Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

I turned the handle and pulled the door open. I made sure I was watching Manhattan’s face as I did that.

“Fuck me,” he said. “You can just fuck me with a stick right now.”

I stepped aside and let him do what he needed to do. I had no idea what he was hoping to find in there. Jewels? Hard cash? I saw him pull out about a dozen envelopes, those brown paper envelopes that are just a little bit bigger than business size.

“We got ’em. We’re ready to roll.”

I closed up the safe and spun the dial. Manhattan was right behind me with a white rag, wiping everything down. Then he swung the outer door shut and slid the suits back in place.

He turned the light off. We retraced our steps down the stairs. Brooklyn was in the living room, looking out the front window.

“Don’t tell me,” he said.

“Right here,” Manhattan said, holding up the envelopes.

“Are you shitting me?” He looked over at me with an odd little smile. “Is our boy here like a genius or something?”

“Or something. Let’s roll.”

Manhattan keyed in the security code to rearm the alarm system. Then he closed the back door behind us and wiped off the knob.

This is why they called me. This is why they waited around for a kid they’d never met before to ride halfway across the country. Because with me on the job, they leave absolutely no trace behind them. The owner of this house would come back the next day, open the door, and find everything exactly as he had left it. He would go upstairs, take some clothes out of his closet, turn the light back off. Only when it was time to go into that safe would he dial his combination and open that door and see…

Nothing.

Even then, he wouldn’t comprehend what had happened. Not right away. He’d fumble around for a while, thinking that he must be mistaken. That he must be losing his mind. He’d accuse his wife next. You’re the only person in the world who knows the combination! Or else he’d call the family lawyer, put him on the spot. We were gone for a week, eh? You decided to make a little visit to our house?

Finally, it would dawn on him. Somebody else had been here. By that time, Manhattan and Brooklyn would be safely back home, and I’d be…

I’d be wherever it was that I went next.

I never did find out what was in those envelopes. I didn’t care, not in the least. I knew going in that it was a flat fee job. When we were back at the motor court, Manhattan gave me the cash and told me it had been a real pleasure seeing me work.

I had some more money now, at least. Enough to eat for a while, to think about finding a place to stay. But how long would that money last?

He peeled off the magnetic ELITE RENOVATIONS sign from each side of the van and put those in the back. He took a screwdriver and undid the Pennsylvania license plates and replaced them with New York plates. He was about to get behind the wheel when I stopped him.

“What is it, kid?”

I took out an imaginary wallet from my back pocket, made like I was opening it.

“What, you lost your wallet? Go buy a new one. You’re flush now.”

I shook my head, pretended to take a card out of that same imaginary wallet.

“You lost your ID? Just go back to where you came from. They’ll give you a new one.”

I shook my head again. I pointed to that invisible card in my hand.

“You need…”

Finally, the lightbulb went off.

“You need a new ID. As in, a whole new fucking identity.”

I nodded my head.

“Oh, shit. That’s a whole different deal right there.”

I leaned in close, put one hand on his shoulder. Come on, friend. You gotta help me out here.

“Look,” he said. “We know who you work for. I mean, we’re gonna send him his cut, right? That’s how this deal works. We’re not gonna stiff him, believe me. So if you got a problem like that, why don’t you go back home and get it straightened out there?”

How could I explain this to him? Even if I could speak? This strange sort of limbo I was in now. I was a dog who couldn’t go home, who didn’t have a place on his master’s floor. Or even in his backyard. I had to stay on the run, scrounging for scraps in the garbage cans.

Until he finally called me. When the master stuck his head out the door and called my name, you better believe I had to go running back to him.

“Look, I know a guy,” he said. “I mean, if you’re really in a jam.”

He took out his own wallet, pulled out a business card and then a pen. He turned the card over and started writing on it.

“You call this guy and he’ll-”

He stopped writing and looked up at me.

“Oh yeah. That might be tough. I guess you should probably just go see him in person, eh?”

I took out the money he had just given me and started peeling off bills.

“Wait, wait. Stop.”

He turned around and looked at Brooklyn. They exchanged a couple of shrugs.

“I’d ask you to promise not to tell my boss,” he said, “but somehow I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”

I got in the back of their van. That’s how I ended up in New York.

Michigan

1991

Back up a little bit. Not all the way back. Just to when I was nine years old. Right after it happened. By that time, I was pronounced more or less physically recovered, except for that one little oddity they couldn’t quite figure out. The not talking business. After being shuffled around to a few different beds, I was finally allowed to go live with my uncle Lito. The man who had such a studly Italian lover’s name, even though he was anything but. He did have black hair, but it always looked like he was one month overdue for a trim. He had long sideburns, too. They were turning gray, and from the amount of time he spent fussing with them in the mirror, he must have thought they were his best asset. Looking back, those sideburns, the clothes he wore… hell, the whole combination would have been impossible if he had ever gotten married. Any woman in the world would have blown him right up and started from scratch.

Uncle Lito was my father’s older brother. He didn’t look anything at all like my father. Not even close. I never asked him if either or both of them had been adopted. I think the question would have made him uncomfortable. Especially now that he was the only brother left. He lived in a little town called Milford, up in Oakland County, northwest of Detroit. I’d never spent much time with him when I was little, and even when I did see him, I don’t remember him ever taking much interest in me. But after everything happened, hell, it had obviously changed him somewhat, even though he wasn’t directly involved. It was his brother, for God’s sake. His brother and his sister-in-law. And here I was, his nephew… eight years old then and officially homeless. The State of Michigan would have taken me away otherwise, put me God knows where with God knows whom. It’s hard to even imagine how my life would have worked out if that had happened. Maybe I’d be a model citizen right now. Or maybe I’d be dead. Who knows? The way it worked out, it was Uncle Lito who took me to his house in Milford, about fifty miles away from that little brick house on Victoria Street. Fifty miles away from that place where my young life should have ended. After a few months giving it a try, they let him sign the papers and he became my legal guardian.

I know he didn’t have to do it. He didn’t have to do anything for me. If you ever hear me complain about the man, don’t lose sight of that bottom line, okay? Here’s the first problem, though. If you want to start your life over, you need to move more than fifty miles away. Fifty miles is not far enough to get away from your old life, or to avoid having everyone you meet still know you as the person you were.