno burners and hot trays. He refilled the food trays throughout the day, and by the early evening, he’d pack it all down, empty and wash the carts. He liked the solitude of the job—he didn’t have to deal with customers or waiters. He liked waking up at dawn and moving through the restaurant when it was quiet and empty. He liked cleaning up after everyone had gone home. The owner was surprised, since the other busboys hated that job, and either quit or refused to do it any longer, but Jake stayed with it. Soon, instead of bringing the empty trays and serving bowls to the kitchen and asking for refills, the cooks began telling him to refill them himself. Then they asked him to prepare the easier pastas by himself. Within a few weeks the owner moved him off the bus boy schedule and he began working the cold side during the week. He continued manning the Sunday brunches, and still liked that the best.

  “You sound like a farmer,
getting up at dawn and all that,” Rachel said.

  “It was so simple. You have to do certain things, and you do it. I liked that. When I was working the mail room at a company, I had to deal with all kinds bullshit.”

  “Like what?”

  “Petty supervisors taking credit for what you did, people asking for special favors for their mail, people messing up the postage meters and then blaming you.” He shook his head.

  “Why even bother with a regular job?”“I needed something regular, something different. I still do. Keeps me out of trouble.”

  He saw Lomax’s car drive by, and he nudged her. This time, however, the car didn’t pull into the parking lot, but stopped by the curb. Lomax climbed out and then a woman opened the passenger door. They were talking.

  “A date?” Rachel whispered. “Well, well.”

  The blonde woman was tall and fleshy, her dress a little too tight; her arms squeezed into the sleeves. She had a shiny black pocketbook she swung as she walked with Lomax through the front gate. They entered the building. Jake said, “He can’t park there for long. They must be going back out soon.”

  “Damn. If we had the car we could follow them.”

  Jake calculated the length of a date: dinner, maybe a movie or a club, maybe drinks. Would they come back here or would Lomax drive her home? A few hours at least. He felt the adrenaline beginning to whisper through him, the quiet hiss of excitement. He modulated his breathing, exhaling slowly, and focused on the building. The second floor loft had its lights on, but that was it on this side. What was Lomax doing? Maybe changing, getting cash, looking for something. He picked the woman up right after work, but needed to drop by his place first. It’ll be just a second, Lomax told her. Why don’t you come in.

  A police car turned the corner and drove down the street. As it passed Jake, he stared at the cop driving. He felt Rachel tense next to him, but Jake wasn’t worried. They were just sitting around. The cop continued down the street, unaware of them. Routine patrol. He turned to Rachel, who said, “I feel like a criminal and I haven’t even done anything.”

  “Guilty conscience.”

  “Not you?” she asked.

  Lomax emerged from the building, holding the front door open for his date. The woman walked under the yellow light above the entrance and paused; her face was warped by the shadows, then blinked into darkness as they passed through the gate and moved to the car. Lomax wore a leather jacket, and held open the passenger door for her. Jake and Rachel watched them drive away.