Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

Or else he gave it to my uncle so that my uncle could give it to me. So I could call Banks myself. Either way, it made me feel suddenly very vulnerable. I went to the front window and looked outside. Banks could be out there right now, I thought. Watching me.

I went out to my bike, scanning in every direction. Looking for someone walking by on the street. Or a man sitting behind the wheel of a car, maybe reading a newspaper. The way he had done it before, back when he was watching West Side Recovery.

I dug out the bundle of money Sleepy Eyes had given me that very morning. I went back inside and put it on the kitchen counter, where the cell phone had been. Remembering that old coffee can that had sat next to that register in the liquor store for all those years. HELP OUT THE MIRCLE BOY. With the yellowed newspaper clipping next to it.

Here you go, Uncle Lito. Just don’t lose it at the track.

____________________

As I got to the stoplight at the end of town, a police cruiser pulled up next to me. I could feel myself being examined. I didn’t look back at them. When the light turned green I took off, waiting for the siren to come on, already planning where I’d go if I needed to make a break for it. But it didn’t happen.

I rode east. Those same four miles I knew so well. The most important four miles of my life. There were more new houses being built, in a spot that had once been an empty field. Each one bigger than the next, stacked almost on top of each other, using up every inch of land. It was still the same road, though, and I knew exactly where I was going. I could have done it blindfolded.

When I got to her subdivision, I saw a dozen cars parked in the driveway and spilling out onto the street. A party of some sort was going on. Maybe for Amelia? Was I going to walk right into the middle of it? Talk about a surprise party.

I parked my bike on the street, took off my helmet, and went to the front door. I rang the doorbell twice, but nobody came to the door. So I went around back.

There was a pool there now. An honest-to-God in-ground swimming pool in the very spot where I had started digging. There was a white fence around the whole thing. Tables and chairs everywhere. Green tablecloths and flowers. Forty or fifty people all stood around with plastic glasses of white wine. I didn’t recognize anyone.

They started to notice me, one by one. I just stood there. Finally, the back door opened and Mr. Marsh came out, a bottle of wine in each hand. He looked good, I’ll say that much. He was obviously back to his suntanned, king-of-the-world self. He stopped when he realized that everyone was staring at something. He followed the invisible arrow until he finally spotted me. He processed this information for the next two seconds, doing a heroic job of not dropping his wine bottles.

“Michael,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

He handed off the wine bottles and came over to me, turning me by the shoulder and half pushing me back around to the front of the house.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, “but I thought… I mean… how are you?”

Such sincerity, I thought. It brings a tear to my eye.

“We’re having a little party here, as you can see. I finally opened up that second health club. Now I’m working on the third.”

We finally stopped walking when we were in the driveway. Away from the party. Away from anyone who could hear us.

“Listen,” he said, “I know I owe you a lot. I mean, I don’t know if saying thank you is enough. But thank you. Okay? You gave me the chance to get out from under those guys. I got totally paid up and everything’s good now. They’re not going to bother me anymore. Or anybody in my family.”

That might be true, I thought, but for reasons you’d never guess.

“You remember Jerry Slade, right? My old partner? He kinda disappeared off the face of the earth. I never did see him again. Just goes to show you. You gotta stick around and face the music, you know what I mean? Just stay positive until things start to go your way.”

You are so full of shit, I thought. If you weren’t Amelia’s father…

“But I don’t know if you’re supposed to be here, you know? I mean, I don’t know if that’s a good thing, is all I’m saying. But it is great to see you. Don’t get me wrong. I’ll tell Amelia, I promise.”

I pointed up to her window.

“Yes, she’s doing just fine. I’ll be sure to tell her you were here.”

I waited him out. I wasn’t about to leave.

“She’s studying art, just like she always wanted to. Isn’t that great?”

I kept waiting.

“She’s in London, if you can believe it. She absolutely loves it there.”

London…

“I’ll tell her you were here. She calls me every week.”

She’s in London.

“Look, I really should get back to the party. If you ever need anything… I mean anything . You let me know, okay? You take care of yourself.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. Then he went back to his party.

I wasn’t sure what to do then. I stood there in the driveway for a while, looking up at her window. Wondering if her bedroom still looked the same. The garage doors were open, with several large tubs filled with ice. This is where he kept the wine, along with the bottles of water and soda pop and whatever else. I grabbed a bottle of Vernors. I figured he owed me that much. One bottle of cold ginger ale in exchange for saving his life, his home, his business, his family. His old Mercedes was parked there on the other side of the garage. He’d be trading it in for something new, no doubt, as soon as the new health club took off. I was about to turn and leave. Then I noticed the stickers on his back window.

Michigan State University.

And above that… the University of Michigan.

I knew his son Adam the football star was at MSU. And if I remembered right, from all that bragging he had done when I first met him, that was Mr. Marsh’s alma mater, too. So why the hell would he have a University of Michigan sticker on his car?

Only one reason, genius. Although you had to hand it to him. Art school in London. He came up with that one pretty quick.

I couldn’t even blame him.

After all those hard miles to get here, it was only forty more to get to Ann Arbor. A beautiful September afternoon as I headed down to where I thought the center of campus had to be. There were students walking all over the place. Backpacks over their shoulders. Maize and blue T-shirts. Young smiling faces.

I rode down State Street, looking at the buildings. The biggest of all had eight huge columns in front, and right next to that was the art museum. I figured I had to be getting closer, but I didn’t see the art school anywhere. I finally parked and walked around until I found a campus map. It looked like the art school was up on North Campus, a whole separate area of town. I got back on the bike and headed up that way, passing the huge hospital. It looked vaguely familiar now. I must have come down this very road when I was nine years old, to see some supposed expert about getting me to speak again.

There were blue buses running back and forth on the main road. This was how the students must have traveled between the two campuses. I kept going until finally I saw the art building. It was all metal and glass, and in the late afternoon light it was already starting to glow from the inside.

I parked the bike again and walked through the building. The people there, the art students… they didn’t seem to be moving as quickly as the students on the main campus. They were dressed a little better. Hell, they were just flat out a little more attractive and more put together. They wouldn’t make any money when they graduated, but at least they’d have more fun.