Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

Another moment of silence.

“They used to be friends, you know that? Adam and Brian, I mean, back when they were in junior high school.”

He paused for a while, thinking about it.

“Then Brian goes to a different high school and starts taking cheap shots at Adam. You know he almost destroyed Adam’s knee once? Could have ended his whole career. Funny how a kid can turn into an asshole so quickly. Guess it runs in the family. You ever meet his dad? The state trooper? Couple of useless fat fucks, both of them. Anyway, I know you took the rap for him, Mike. I know it and you know it. So like I said… just between you and me… Nod your head if I’m right so far.”

This wasn’t my battle. God knows none of those other guys ever thanked me for taking the blame for him. And yet…

“I’m waiting.”

And yet fuck this guy. I wasn’t moving a muscle.

“Come on, Mike. Don’t be a chump. It’s not worth it.”

I can do this all day, I thought. I’ll sit frozen in this chair while you keep talking.

“Okay,” he finally said. “If that’s the way you want to play this.”

He stood up and came over to me. I still hadn’t moved yet. I waited for him to put his hands around my neck.

“You know what? One phone call from me and they’ll find something else to do with you. If I tell them you’re not being a good little probationer here. You follow me? They’ll send you to one of those camps with all the other juvies. I’m sure your little silent act will go over real big with those guys. Is that what you want?”

I finally looked up at him.

“You’re putting me in a real difficult position here. I get you from what, noon to four, six days a week? So get your ass out of my chair and come outside.”

I stood up and followed him. He led me through the kitchen, through the very same door I had opened with a screwdriver and a safety pin. He opened it and was about to head into the backyard. Then he stopped suddenly and looked at the doorknob.

“By the way… this was the door you came in through, right?”

I nodded.

“Was it unlocked?”

I shook my head.

“Then how the hell did you open it?”

I made like I was holding something in each hand.

“What, did you get a key somehow?”

I shook my head and made the motion again. Two hands. A tool in each.

“Are you telling me you picked the lock?”

I nodded.

He bent down and examined the knob. “You’re lying. There’s not a scratch on this thing.”

Whatever you say, I thought. I’m lying.

“We’re not getting off to a great start here,” he said, almost laughing. “That’s all I can say.”

He stood there looking at me for a moment.

“Last chance. Are you going to tell me who else broke into my fucking house, or not?”

I didn’t tell the police, I thought. Why the hell would I tell you?

“Okay, fine,” he said. “I guess we’ve got to do this the hard way.”

Los Angeles

January 2000

The motorcycles went into the garage on the back end of Julian’s lot. A gun-metal gray Saab came out. It seemed a little understated for this crew, but then maybe understated is exactly what you need sometimes.

We all got in the car. Julian driving, Ramona shotgun, me in the back with Gunnar and Lucy. Gunnar took the middle, keeping himself between me and Lucy, no doubt. An undercurrent I was already aware of, no matter that they were all six or seven years older than me, that he should have been looking at me like I was nothing more than a lost child.

It was late afternoon. The sun hanging over the ocean. We rode back toward Beverly Hills, but this time we cut north, heading up Laurel Canyon Boulevard, into the Hollywood Hills. The road twisted and turned as we went higher and higher. There were houses on either side of the road. Big money boxes. Bold statements of modern architecture. Some of them hanging off the edges of the cliffs, daring an earthquake to tip them over into the canyon below.

We passed Mulholland Drive, then a private gated road with a smartly dressed guard sitting in his little white guardhouse. Up another hairpin turn, then another. Julian pulled the car over onto the shoulder. Everyone got out. They seemed to know their parts in the play, exactly what they were supposed to be doing at every moment. Julian took a good look around, making sure we were out of anyone else’s direct sight. He went right up to the edge of the gravel shoulder, where there was a dense growth of sage and chaparral and other hostile-looking plant life, all leading down into the canyon. Gunnar joined him on the edge. He gave Julian a quick hug, turned to give the rest of us a wave, and then disappeared into the brush.

Ramona scanned the canyon below us with a pair of binoculars. Julian produced a cell phone. While the two of them kept watching Gunnar’s progress down the canyon, Lucy popped open the trunk.

“Here,” she said, handing me the jack. “Make yourself useful.”

I gestured to the wheels. Which one?

“Doesn’t matter. Take your pick.”

The right rear tire seemed to be on smooth level ground, so I hooked up the jack back there, put the tire iron in the slot, and started cranking. It was a solid idea, I realized. If somebody drove by, it would look perfectly natural for us to be here. We could even finish up and drive away if we really needed to, and then come back later.

“Our man’s upstairs,” Ramona said. “I don’t see the bodyguard.”

She kept watching. Julian stayed ready with the phone. I was ready to look busy with the tire if I heard a car coming up the road. Lucy was pacing now, muttering to herself. She looked more nervous than the rest of us put together.

Finally, the phone made a low buzzing sound and seemed to jump in Julian’s hand. He pushed a button and listened.

“We’re trying to locate the bodyguard,” he said. “Just hang tight.”

Ramona kept peering through the binoculars, moving them back and forth slowly.

“There,” she finally said. “The guard’s upstairs now.”

I looked down the canyon and saw a residential road, about a quarter mile below us. On the far side of that road was another large ultramodern house, one of the most impressive of all. Nothing but shining metal and glass. The yard was gravel and Japanese topiary. A long black sedan sat in the horseshoe driveway, partly eclipsing the front door.

As I kept watching, I saw a figure crossing the road, moving quickly but not frantically. Hurrying but not rushing. He went around the car and stopped directly in front of the door.

“You’re clear,” Julian said into the phone.

Gunnar opened the door, stepped inside, and then closed the door behind him.

That’s when I heard a car coming up the road. I tapped on the back of the trunk to alert the others. They hid the binoculars and the phone while I went around to the side of the car, as if inspecting the tire.

A little red Porsche rounded the curve, winding through its gears. I saw sunglasses, blond hair, and then the car was gone. The driver didn’t even slow down.

Ramona went back to the binoculars.

“He’s on his own now,” she said. “Do you see anything?”

“No,” Julian said. “I don’t see anybody. Anywhere.”

“Fuck fuck fuck.”

“He’s okay,” Julian said. “You know he’s okay.”

“I’m sure that prick has a gun in the house.”

“Gunnar’s okay.”

“I need a drink.”

“That won’t help.”

“It won’t help you .”

“Guys, please,” Lucy said to both of them. “Just shut up for a minute, okay?”