F. Wilson - Secret Histories

same condition as when I took it.”

“So it is,” he said as he inspected it, turning it over and back again. “And this

couldn’t wait until noon?”

Jack had thought he could wait but found it impossible. He’d been so anxious to get here he’d had trouble concentrating on the Spider’s exploits last

night.

“I want to buy something.”

Mr. Rosen stared at him over his reading glasses. “Again—it couldn’t wait til later?”

“I suppose it could’ve but I wasn’t sure you stil had it.”

“And what might that be?”

“Let me get it and show you.”

Jack hurried al the way to the very rear of the store to where a beat-up old dresser sat in a corner. He’d been dusting it off last month when he’d pul ed

open the top drawer and found a folded piece of felt containing an assortment of metal doohickeys of varying shapes, al odd. Some of them reminded

him of the picks his dentist used when he was looking for cavities, others were half cylinders made of thin metal and flanged along the top.

Folded within was a smal booklet titled LockPickingMadeEasy.

He remembered thinking at the time how cool it would be to know how to pick a lock, but a quick look through the booklet had convinced him it was too

complicated to learn without spending more time than he cared to.

Last night had changed his mind.

He pul ed the kit from the drawer and brought it to the front where he slapped it on the counter in front of Mr. Rosen.

“How much?”

The old man picked it up, looked it over, then shook his head.

“Not for sale.”

Jack stiffened. “But—”

“If it was for sale it would be in one of the display cases already. You did not find this in a display case, did you.”

“Wel , no—”

“Then it’s not for sale. Put it back.”

Jack had trouble hiding his disappointment. “Then why do you keep it around?”

“Because often—too often, if you ask me, and even though you didn’t, I’m tel ing you anyway—I get locked trunks and furniture and the owners have lost

the key. Now, if the piece is old enough to have a warded lock, no problem—I have a set of skeleton keys that wil take care of those.”

Skeleton key … Jack liked the sound of that.

“But,” Mr. Rosen went on, “if it has a pin-tumbler lock—like that curved-glass china cabinet I’ve got sitting back there—I have to cal a locksmith.” He

frowned. “After a while, that runs into money, so I decided I’d learn how to pick locks myself.”

Jack’s spirits leaped. “You know how?”

Mr. Rosen shrugged. “It took a while, but I learned. Lot of good it does me now.” He raised his hand and held it palm side down. Jack noticed how the

fingers trembled. “A steady hand, you need, and I haven’t got that any longer.”

Jack’s mind shifted into high gear.

“Can you teach me?”

“Why should I do that?”

“So I can open locks for you.”

Mr. Rosen stared at him. “Am I detecting possibly another reason for wanting to be so helpful?”

Jack wasn’t about to admit to that.

“I just think it would be cool to be able to say I know how to pick a lock.”

True—every word.

“I don’t know.” Mr. Rosen put his hand on Jack’s shoulder as he continued to stare. It made him a little uncomfortable, as if the old guy was trying to do a

Vulcan mind meld. “Teaching a teenager to pick locks … that doesn’t strike me as the wisest thing.”

Jack didn’t have to fake feeling offended.

“If you think I’m going to rob somebody, then forget it. You can cal a locksmith instead.”

Jack gathered up the kit and started back toward the rear of the store.

“Wait-wait-wait. You shouldn’t get yourself in a dither already. I didn’t mean that. I meant …” He paused, obviously searching for something to say. “I’m

not sure what I meant. I know you’re a good boy.”

Jack wasn’t so sure he liked the “good boy” bit. He tended to think of himself as kind of cool and detached. He didn’t know if he real y was, but that was

how he wanted to be. At times he feared he was a nerd and didn’t know it. Nerds never knew they were nerdy. Not knowing was a major component of

nerdiness.

Mr. Rosen added, “And I know you’re honest too.”

That puzzled Jack. “How? I could be a master thief.”

He smiled. “I doubt that.”

And then Jack knew, or at least thought he did.

“The money I found!”

Mr. Rosen was nodding. “I may be many things, but careless with my cash I’m not.”

On three separate occasions since he’d started working here, Jack had found bil s lying around. First a single, then a five, and just last week a tenner.

“You were testing me?”

“Of course. Who knows when I might have to leave you in charge? When I return I’d like to find at least the same amount in the til as when I left.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I do now. I didn’t know you when I hired you. This is your first real job, so it’s not like I could ask for references. So I tested you and you passed. Others

before you have failed.”

“Didn’t Teddy Bishop work here a few years ago?”

Mr. Rosen’s expression never changed. “Not for long. And don’t ask me any more because that’s al I’l say.”

Jack had found the bil s, known they weren’t his, and given them to Mr. Rosen. That was a test? He hadn’t given it a second thought: They didn’t belong

to him.

He’d learned that lesson back when he was eight.

He’d been out on a trip with his folks—couldn’t remember where—and they’d come to an unattended tol booth on an off-ramp from the Parkway. The tol

was twenty-five cents at the time and drivers were supposed to drop the exact change into a basket, which then funneled it down into the coin machine.

Whether by accident or someone’s design, the coin slot had become blocked, al owing the basket to fil with change.

Jack remembered his excitement when he’d seen the overflowing coins and how he’d starting rol ing down the rear window, yel ing, Freemoney!Let

megrabsome! But his excitement had died when his father turned to stare back at him with a disgusted expression. Jack couldn’t recal what he’d said

—something like, Areyoukidding?That’snotyours … or maybe, You’dtake somethingthatdoesn’tbelongtoyou? But that withering look … he’d

never forgotten that look.

Jack smiled up at Mr. Rosen. “So, I guess that means you’l teach me, right?”

“Keep tension on the wrench, Jack. Not too hard, but keep it steady.” After almost half an hour of coaching, with Mr. Rosen hovering over his shoulder,

Jack wondered if he’d ever learn this.

Good thing it was a weekday morning, because they tended to be pretty slow at

USED. Weekday afternoons were slightly busier, but things started

moving Friday afternoon and stayed pretty busy through the weekends. That

was when the “tourists”—real y just folks from Phil y and Trenton and

thereabouts—went out for a ride in the country.

As a result, the lesson wasn’t rushed or interrupted.

Since the curved-glass china cabinet was pretty much worthless if it couldn’t be

opened, Mr. Rosen had said it would be as good a place as any to

start.

Uh-uh. The lock seemed so smal .

He’d inserted the end of the thin little bar with the right angle at each end—cal

ed a tension wrench—into the bottom of the keyhole. Jack was supposed to keep pressure on it in the direction he wanted the lock’s cylinder to turn. Then