Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

A man opened the door. He was sixty years old, maybe. Distinguished-looking. Gray hair at the temples. Expensive golf sweater.

“What are you guys doing here?” he said.

That’s all he could get out before Sleepy Eyes punched him right in the stomach. The man went down hard, so Sleepy Eyes had to step over him to get into the house. He grabbed the man by the shirt collar and started dragging him inside.

“Don’t bother helping out here,” he said to his two partners.

They each took one leg and helped guide the man through the mudroom and into the kitchen. I could see a full breakfast for one laid out on the table.

“Close the door already,” Sleepy Eyes said to me.

I stood there, unable to move.

“I said close the door!”

I closed it.

“What do you guys want?” the man said. He was lying on the floor, still holding his gut. “I told Mr. Fr-”

Sleepy Eyes kicked him in the ribs.

“Don’t you dare say his name out loud, you stupid fuck. I don’t want to hear his name cross your lips. Do you understand me?”

The man was gasping for breath now. I was waiting for that feeling to kick in, that feeling of complete calm I’d get whenever I had broken into a strange house, but it wasn’t happening. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was nothing like any other break-in I’d ever been a part of.

“Where’s the money?” Sleepy Eyes said. “Huh?”

The man couldn’t speak. Sleepy Eyes got down on his knees and grabbed the man’s hair.

“Where is it?”

“He can’t breathe,” Fishing Hat said.

“Shut up,” Sleepy Eyes said, without looking up. “Go look for the safe.”

Fishing Hat and Tall Mustache exchanged yet another look. Probably look number 1,001 from just that day alone. Then they split up to search the house.

“Mr. Assemblyman, meet the Kid. Do you know why he’s here?”

The man kept gasping for air.

“He’s here just in case you won’t tell us the combination to your safe. Or in case we kill you first. Either way.”

Turn off the switch. Feel that sense of detachment, like it isn’t really happening. Like I’m not here in this man’s kitchen watching the last hours of this man’s life.

He was starting to breathe again. He shook his head and spat blood on the kitchen floor. Fishing Hat stuck his head into the room and announced that the safe had been found. In the basement.

“To the basement,” Sleepy Eyes said.

He pulled the man to his feet, took him over to the stairs, and then pushed him down. The man let out a yell, and then the next thing we heard was his body hitting every single step, all the way down.

“Was that necessary?” Fishing Hat said.

“I told you to shut up,” Sleepy Eyes said. “Now get down there and see if he’s still alive.”

It was a nightmare. Just put it that way. If you happen to live in Ohio, you might even remember what I’m talking about. What happened in that basement in September of 2000, I was there to see the whole scene from beginning to end.

The man was out cold when we got to him. The basement was unfinished. The original brick foundation from years before, whenever the house had been built. They propped him up against those rough bricks and started slapping his face to bring him back to life. There was a freestanding safe along the opposite wall.

“Let’s have a little race,” Sleepy Eyes said to me. “You start opening that safe, and we’ll see if we can get the combination out of him first.”

I stood right where I was. I measured the distance to the stairs. If I wait for them to be distracted, how big a head start can I get?

Sleepy Eyes came over to me and looked into my eyes.

“Do you have a problem with all of this?”

“He’s not coming around,” Fishing Hat said. “Nice going.”

“We don’t need him to come around,” Sleepy Eyes said. He was still staring into my eyes. “That’s why we brought the Kid.”

“If you had just given him a chance, he would have told us the combination.”

“What fun would that be?”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Fishing Hat said. “You know that? You’re a total fucking psycho.”

“You’re not the first to notice that, believe me.”

“Hold up,” Tall Mustache said. “I think he’s coming to.”

He lightly slapped the man’s face again. The man opened his eyes and tried to focus. He ran his tongue over his broken teeth.

“What’s the combination?” Tall Mustache said. “Come on, save us all some trouble here.”

“Go fuck yourself,” the man said.

“The man’s got balls,” Sleepy Eyes said. “You gotta give him that.”

He went over and kicked the man in exactly that area.

“For fuck’s sake,” Fishing Hat said, “will you back off for two seconds, please? What the hell is wrong with you today?”

When the man was done moaning and gasping and spitting up more blood, he finally gave up the numbers. Fishing Hat had to lean down to hear him.

“Twenty-four. Forty-nine. Ninety-three.”

“You’re the expert,” he said to me. “Get dialing.”

I hesitated for a moment. Then I went to the safe and started spinning those numbers. Four turns to the right, three to the left, two to the right, one to the left. Until it stopped. Turn the handle. Open the door.

There was money inside. Stack upon stack of it.

“Who’s got a bag?” Fishing Hat said.

Nobody had one, so he went up the stairs. A couple minutes later, he came down with a trash bag and started stuffing the money inside it.

The man’s head was slumped down to his chest now. There was blood and spit and tears and teeth and God knows what else all over his shirt.

Sleepy Eyes went over to him. He pulled out a gun from his jacket.

“When you’re paid to perform a service,” he said to the man, “you should go ahead and perform that service. It’s just common sense, right? You understand what I’m saying?”

The man looked up. The blood was pouring from his mouth now.

Fishing Hat and Tall Mustache both stepped away. They put their hands over their ears.

Sleepy Eyes didn’t shoot. He came back over to me and looked me in the eye again. Then he offered the gun to me, handle first.

“You got off easy on the safe,” he said. “So why don’t you go ahead and finish up here?”

I looked down at the gun. I didn’t take it. I wasn’t going to touch it. No matter what else happened to me that day, I was not going to touch that gun.

Sleepy Eyes kept waiting me out. His two partners finally dropped their hands from their ears.

That’s when he finally turned and shot the assemblyman in the head.

Sleepy Eyes turned back to me with a smile on his face. “That’s all you have to do,” he said. “Is that so hard?”

Then he raised the gun again and shot his partners.

Fishing Hat first. In the neck. Tall Mustache in the chest. Both men went down with surprised looks on their faces. They both lived for most of the next minute before finally dying, their blood spreading out slowly on the basement floor.

“My two friends here…” Sleepy Eyes said, putting his gun away. “They’ve both been having little secret meetings with an FBI agent.”

He came over to me and looked me in the eye.

“If someone like that ever contacts you? Someone who smells like a Fed? Wants to have lunch or just get together for tea or something? I would recommend that you decline the invitation.”

He looked over the whole scene one more time. Then he gestured to the stairs.

“After you.”

I stepped over a spreading pool of blood and went up the stairs. We both went outside. Sleepy Eyes got behind the wheel and threw the garbage bag full of money into the backseat. The keys were dangling from the ignition. If I had made a break for it, I thought, I might have had a chance to get away. It was too late now.