Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

I couldn’t move.

“I can see right through you. Your silent act there. Because believe me… you want to talk about things happening to you when you’re a kid? We could exchange a few stories someday.”

A sound from somewhere, a glass door sliding shut with a bang.

“Or no, maybe not. You’d have to drop the act then, right?”

Her father rushing across the grass now, slipping on the loose straw and nearly falling on his face.

“Nice job on the break-in, too,” she said. “That was real smooth.”

“Amelia!” Her father grabbing her by the arm. “Get away from him!”

“I’m just seeing what he looks like,” she said. “The big bad criminal.”

“Get in the house. Right now.”

“All right, all right! Relax!” She shook her arm free and went back toward the house. She turned and looked back at me for one second. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but I did know one thing. What Mr. Marsh had said about her, about how traumatized she was by just the thought of me breaking into her house? About how terrified she was?

Somehow, I wasn’t getting that from her.

“I warned you,” he said to me. “Did I not warn you?”

Well, yes, I thought. You did warn me.

“If I ever see you…”

Then he ran off the rails. What was he going to say? If I ever see you talking to her? Just standing there like you’re made of stone while she insults you?

“Look, this isn’t going to work,” he said. “Can we just cut through the bullshit right now? You don’t want to come here every day and do this, do you?”

I looked past him. Amelia was standing next to the sliding door. She was watching me. I picked up the shovel and pushed it into the dirt.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it. Looks like you’re making some progress on the shallow end here, eh? Just wait until you get to the deep end.”

He turned to walk away from me. Then he stopped.

“You’ve got one more hour out here,” he said. “I expect sixty minutes. Not fifty-nine. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

I carried the shovelful to the wheelbarrow and threw it in.

“Last chance,” he said. “I mean seriously, I know I keep saying it, but this is seriously your last chance. You come in right now, you write down the names, and we’re good. You hear me? That’s all it takes.”

What I did next… I don’t know where it came from. It’s not something I’d normally do, not in a million years. Maybe only after digging a hole for three straight hours on a hot summer day, while some middle-aged rich jackass wearing tight shorts gives me one last chance for the seventh time. I made an F sign with my left hand, a K with my right, brought them together, and then made like I was throwing the whole thing right at his face. Sure, there might be simpler ways to say it. Hell, you can do it with one finger on one hand. But if five years of sign language taught me anything, it was how to do things like this with a little more style.

Then I turned my back on him and rolled the wheelbarrow over to the woods.

“What was that?” he yelled after me. “What the hell was that supposed to be, you stupid little freak?”

He was gone when I came back. I didn’t see Amelia anywhere, either. I kept looking at the house for the next hour, but she didn’t appear.

I finished up at four o’clock. Then I left. I tried to keep her face in my mind as I drove home. I went right to my drawing paper and tried to capture it. I had such a talent for drawing from memory, after all. That was my “mutant gift,” as Mr. Martie called it, being able to re-create every detail, just starting with the basic shape and letting it all come back to me.

Today I couldn’t do it. For the first time ever, I couldn’t draw somebody’s face. I kept trying and failing and wadding up the paper and trying again. You’re too tired, I told myself. You can barely keep your eyes open. So I gave up and went to bed.

Waking up the next morning… biggest mistake of my life. My back was so tight, I literally had to roll myself out of bed. My legs were sore. My arms were sore. But nothing, and I mean nothing, has ever hurt as much as my hands hurt that morning.

I couldn’t open them, for one thing. I couldn’t completely close them, either. Then I took a shower and just about went through the ceiling when the hot water hit my blisters. When I was dressed, I rummaged around in the back room of the liquor store and found an old pair of work gloves. Better late than never, I figured. Uncle Lito took one look at me and just about fainted.

“What the hell did they do to you?” he said. “Your face is as red as a lobster. I’m going to call that stupid probation officer right now. Hell, I’m calling the judge.”

I grabbed him by the shoulders, which surprised the living hell out of him. I grabbed him and my shook my head. I didn’t want him to call anybody or do anything else that would stop me from going back to the Marshes’ house that day. I had to see her again, no matter what.

I ate something just so I’d have a little energy, got in the car, and drove over to the Marshes’ house, trying to loosen up my hands as I drove. It was a few minutes after noon when I got there. Mr. Marsh was waiting for me in the driveway.

“You’re late,” he said. “Come with me.”

Yeah, yeah, I thought, back to the pool. Just tell me that your daughter will be home again today.

“I want you to meet somebody.”

He led me around to the back of the house. There was a man there, kneeling by the door.

“This is Mr. Randolph,” Mr. Marsh said. “He’s a locksmith.”

The locksmith stood up and adjusted his baseball cap. “Mr. Marsh tells me you opened this lock,” he said. “I don’t see a scratch on it. So I’m calling bullshit.” He had a slight Eastern European accent, so bullshit came out as “bullsheet.”

“How about it?” Mr. Marsh said. “You want to show us how you did it?”

I put my hands up in surrender. No, I don’t.

“It was open,” the locksmith said. “Am I right? This door was open so you walked right in.”

I should have let it go. Instead I shook my head and made a gesture like I was picking an imaginary lock in the air.

“Come off it,” the locksmith said, sneaking a wink at Mr. Marsh. “There’s no way you could pick this lock. It would take me quite a bit of work to do it myself.”

“Let him prove it,” Mr. Marsh said. “Let him put his money where his mouth is.”

The locksmith started laughing. “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars cash. Real American money, right here on the spot.”

“You’re not taking my money today,” Mr. Marsh said. Then he turned to me. “But I’ll tell you what, Michael. You open that lock, and I’ll give you the day off. Okay? You up for that? Open it right now and you can go home.”

“Here, you can even use my tools,” the locksmith said. He pulled out what looked like a large wallet and handed it to me. “Best in the business.”

I unzipped the leather case and opened it. I stood there for a moment looking at the contents. I had never seen such a beautiful collection of tools.

“You know how to use them, don’t you? Come on, show us your stuff.”

There were at least a dozen lock picks to choose from. Three different diamond picks, two ball picks, one double ball pick, at least four or five hook picks. I didn’t know their names yet. I wouldn’t learn that until later.

“Okay, make that a thousand dollars,” the locksmith said. “I’ll give you ten to one odds.” He was about to take the case back from me, but I turned away from him and took out one of the hook picks. There were four different tension bars, so I knelt down next to the lock and tried to guess which size would work best. I had never had to make such a choice before. It had always been whatever hunk of scrap metal I had on hand.