Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

I picked up the phone right there in the motel room and dialed the number. It didn’t even finish the first ring before the man on the other end picked up and started talking.

“Michael, you have to listen to me.”

It was Banks. First yellow, then green. Now he had the blue pager number.

“Time is running out, my friend. You need to face reality. We’re almost past the point where I’m going to be able to help you.”

I looked out the window. I had a sudden feeling that I was being watched, at that very moment, right here in the middle of Nebraska. That the door would come busting down and a dozen men would jump into the room and yell at me to lie down on the floor with my hands behind my head.

“This might be your last chance. Are you listening to me?”

But no, he wouldn’t call me first. If he knew where I was, he’d just come get me. He wouldn’t bother with the phone call.

“Michael. Don’t hang up. Okay? Just stay with me here. I want to help you.”

They can trace this. I’m sitting here in a motel room and they can trace this call.

I hung up the phone and got out of there.

I hit some heavy traffic around Chicago. Then I lost another hour in the time zone change. It was after midnight when I finally got to Cleveland. I stayed at my third motel in a row, this one by the airport. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, wondering what the next day would bring.

When the morning came, I got myself together and rode over to the address I’d been given. It wasn’t eight o’clock yet, but I could see the long black sedan in the parking lot. The same car I’d seen before, back in Michigan.

I parked the bike next to it and was about to go inside. That’s when Sleepy Eyes came out the door.

“Welcome to the mistake by the fucking lake,” he said. “What took you so long?”

I pointed at my watch.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it. Let’s go.”

He went back inside and got the other two men.

“The kid is here,” the first man said, looking me up and down. “In the flesh.” He wasn’t actually wearing a fishing hat today, but he’d always be Fishing Hat to me.

“How was the trip?” the second man said. Tall Mustache. It had been a year since I had last seen these guys. They didn’t look any different at all. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Sleepy Eyes opened up one of the back doors for me. As he did that, the other two men got in front. Sleepy Eyes shook his head and muttered darkly to himself. I could see that the wonderful team chemistry in this crew hadn’t changed, either.

The morning sun was in our eyes as we drove down the expressway. So we were going east. Through Cuyahoga Heights, Garfield Heights, Maple Heights. A lot of Heights out here in the suburbs of Cleveland. It was a warm pale blue morning in the Midwest, like the days I knew when I lived in Michigan. I didn’t want to be here. Not like this.

“So let me ask you something,” Sleepy Eyes said, tapping my arm.

I turned to look at him.

“Do you know how far we had to drive down here, from Detroit?”

“Oh God,” Tall Mustache said. “Here we go.”

“I know you just rode across the whole fucking country, but hell, you were on a bike. That’s different.”

“Just knock it off,” Tall Mustache said.

“So here’s my question,” Sleepy Eyes said, ignoring the other man. “How come it’s always me who has to sit in the fucking backseat? Can you answer that for me, please?”

“You can’t drive,” Tall Mustache said, “because you lost your license, remember? And it wouldn’t make any fucking sense for you to sit here in the front, because you’re like a foot shorter than me.”

“A foot is twelve inches. I am not twelve inches shorter than you.”

“My legs are a lot longer than yours, is what I’m saying. That’s why you’re in the back.”

“Will you two knock it off!” Fishing Hat said. “Do you always have to do this?”

“On the way back,” Sleepy Eyes said, “it’s me and the kid in front. Whaddya say? Then when we drop him off, it’ll just be me by myself.”

“I’d say you’d have to kill both of us first,” Tall Mustache said.

“One more word,” Fishing Hat said, “I’ll turn this car right around and take you kids straight back home.”

That got Tall Mustache laughing.

“Yeah, that’s funny,” Sleepy Eyes said. “I’m dying of laughter back here.”

Nobody said anything for a while. I thought about the three hours it would take to get to Detroit from here. I hadn’t been back to Michigan yet. I couldn’t help but wonder what Amelia was doing at that very moment.

“I always get the shit end of the stick,” Sleepy Eyes said to me. “Any time there’s an unpleasant job to do? Somebody’s garbage taken out? Something hot and boring and dangerous? Who do you think does it?”

“Blah blah blah,” Tall Mustache said.

“Somebody’s gotta be cramped up in a fucking backseat or stuffed into a little cabin on a stupid boat for two weeks at a time?”

“Oh yeah, that’s a tough job,” Tall Mustache said. “Sailing on a fucking yacht for two weeks. I’m really crying for you up here.”

“You think I get any fun out of that? Eight big-shot assholes playing poker, and all I get to do is stand around like a fucking piece of furniture?”

Here it is, I thought. The big boat trip.

“Two weeks on the Pacific Ocean,” Tall Mustache said. “All the food you want. Wine, women… you name it.”

“What women are you talking about? It’s just a bunch of men. Every one of those guys has their own bodyguard, you know that? So that’s what, me and seven fucking coked-up moonbats? You think we each get our own cabin? Huh? You think we’re living in luxury?”

“Oh, excuse me. You’ve got to share a cabin on the yacht.”

“We’re all in the same cabin, you fuckhead. Seven fucking moonbats on steroids trying to act tougher than anybody else, all of us sleeping in one fucking little room. Like we’re on a fucking World War II submarine or something. Does that sound fun to you?”

“What’s a moonbat, anyway? Huh? You keep saying ‘moonbat,’ and I don’t know what that word means.”

“A moonbat is a guy who’s packed into a little sardine can for two weeks in the middle of the fucking ocean who will kill you for looking at him sideways. Okay? That’s what a moonbat is. That’s what I get to live through every single fucking September.”

“Will you two fucking shut up for one second!” Fishing Hat nearly drove us off the road. When he was back between the lines, an uneasy silence reigned.

I thought about what Gunnar had told me. Was it possible that he really had another contact on this boat? One of these “moonbats”? Was he actually thinking that we could hit that boat and get away with it?

Julian was right. It would be suicide.

A half hour later, we hit a town called Chagrin Falls. It kind of reminded me of Milford. There was a river that ran through the middle of town. There were lots of little shops and restaurants. We rolled right through and out to the other side of town, where the trees and houses started to thin out and you could see for miles across the flat horizon.

We turned onto a long gravel driveway. I saw a farmhouse ahead of us. There was a barn and a couple of other outbuildings. We passed by an ancient plow. As we got closer, I could see that someone had spent a lot of time and money restoring the whole place. That plow was a rustic decoration and nothing else.

We came to a stop beside the house. All three men got out. I joined them. Sleepy Eyes went to the back door of the house and knocked. I noticed then that he was wearing black gloves. The other two men, as well. I stood there wondering what the hell was going on. If we were supposed to be hitting this house, well… you usually don’t go up to the door and knock.