The Lockpicker

by Leonard Chang

  “Bennies. Uppers.”

  The man smiled. Two of his lower teeth were capped with silver. He said, “All right, my friend. You wait here. I can get diamonds, dexies, and black beauties. How much you want?”

  “How much for dexies?”

  “How much you got?”

  “Enough.”

  “A nice baggie with ten dexies—hundred bucks. Top, man.”

  “Ten bucks a pop? Fuck no. Twenty for the bag.”

  “I gots to run down the street for them. It’s labor. Top shit.”

  “Get it and let me check it out.”

  The man walked down two blocks, stepping over a homeless guy under a cardboard blanket, and turned a corner. Bobby hated buying off the street like this, but he needed that kick. He just wanted to get all this shit over with and then go back to L.A. where he could lie out on Venice beach and soak up some heat. He was always cold up here, even colder than Seattle. This sucked.

  He worried about Ron wanting his money. He owed juice on the juice, and it was getting higher every week. But with the stash Jake had stolen from him, Bobby would be fine. He’d pay it all back and then some. And he’d swear off card rooms and swinging-dick poker games forever. He’d get a tan. Bobby looked at his white arms and hands. You could almost see through him right now. It was from Seattle and now this place. Where was the goddamn sun? Why was it always so cloudy and grey?

  He rubbed his arms and thought about how he’d deal with Underhill. Bobby knew the asshole would try to squeeze him, and he had to think of a fast and easy way to get what he needed.

  The junkie with his dexies turned the corner and approached. Bobby looked around for cops, but saw only a bunch of panhandlers. The man said, “Got you a dozen. Check it out.” He slipped Bobby a plastic bag.

  Taking out one pill, Bobby read “10 mg” on the side, and said, “This is lightweight. I’ll give you twenty for these dozen.”

  “Fuck no. A hundred for the bag.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Fifty, or you can take a fucking walk.”

  Bobby thought about it, then said, “All right. Here’s fifty. But I’m taking one now. If anything’s wrong, I’m coming back for you.” He pushed aside his jacket and showed him the gun.

  “Don’t be showing me that bullshit.” The man held up his hands. “I’m just a businessman. It’s good. We’re cool.”

  Bobby swallowed the pill and nodded. Everyone was trying to fuck him over. He turned and walked up the street towards Underhill’s building. He considered waiting until the pill kicked in, but wanted to get this over with. He saw his ghost brother watching him from across the street, shaking his head. Fuck you, Bobby thought. You’re so smart, you got shot in the face.

  70

  Jake waited in the darkness, his vision playing tricks on him. He saw white static superimposed over the shaded and murky objects in the room. He had probably concentrated too much tonight on watching Lomax’s store in the semi-darkness, and now his night vision was off. He closed his eyes. He listened for Rachel.

  The apartment was settling into the late night stillness, Eugene in the bedroom, Rachel on the sofa. His mind buzzed with too many thoughts, too many things he had to do tomorrow, and too many concerns. He tried to push them away. He wanted Rachel to come in now. He touched himself, expectant.

  He began drifting, but jolted awake when he heard movement in the living room. Rachel crept quietly towards his door. Jake’s breath quickened. He rolled onto his side to watch her. She opened the door, looked inside, then slid in, closing the door quietly behind her. She was in a sheer robe, and let it drop as she approached. Naked, she stopped by the side of the futon. She leaned over and touched his arms, dragging her fingers down, onto his hip, across his legs. She touched him, then grabbed him tightly. He turned onto his back. She sat down on the mattress next to him, leaned further down and slowly kissed him there. She flicked him with her tongue, and Jake smiled.

  When she put him in her mouth, he pushed himself deeper into his pillow and reached down to hold her head. He felt her warmth, her tongue swirling, and he ran his fingers across her short hair, her scalp hot. She moved up and down slowly, stopping when the futon creaked. She continued even more slowly, and it almost made Jake come. He stopped her. She pulled away, wiping her mouth, and climbed over him. Instead of positioning herself on him as she usually did, she turned, crawled backwards, her knees straddling his head, and began to lower herself against his mouth. He tasted her saltiness. She put him in her mouth again. They swirled against each other, pushing and pulling, and he felt her digging her fingers into his legs, curling her hand underneath his thighs and grabbing them tightly. Her breasts pressed against his stomach.

  She pulled away quickly, turned, and held him in place while she lowered herself, then she let out a small sigh as she sat on him. This was what he liked the most, when they were connected tightly against each other, and she rocked slowly against him.

  His door didn’t lock, and he knew that this was dangerous. It excited him more, and he began thrusting up, and she turned her head back and forth in rhythm, breathing through her teeth. He knew when she was close, when she tightened her legs around his, and tensed. As soon as she did this, he thrust harder and let himself come. Her breath came faster and she pressed down deeply against him, then slowed, shuddering, and lay down on top of him, her body cold with sweat. They panted heavily, quietly. They rested like this, their breathing in sync. She ran her finger along his scar and whispered, I’ll help you.

  71

  The next night Jake and Rachel parked near Franklin & Sons, and observed the street and apartments for activity. He was driving a tiny ‘82 Honda Civic that he had just paid eight hundred in cash for, and it seemed to be holding up. He just needed it for the job. Giving a fake name and address for the owner’s DMV paperwork, Jake had made sure he could dump the car without a trail.They had timed Jake driving to Lomax’s and back, and were now trying to determine how quiet it was. Except for a car every five or ten minutes turning off Union, it was almost deserted. He began telling Rachel the plan in a low voice: “Once I get in, you have to keep me informed of everything that happens out here. If people walk by the store, if a car slows, if a light goes on.”

  “And the scanner?” she asked.

  “Listen in and you’ll hear this street mentioned if they’re sending a cop car here. If you do, radio me, make sure I know, then you take the car and go.”

  “Without you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I don’t want you anywhere near trouble.”

  “Let’s say it goes well. Once you get everything, you’ll come out and…”

  “And get into the car. I’ll drive. We’ll go to the apartment, and you’ll get your share.”

  “My share.”

  “Of course. You don’t think you’re doing this for free, do you?” he asked.

  “No, but we never decided…”

  “How much? It depends. We’ll try to split it evenly, but I think I’ll give you more cash than jewelry. It’s easier for you.”

  “How much do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Total? From the looks of the inventory, I can guess maybe forty grand.”

  She turned to him. “We’d get twenty each?”

  “Possibly. Maybe more. It all depends.”

  “Jeez,” she said. “And tax free.”

  Jake glanced at her. “Tax free?”

  “Income without paying taxes,” she said. “You pay taxes, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Never filed.”

  “What?”

  “The restaurant takes a chunk out, but I’ve never filed a return.” Rachel said, “You could be getting some money back.”

  “I don’t want them to know me.”

  “Them.”

  “The government.”

  She stared. Jake shrugged.

  “You don’t think they know who you are right now?” she asked.

  “They have an idea, but I’ve
never lived in a place for more than two years. Never had a bank account for more than three. It’s tough to get a fix.”

  “You don’t mind living like that?”

  “Mind? I prefer it.”

  She nodded to herself and settled back. Jake felt the distance between them. He said, “Tell me about the philosophy you’re reading.” After a few moments she replied, “One thing I’ve been trying to figure out is Heraclitus’ belief that all things are filled with souls and spirits.”

  Jake turned to her. “I saw that.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it was just superstition.”

  “It feels religious, but it could also mean that spirits are like fire, a metaphor for change.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jake said.

  “Maybe he just saw everything with a kind of awe. You know? Everything is amazing to exist. A rock exists, and its formation is a kind of miracle.”

  “The way it’s shaped?” Jake asked, watching the street. He noticed a streetlamp flickering a block away.

  “Yes,” she said. “It was made through strife and change. Millions of years of pressure and volcanoes and whatever.”

  “Like diamonds,” Jake said.

  She nodded. “Yes. Diamonds have spirits. They didn’t just appear out of nowhere. They were formed through change.” She nodded. “That’s what I’m missing.”

  “Change?”

  “Awe. That sense of awe. Nothing moves me. Nothing affects me.”

  Jake turned to her. “Nothing?”

  “I’m getting a divorce and I don’t care. I’m never going to have kids. I don’t care. We’re going to steal diamonds. I don’t care.”

  Jake was about to ask if she cared about him, but already knew the answer. Instead he said, “So how do you get it? This awe?”

  “Beats me.”

  “How did Heraclitus get it?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he needed a lot of time. To think. You know he was so sick of people that he went off to live in the mountains? He ate grasses and plants, and lived by himself.” She turned to face him. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  72

  Bobby sat across from Underhill, and felt the bennies humming through him. They were coming in faster, smoother. Everything was sharp, and his mind was quick, calculating his future with each word Underhill said. Bobby needed only to listen with half his attention. He measured the risks of a fight, of other people hearing them. Most of the offices were closed; the hallways and rooms were quiet except for Underhill, who was trying to cut a new deal with Bobby.

  Bobby stared, his face blank. He didn’t want to hear this shit. He watched Underhill lean forward on his desk, point his finger at Bobby and say something about Bobby needing help.

  Bobby said, “Give me the name. Give me what you got.”

  “I got the name, I got an address, I got a phone number, and I even got a picture.”

  Bobby focused on him. “Of the brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “Website of his company.”

  “Let’s see.”

  “I told you. I want to talk about guarantees.”

  “Fuck guarantees. Just give me what you got.” Bobby heard the buzzing in his head, the bennies and the antibiotics mixing. His germ fighters were jazzed.

  “I did some work for this. I want to be sure I’m going to get paid.”

  “You made a few calls. I can do the same thing.”

  “Not anymore. The bank’s not going give out that information again.” Underhill leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I told them not to.”

  “What?”

  “I told them to get rid of all the paperwork.”

  Bobby tried to keep cool. He fingered the gun against his waist. Angles. How to play this guy. How to get the brother. He said, “What do you want?”

  “I want to go with you as you look. That way, I know you can’t screw me over.”

  “I’m not looking for some goddamn partner. That’s how I got into this fucking mess in the first place.”

  “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you the way it is.”

  “The way it is, huh.” Bobby felt his brain electrified, crackling and zipping. He rolled his neck and stretched his arms. “The way it is.” He stood up and closed the door behind him. He laughed to himself. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone wanted to fuck him over. Did he have “dumbshit” printed on his forehead? Did he look like some stupid son of a bitch that didn’t know his ass from his knee?

  “What’re you doing?” Underhill said, annoyed. “Don’t play tough with me.”

  Play tough. The way it is. This motherfucker had a way with words. Bobby laughed again. His fingertips tickled him. When he looked down at his splayed hand, he saw lightning bolts shooting out and fizzing into the air. He turned to Underhill, who was saying, “I’m warning you…” and Bobby pointed his fingers at him. The lightning bolts zigzagged towards Underhill and went through his body, lighting up his hair.

  Underhill said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “You’re warning me?” Bobby said, his voice rising. “You little piece of shit, you think you can tell me what to do?”

  Underhill reached into his desk and pulled out a small automatic. He pointed it at Bobby and said, “Don’t fuck with me.”

  Bobby looked down and laughed. “What, you’re gonna pop me? You’re gonna ‘play tough’? You stupid motherfucker. I’ve been shot, I’ve been dumped in the fucking garbage can. I’ve got bugs crawling inside me. You can’t kill me. I’m a fucking god.”

  Underhill’s eyes flickered with doubt. “You’re crazy.”

  “Go ahead. Shoot me. Shoot me in the heart. Right here.” Bobby leaned forward and stuck his chest out. His groin hurt for a moment. “I’ve got electricity instead of blood. You shoot holes in me and I’ll light up this fucking office.”

  Underhill backed away. “Maybe I’ll call this guy, tell him there’s a maniac after him.”

  Bobby stopped. “What?”

  “Maybe I’ll call him. Tip him off.”

  Bobby waited for a moment. “Did you just call me a maniac?”

  Underhill’s gun hand faltered. Bobby felt giddy, a release of tension that made him suddenly realize that this guy didn’t have the balls to use the gun. Big mistake. Bobby pretended to relax and wave this off, easing himself against the desk, and said, “What’s it gonna be? You give me the information or not?”

  Underhill lowered the gun a bit more, and Bobby lunged forward, grabbing it and yanking it out of his hand quickly. He checked the magazine—nice and full—and switched off the safety. He aimed it at Underhill. “You’re in the wrong business, shithead.”

  “Look, never mind all this. Just take the stuff and go.”

  “Where?”

  “In here,” he said, reaching for the side drawer.

  “Whoa. Stop. Don’t move.”

  Underhill stopped.

  “Get away from the desk.”

  Underhill pushed his chair back a few feet. Bobby kept the gun on Underhill and reached for the drawer. He pulled it open and saw another gun, a .38. “Motherfucker. Sneaky little bastard, aren’t you.”

  “Listen—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Bobby pointed the gun at Underhill’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. It was a babyshot flesh wound, but Underhill went down like it was cannon. He screamed and rolled on the floor. Bobby jumped back, startled.

  “You shot me!” Underhill yelled.

  Bobby kicked him in the gut, and pointed the gun at his head. “Quiet. Understand? Quiet. Shhhh.”

  Underhill nodded, holding his arm. His face was red and sweaty. He tried to sit up but Bobby kicked him again. “No. You stay right there. Where are the papers?”

  “If I give them to you, you’ll kill me.”

  “Asshole, you did this, not me. Alls I wanted was a name. You pulled this other shit on me. Where are
my papers, and where is the stuff on the brother?”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me?”

  Bobby was getting tired of this. He looked around and saw Underhill’s bomber jacket on a hook. He took it down and wrapped the gun and his hand with it. He needed to muffle the sound. Underhill watched with confusion, until Bobby aimed the bunched-up leather wad at him. Underhill began shaking. “Wait wait wait. I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!”

  Bobby aimed the gun at Underhill’s knee, and pulled the trigger. The gun’s crack was softer, but still loud. Underhill’s knee exploded. He opened his mouth to yell but nothing came out. Bobby watched, amused. He smelled burnt leather, and wrinkled his nose. He felt his nose hairs tickling him, and wondered if he should trim them. His hand was warm. He lowered the gun to Underhill’s other knee, and smiled.

  “Please,” Underhill gasped. “Please.”

  “Where’s my stuff?”

  “In the safe,” Underhill whispered, pointing to the file cabinet by the window. He looked down at his bloody knee and whimpered.

  Bobby shook off the smoldering leather jacket and opened the cabinets. The lower one had a small combination safe inside. “What’s the combo?”

  “Left 29, right 39,” Underhill answered, his voice faltering. “Left 20, right 30.”

  Bobby spun the combination, then opened the safe and found some cash, Jake’s papers, and the notes Underhill had taken about the brother. He read the name and said, “Eugene Ahn? That’s the brother’s name?”

  “I. Need. A. Hospital…” Underhill looked like he was going into shock. He was holding his bloody shoulder with one hand, and clutched at his knee with the other. His eyes were glassy. Bobby walked over to him and kicked him again.

  “Eugene Ahn? This is his address?” Underhill nodded.

  “Where’s that picture of him?”

  “Printout.”

  Bobby searched the safe again and pulled out a piece of paper with a dark black and white printout of Eugene Ahn. There were large dots that blurred the image, but Bobby could make out the guy’s face, which did remind him a little of Jake. “Not bad,” Bobby said.