Steve Hamilton - The Lock Artist

He inched his chair a little closer to me.

“There aren’t many of us left,” he said. “That’s the simple truth of the matter. Without you, they gotta go in, they gotta carry that safe out, they gotta do God knows what. You’ve seen what they have to do, ripping that box apart. Without you, it turns into a fucking demolition project. So you get to call your shots. You hear me? Never be afraid to do that.”

He looked especially tired today. Especially pale and old and used up. I couldn’t help but wonder if this had done that to him, this work he was telling me about.

“Let me show you what I’ve got here,” he said, picking up the shoebox from the floor and putting it in his lap. “This is very important, so listen carefully.”

He opened the shoebox and picked up one of the pagers.

“You know what these are, right? Pagers, beepers, whatever you want to call them. Somebody wants to reach you, they just dial a certain number and the pager will go off. Their number will get stored right here in this little readout. You see this screen? There’s a memory, so you can go back and find the number if you don’t happen to see it.”

He pushed a little button and showed me.

“It’ll usually be a secure number they leave, in case you’re wondering. A pay phone, maybe. Or some kind of temporary situation. As long as it’s clean. Anyway, you get a number on one of these, you call it.”

I waited for him to see through to the obvious problem. He gave me one of his rare little half-smiles and shook his head.

“Yeah, I got it, hotshot. I know you don’t call people all that often. Don’t worry. The people who need to know about you will know that you’re just calling to listen. If they don’t, then hell, that’s just one more way to know who not to work with. You don’t even have to leave the house.”

He put the pager down, picked up another.

“As you can see, I’ve got these all marked with different colors. Make sure you keep them straight. The green one here… hell, I don’t think this one’s gone off in two years. I don’t even know why I have it anymore.”

He put it back in the box and picked up another.

“The blue one… they don’t call that often. Once a year, maybe? Twice a year? From the East Coast, mostly. They’re pros, so you can feel good about it if these guys call. Okay? You got that part?”

That one went back in the box. Another came out.

“Okay, yellow. You’ll get beeped on this one. Problem is, you’ll never know exactly who you’re dealing with. Or where the call is coming from. Hell, it could be from fucking Mexico or something. That’s why I’ve got it yellow, you see. Yellow, as in yellow pages, meaning that just about anybody can get this number and call you. Also, yellow as in proceed with caution. You got it?”

Back in the box, one more out. He shook this a few times.

“The white pager,” he said. “Never a problem here. These guys are money. Okay? They’re fucking money in the bank. They stay out west mostly, and I gotta admit, they’re a little unorthodox. Whatever they set up, it’s usually some kind of slow play. They set up a situation and they know they won’t see you for a few days, but they know you’re the guy they need and they’ll be willing to wait for you. If it rings, you go, because like I said, these guys are as good as it gets.”

He put that one back, picked up the last one. He held it carefully, as if even the pager itself would be more dangerous than the others. He moved his chair another inch toward mine.

“Okay, here it is,” he said. “The red one. I’ll put this in simple terms so there’s no chance of misunderstanding. If this pager goes off, you fucking call the number as soon as you can. You listen to what the man says. If he wants to meet somewhere, you go and you meet him. Are you hearing me?”

I nodded.

“The man on the other side of the red pager is the man who allows you to do what you do. Everything else that happens, happens because he lets it happen. In fact, if any one of these other people ever uses your services, this man gets a cut right off the top. You got that? He’s the boss, and if you ever get on the wrong side of that, you might as well just go kill yourself and save everybody else the trouble. Because this man will fuck you and everyone else around you in ways that you have never even imagined. Are we totally clear on this point?”

I nodded again. I had a fairly good idea I knew who this man was. The man I had met in Mr. Marsh’s office. The man in the suit, with the strange cologne and the foreign cigarettes.

“The red pager goes off,” he said. “What do you do?”

I made a telephone with my thumb and little finger, and held it to my ear.

“How soon do you do it?”

I pointed to the floor. Now.

“I know that seems to contradict everything else I was telling you about being a prima donna and walking away from things. But trust me. When he needs you, you better come through.”

He put the red pager back in the box and closed the lid.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “He won’t call that often. It’s not like he needs a lot of help in life.”

He held out the box to me. He waited for me to take it.

“You’re ready. Take them.”

No, I thought. I am most definitely not ready.

“You realize, this isn’t something for you to choose at this point,” he said. “You already chose. Not to get too heavy or anything, but that next call on the red pager will be for you, whether you like it or not.”

I took the box. The Ghost got up from his chair.

“Make sure you keep spinning, every single day. You know if you stop, you’ll lose your touch.”

He reached into his pocket and took out a ring of keys. He tossed them to me.

“That big one’s the front door. The silver one’s the office. Some of those others are for the cabinets in there, I think. That last one’s for the back gate. Probably doesn’t even open anymore.”

I looked up at him. What the hell did I need these for?

“I don’t suppose you feel like running this place. So you’d better keep it locked up. Make up a sign, say we’re closed for renovations or something. You can still come in and practice.”

I pointed at him. Where are you going?

“I told you,” he said. “My daughter needs me. In Florida. Dream come true, right? She lives in one of those ‘manufactured homes,’ which is just a fancy way of saying a double-wide trailer. A swamp out back with alligators that come out and eat all the little dogs.”

I gestured to everything around us.

“Yeah, how could I ever leave this? Don’t worry, I’m not that sentimental about most of it. None of it’s mine, anyway.”

I put my hands out.

“Who owns it, you’re asking? Who do you think?”

He pointed to the red pager.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to say good-bye to the ladies.”

I knew who he meant, of course. I left him there in the back lot of West Side Recovery, so he could spend his last few minutes in the Garden of Safes. I rolled my bike out onto the sidewalk, the shoebox tucked under my arm. There was an overflowing garbage can just a few yards away, in front of the dry cleaners. I could just leave this box right on top, I thought. Ride away and never come back.

Instead, I opened up the little storage compartment behind the seat and put the box in. It just barely fit.

As I was standing there on the sidewalk, I saw the car parked across the street. I got one look at the driver’s face, before he picked up a newspaper and hid behind it. It was the man who had come to visit the store that one day, the man who had walked all the way back to the safes. The name came back to me. Harrington Banks. Who his friends call Harry.