The Lock Artist (14 page)

There was a good lock on the back door, but I had it open in two minutes. My three partners all stood there rocking back and forth, looking over their shoulders every few seconds. They didn’t know enough not to be nervous. Nobody had any kind of sight line on us here. We could have set up a net and played volleyball.

When the door was open, we all piled inside. We stood there in the kitchen for a full minute, taking it all in. There was just enough light to see the huge metal stove with the restaurant vent over it. The double refrigerator. The marble countertops that seemed to glow with their own light.

“Fuck,” Brian said. “We’re actually doing this.”

“Let’s go,” Trey said. “Let’s go find his room.”

“I can’t believe this,” Brian said. “This is some heavy duty shit right now.”

“Don’t wuss out, man. Are you coming or not?”

I knew Trey would never dare talk to him that way under any other circumstances. It was my first lesson in how different people react when they find themselves in a situation like this. The guy who did all the talking could suddenly become the one having cold feet. One of the guys along for the ride, he suddenly finds himself getting into it. For whatever reason, he rises to the occasion. Maybe too much. While the other guy along for the ride can’t even get out of the car.

Griffin? I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He just stood there, not making a sound.

And me? I felt nothing. I swear to you, as soon as we stepped foot into that house, everything drained out of me. That ever present buzz, the constant humming from that one moment in my life, playing out in my head, over and over, becoming like a constant static on my internal radio . . . As soon as I opened the door to a stranger’s house and stepped inside, the static was gone.

I’d get to know that feeling. Or rather that
lack
of feeling. I’d get to know it very well. On this night, though, I was just standing there in a rich man’s kitchen while Trey gave Brian a little bump to get him moving forward. Griffin still hadn’t moved.

“I think we should just stay right here,” he finally said to me. “Be the lookouts. Whaddya think?”

It was too dark to see his face.

“Okay, maybe this was a mistake,” he said. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have gone along with this. I was just thinking it would be . . . I don’t know, like something
real
for once. You know what I’m saying? Didn’t it feel that way?”

I didn’t want to stand there listening to him. I wanted to see more of the house.

“Where are you going?” he said.

I didn’t answer him. I left the kitchen, walked into the living room. There was a fireplace with a big art print hanging over it. A woman in a tight sleeveless dress, hat shading her eyes. Next to her, a sleek black panther on a leash. Real classy.

There was cream-colored leather furniture. There was a television bigger than any I had ever seen. On the opposite side of the room, there was an even bigger aquarium. The air pump was humming away. There was a treasure chest on the bottom, with a lid that would open every few seconds, releasing a stream of bubbles. I counted the fish. There were four of them. I stood there, watching the fish swim back and forth in that bright rectangle.

Until it exploded.

The tidal wave was soaking my pants before I could even process what was happening. A few seconds later, I was looking across at Trey’s face, on the other side of what had just been glass and water. He was holding a long iron poker from the fireplace.

The way he looked down at the ruin he had caused, the cruel smile on his face. How happy this made him, the sheer mindless destruction in that one moment. I hated it. I hated it like a sickness and I knew I’d never forget it.

A voice came hissing down at us, from upstairs. “Trey! What the fuck are you doing?”

“Just saying hello to the fish,” Trey said.

“What the hell’s the matter with you? They’re supposed to come inside and be surprised when they see the fucking banner! You just ruined everything!”

“Well, then let’s do something even worse in the bedroom,” Trey said. He winked at me and dropped the poker. Then he went upstairs. I stood there for a while, watching the fish flopping around at my feet. I picked up two and took them to the kitchen.

“What the hell was that?” Griffin said. He hadn’t moved from the door.

I went to the sink, ran some lukewarm water, and then dropped in the fish. I went back into the living room and picked up two more. I put those in the sink and turned the faucet off. All four fish were swimming around now like it was just another day at the office.

“I think we need to get out of here,” Griffin said. “Let’s just leave those idiots here, eh?”

I held up one index finger, left the kitchen again, and went upstairs. I poked my head into the first room. It looked like a sewing room or something. It was untouched.

I kept going down the hall, poked my head into the master bedroom suite. There was a king-sized four-poster bed and two walk-in closets. I took a look in the master bathroom, saw a big whirlpool tub, a separate shower, a marble sink with gold fittings. That’s the kind of house this was.

I stepped into the last bedroom. This was a Lakeland house, remember, so I didn’t know anything about the family. I didn’t know that Adam had a brother. Or at least that was my first thought. I was assuming it was a boy’s room. There were posters all over the walls, for rock bands I had never heard of. Then I noticed that the bedding was bright red, and that there was a big black heart-shaped pillow on it, along with about a dozen stuffed animals.

“Mike! Where are you?” Griffin’s voice coming to me from downstairs. I ignored it. My attention was fixed instead on a large portfolio lying on the dresser. I knew exactly what it was. I had one myself, for carrying my drawings. I untied the string and opened it. Then I reached back to the wall switch and turned on the light.

“Mike! Come on!” The voice louder now. It could have been a megaphone in my ear, I wouldn’t have moved an inch. I was lost in these drawings.

The first was of a young girl, sitting at a table and looking up at something or someone out of the frame, her face showing both fear and hope simultaneously. The next drawing was of two men, standing in an alley, one man lighting a cigarette for the other. The next a simple still life, one single apple sitting alone on a table, with a knife stabbed into the top of it.

The drawings were good. There was talent here. There was something else, too. I remembered something that Mr. Martie had said to me, about how I needed to find a way to put more of myself into my work. Something I tried so hard
not
to do.

This is it, I thought. This is how you do it. Even if it’s just a drawing of a young girl, or two men smoking, or even just an apple with a knife in it. Whoever had done this work . . . she was on these pages, too.

I was about to close the portfolio when I noticed the second portfolio that had been lying underneath it. Whereas the one on top had been one of the cheap cardboard portfolios they give you at school, this portfolio on the bottom was made of black leather and had a zipper along three sides. I hesitated for a moment, then unzipped it.

“Mike, we gotta get out of here right now!” The voice was frantic now, but it didn’t register with me. I wouldn’t even hear it until I played the whole scene back in my mind an hour later.

There were several drawings of a woman. Thirty years old, maybe. Very pretty in a sad, used-up kind of way. Long hair tied back. A tight, self-conscious smile. In the first drawing, she was sitting in a chair with her hands folded in her lap. Indoors. In the next, she was sitting on a bench outside, the same look on her face. Like she wasn’t totally comfortable. There were a few more drawings of the same woman. Judging from the different types of paper and the different shades of pencil, I was guessing they had been done over a fairly long period of time. You could even see an improvement in the ability of the artist.

Then the very last drawing . . . a new subject. Younger. I could tell from the way the paper was worn thin and creased around the edges, by the eraser marks around the eyes and mouth . . . this was something the artist had worked very hard on, had come back to again and again. I could practically feel the sheer effort, trying to capture something in this simple drawing of one person’s face.

This was her, I realized. This was a self-portrait. I was looking at Amelia’s face for the first time.

From somewhere outside, the sound of tires screeching on asphalt. Then
a sweep of headlights across the wall, finally breaking my trance. I dropped the drawing. I went into the hallway and then down the stairs. I could see the car stopped diagonally in the driveway through the front window. I ran out the back door. A mistake. You should find a window on the far side of the house, away from any doors, if you’re going to make a run for it.

There were two of them. They tackled me in the backyard. They knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t breathe for a full minute. That old familiar feeling coming back to me, from nine years before. You cannot breathe, Mike. You cannot breathe and you are surely going to die.

“Where are the others?” A voice hot in my ear. My breath slowly coming back to me.

“Tell us where they went! Who was with you?”

I didn’t say a word to them. So they just picked me up and hauled me off to the police station.

Before I went to the bus station that next morning, I cut off most of my hair. No more shaggy curls for me. I cut as close to my scalp as I could, going for as drastic a change in my appearance as I could manage. When I was done I looked like someone who had just finished his last round of chemo.

I also bought a pair of sunglasses with the lightest lenses I could find, so I could wear them all of the time. Combined with the short hair, I truly looked like a different person. I didn’t feel any different, but some things you just can’t change that easily.

I bought a new pair of jeans, a new shirt, a new coat. I threw the clothes I had been wearing into the Dumpster. I knew I had to watch my money, but a man needs to wear something, right? And it’s not like I was shopping at Saks.

I packed up everything I owned. A few more pairs of underwear and socks. An extra pair of shoes. A toothbrush. A half tube of toothpaste. A bar of soap and a mostly empty bottle of shampoo. My practice safe lock. My leather wallet filled with tension bars and picks. A thick folder of every drawing I had done while sitting alone in that room above the restaurant. That was it. That was everything.

Oh, and my pagers. I packed the white pager, the red pager, the blue pager, the green pager. I was tempted to leave the yellow pager right there on the windowsill. Let it beep away all it wanted, until the batteries finally ran out. Or hell, maybe some new member of the Chinese family would find it, would call the number on the little screen, speaking in Mandarin or broken English. Maybe the rank amateur on the other end of that call would cancel his operation, and end up not getting his head blown off his body.

But no. In the end, I took that pager with me, too. I packed everything up
and caught a cab downtown to the Port Authority. I paid for my ticket in cash, waited for the bus, got something to eat. I got on the bus, and as it pulled out I said good-bye to the city. You’d think I would have been glad to be rid of it. That I would have sworn I’d never step foot in the city again. But I actually felt a pang of regret to leave the place. As miserable as it had been, I had survived it. I had proven that much to myself. That I could make it on my own if I had to.

The bus kept going, all through the night. I slept on and off. In the morning I saw cornfields and trucks and billboards. In the evening I saw cows and red dirt. The miles rolled by.

By the end of the second day, I was in Los Angeles.

It was a hell of a long trip, but this was the white pager we’re talking about. These were the guys that the Ghost called money in the bank. True professionals. The best of the best. I figured it was the ultimate lucky break for me, that they’d be the guys beeping me next, after the yellow pager disaster. I was ready for something to go right for a change.

The man on the phone who had given me the address in L.A. told me it was a nice, clean motel up in the Glendale area. He told me the man at the desk would be expecting me. That I should indicate to him that my name was Stone and he’d show me to a room on the back side of the building. He and his associates would come for me at the motel and knock on my door. At which time the details of the operation would be shared with me.

It all worked out exactly as he said. I got off the bus, wrote down the address, and gave it to a cabdriver. He rolled out onto the expressway, which was already jammed with midday traffic. We bumped along for almost an hour until we got up to the motel. I paid the man and got out. It was a dry, sunny day in Los Angeles. An even seventy degrees, everything looking brown and dried out. There was a slight sting of smog in the air.

The motel was a double-decker, not too cheap-looking but not exactly the Ritz, either. The pool looked clean, but nobody was swimming. The parking lot was half full. I went in and wrote down one word on a piece of paper,
Stone
, the name the man had given to me. I gave it to the man behind the desk, and that got him right off his chair.