Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

I’m going to do this, I told myself. No matter what, I’m going to try.

For the last thousand miles, I was flying.

Michigan

August, September 1999

I passed the fresh scrape in the bridge embankment, edged with cherry red paint, as I rode out to her house that morning. She was there when I arrived. A duffel bag over her shoulder. Moving back into her own house after her little “vacation” with relatives up north. When she saw me, she dropped the duffel bag, came over to me as I was getting off my bike, and held me tight for a few long minutes straight. She kissed me and told me how much she had missed me and otherwise made me feel absolutely numb with such sudden happiness.

It was my first lesson in how everything in your life can change if you just do one small, specific thing perfectly well.

I helped her bring her stuff inside. Another small measure of pure joy for me when I saw all of Zeke’s love notes in her garbage pail, along with the dried-out roses. She wanted me to take her out on the bike, right then and there, but it was getting close to noon. My first taste of the conflict I’d have to live with every day for the rest of August. Mr. Marsh covered for me today, at least, telling Amelia that I had to go to work at his health club, and that he was sure I’d be able to see her again later. When she was distracted by something, he gave me a little wink and a thumbs-up.

In the end, that’s how it had to work. I still had my court-ordered obligations to Mr. Marsh, after all. Beyond that, I still knew that working with the Ghost was the one thing that was keeping everybody safe and happy. Even though Amelia didn’t know it yet, I was busy keeping the wolves from her door.

I wasn’t naive about what I was doing. I really wasn’t. I mean, when I let myself think about it, I knew I wasn’t learning all this stuff so I could open up my own little locksmith shop on Main Street. I knew these men would want me to actually open a safe for real at some point. I mean, open a safe that belonged to someone else. I figured I could live with that. Open one safe, let them do what they had to do. Then walk away.

I thought it could be that simple. I really did.

By the end of that week, I could do all eight safes in one sitting. Rolling that chair from one to the next. It took all afternoon, and by the time I opened the last safe my back would be wet and my head would be pounding, but I could do it. The next day, the Ghost would have all of the combinations reset and I’d do the whole thing again.

By the end of the next week, I could do them all without killing myself, in about half the time. I still had the portable lock set at home, too. I’d go see Amelia in the evenings, of course, but then I’d spin every night when I got home, just to keep my touch.

One day, another of the pagers went off. I could tell it was a different pager, just from the sound. The Ghost left the room to make a phone call, but this time when he came back he wasn’t shaking like a little kid called down to the principal’s office.

“Buncha fucking amateurs,” he said. Saying it to himself and not really to me. “Aren’t there any real pros around anymore? Guys who know what the fuck they’re doing?”

I listened to him say stuff like that, but I still didn’t really know what he was talking about. Who these people were on the other end of these pagers. I just kept doing my thing. Getting better and faster. I’d go down to Detroit every day, spend my time with the Ghost, then go have dinner with Amelia. Sit in her room, draw, go out on the bike. Come back. End up in her bed sometimes. More and more often, actually, as it occurred to me that nobody was stopping us. Her father would leave the house for hours at a time. Even when he was there, he’d make a big point of staying in his office, like there was no way he’d ever come upstairs and bother us. It’s kind of sick looking back at it now, just how much liberty he must have felt he owed me. Even in his own house.

Then, finally… the day came. It was the middle of August. I went down to West Side Recovery, and from the moment I walked in the place, I could tell that something was up. The Ghost sat me down and rolled up his chair in front of me. Then he started talking.

“First rule,” he said. “You work with people you trust. Nobody else. Ever. You got me?”

I sat there looking at him. Why was I getting this today?

“I need you to let me know that you’re hearing what I’m saying,” he said. “I don’t think that’s fucking too much to ask, is it? So give me some kind of indication here. Are you with me on the trust issue or not?”

I nodded.

“Okay. Thank you.”

He took a moment to settle himself down. Then he continued.

“I know you don’t know shit about anybody yet. So you’re gonna have to use your gut. You get a call, you hook up with somebody, you ask yourself one simple question. You ask yourself, do I trust this person with my life? With my life? Because that’s really what you’re doing. You look them in the eye and you ask yourself that, and your gut will tell you. If there’s anything wrong… I mean anything , you walk away. You turn right around, and you walk. You got me?”

I nodded.

“Being a little nervous is okay. But if they look too nervous? Jumping all over the place? You turn and walk. They’re loaded? They’re high on fucking speed or something? You turn and walk.”

He fiddled with the chain that held his glasses as he thought about it. This man who dressed like a homeless ex-librarian, telling me these things.

“Too many people. You turn and walk. What’s too many, you ask? Depends on the situation. Simple in and out, deal with an alarm maybe, somebody looking out, somebody driving. You got what, four people? Five, maybe? So what happens if you show up and you see ten fucking guys standing around? It’s like bring-a-friend-to-work-day or something? You turn and walk. Because that’s the last thing you need, right? A few more idiots to get in the way? Or run their mouths about it afterwards? Let alone the fact that your share gets smaller with each extra guy on board. Who needs it, right? You turn and walk.”

I kept sitting there in front of him, with my hands locked on my knees. I felt a little numb.

“You know what else? Here’s another thing. You don’t carry a gun. You do not so much as touch a gun unless it’s an emergency. You got that?”

I nodded. That one I could agree to without a problem.

“It’s not your job to carry a gun. It’s not your job to do anything except open a box. That’s the only reason you’re in the fucking room, and that’s the only thing you do. You’re like the doctor in a maternity ward, right? They’ve got nurses to do all the other shit, run around like crazy while the baby’s getting ready to come out. Then when it’s time, and only when it’s time… call the doctor! He comes in, boom. Baby’s out, everybody’s happy. Doctor goes back to the wherever, the doctors’ lounge. He acts like he’s too good for everyone else, and his time is way more valuable than anybody else’s time. Because, yes, you’re damned right! It’s the truth! He knows it and everybody else knows it. He’s the doctor and everybody else ain’t worth shit.”

I was too hot under the big green plastic shade. It was one of those late August days that didn’t get the memo about summer being almost over.

“Bottom line, kid. Bottom line. You are an artist. So you get to act like a fucking prima donna. They expect you to. If you didn’t, they’d think something was wrong. Hell, they’d pull the plug on the whole thing. We were expecting an artist, and instead we got this schmuck. So what the fuck, eh? Let’s all go home.”