Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

“And that’s Lucy.”

She came up to me and stood a few inches too close. I could smell cigarettes and open road, and some kind of perfume that jogged a distant memory. She looked at me with her uneven eyes, put one finger under my chin, and pushed upward. Then she let me go.

“So, Young Ghost,” Julian said, “what’s your name?”

I took out my wallet and extracted the driver’s license. I handed it to Julian.

“William Michael Smith?” He held the license up to the window. “You’re kidding me, right? Could this thing be any more fake?”

Here I was, thinking it was a perfect forgery, but then what did I know? I went and took the license from him and pointed to the middle name.

“Michael. That’s your real name?”

I nodded. It was the first time anyone had called me Michael since leaving Michigan.

“So it’s true,” Julian said. “You really don’t talk.”

I nodded again.

“That is so fucking cool. Talk about meta. It’s just transcendent.”

Whatever you say, I thought. Then I figured it was time to get everything straight. Because I couldn’t quite believe what seemed to be happening here. I pointed to him, to Gunnar, to Ramona, to Lucy. Then I put both hands up. Like, who the hell are you guys?

Julian smiled at that one, looked at his friends, one by one, then turned back to me. “The first time the Ghost saw us, he was a little skeptical, too. Then when he worked with us… I mean, we ended up making him a lot of money. And that guy he works for… the guy you work for. Have you actually met him?”

I nodded. Oh yeah. I’ve met him.

Julian shook his body like some kind of cartoon character. Like a man seeing a vampire. “Is he not the scariest fucking human being you’ve ever seen? I mean, seriously. We made damned sure he got his cut out of anything the Ghost helped us with. I assume you come with the same tax? Or did he raise the rates this year?”

“How’s he gonna know?” Gunnar said. “We’re three thousand fucking miles away.”

“Please disregard my boy over there,” Julian said to me. “He hasn’t actually met your boss yet, so he doesn’t know any better.”

“I don’t care who this guy is,” Gunnar said. “And I’m not your boy.”

“So tell me,” Julian said, waving Gunnar away like a mosquito. “What exactly did the Ghost say about us? Did he tell you we were the best of the best?”

I nodded.

“What else? I’m dying to know.”

I shrugged. He said something about if I ever met them someday, I shouldn’t let their looks deceive me. Which I guess made sense now.

“Okay, but you were expecting some real straight-looking, serious fuckers, right? Clean and white and like, what was that guy’s name? Who played on that show?”

“Robert Wagner,” Ramona said.

“Yeah. It Takes a & Thief, right? Real smooth guy? Dressed up in a tux all the time? Playing baccarat and then sneaking away to steal the jewels?”

“You should wear a tux sometime,” she said.

“I might. You never know.”

“Can we get to the point?” Gunnar said. “Can this teenager here really open a safe?”

“It says right here he’s twenty-one,” Julian said, handing me back my license. “Seriously, dude, we gotta get you a better ID.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Gunnar said. “I mean, come on, look at him.”

“I told you what the man said. The Ghost should know, right?”

“I want to see him do it first. Then I’ll believe it.”

“Well, of course he’s going to do it first,” Julian said. “What do you think we are, a bunch of amateurs here? Come on, this dump is giving me the creeps.”

“He’s not riding with me,” Gunnar said. “You take him.”

“You know how to ride a motorcycle?” Julian asked me.

I nodded.

“I mean, a real bike?”

I nodded again.

“What do you think, Ramona? Can he take yours?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Come on, he’s our guest here. He came all this way. Are you gonna make him ride bitch?”

“Are you gonna make me ride bitch?”

“You used to love riding behind me, remember? Wrap your arms around me? Whaddya say?”

I knew this was way beyond reasonable. You don’t ask somebody to give up their bike. Was he testing her? Testing me?

Ramona looked at him for a long moment. I wondered which part of his body she’d take off first.

She stepped up to me and grabbed me by the shirt. “If you wreck my bike,” she said, “I swear I will kill you.”

Four Harleys were parked in the lot. There was one extra helmet, just for me. We mounted up and rolled out onto the street. If nothing else, it felt damned good to be on a bike again.

They took off fast. I had to really gun it to keep up with them. They pulled onto the busy street and started weaving their way through traffic. Lucy kept looking back, but the two men seemed to be racing each other now, like they had forgotten all about me. We went through West Hollywood, then Beverly Hills. Tall palm trees, big houses, brown grass. The whole city looked like you could light one match and burn it to the ground.

Just as we started to get close to the ocean, they pulled off onto a quiet side street. Another couple of turns and they were all stopping their bikes in front of a modest little house on Grant Street. The house took up most of the lot. The tiny front yard was all gravel, with a fence around the whole thing. Julian took off his helmet and opened the gate for us.

“How was the ride?” he said.

I gave him a quick nod and handed him my helmet. When we were inside the place, I could see that the outside was deceiving. There was a state-of-the-art kitchen, a big wine rack filled to the ceiling with bottles, lots of ultramodern spot lighting hanging from the ceiling. If these people were really thieves, they were making a good living at it.

“What can I get for you?” Julian said. “Wine? Cocktail?”

I passed on those, eventually accepted a cold beer. The first sip took me right back to that summer night in Michigan. The night I first got arrested. As I sat there and drank my beer, Julian kept watching me.

“You’re like a work of art,” he finally said to me. “I mean, look at you. You’re just perfect.”

Okay… thanks. I guess.

“And you’re just so… silent. You’re like a living Buddha or something. I can’t stand it.”

I took another hit off the beer.

“Ramona,” he said to her. “Come over here. Look into Michael’s eyes. What do you see?”

She came over to me. She bent down and put a finger under my chin, just like Lucy had done to me at the hotel. She looked into my eyes, and then she shook her head.

“La fatiga,” she said.

“Like he’s seen way too much already,” Julian said. “Even though he’s what, seventeen, I bet? Eighteen?”

“How old are you?” she said to me.

I put up ten fingers. Then seven.

“How did you get here?”

I kept looking up at her.

“Okay, us first,” she said. “Julian, tell him your life story.”

“Just like that,” he said, smiling.

“Yes. I think this is one man who can keep a secret.”

So he spent the next few minutes giving me the rundown. He had been born into money, had gone to private schools, was tops in his senior class and on his way to either Pepperdine or Gonzaga. He hadn’t made up his mind. Then he got busted for his second DUI, ended up spending a month in a youth program. Where he met Ramona, Gunnar, and Lucy, all of whom came from abject poverty, abusive parents, broken homes. He and Ramona had been together ever since. They stayed off the rap sheet while Gunnar and Lucy kept drifting in and out of trouble. Then finally those two got clean and reconnected with Julian. The four of them had lived here in his house ever since.