“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.
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 breakin 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.
I got in next to him.
“See what I mean?” he said, stretching out his legs. “This is what I’m talking about. Is this a hell of a lot more comfortable, or what?”
He drove me back to the restaurant. Thirty minutes in the car, sitting next to him. He started whistling a tune, like he was on his way back from a good day’s work painting a house. When we were at the terminal, he slipped the car into park and put a hand on the back of my neck.
“I know this might have seemed like a wasted trip to you,” he said. “Riding all the way out here like that. But you’ve been out there in L.A. for what, almost a year now? Living with that crazy bunch of kids? It’s good to keep in touch, you know?”
He reached back for the bag of money and pulled out a single stack.
“It’s good to remember who we both work for.”
I took the money. I did. I took it. Then I opened the door and got out. When I looked back, he had rolled down the window.
“Have a good trip back home,” he said, “and keep that pager right next to your pillow. I’ll be talking to you again soon.”
After he drove off, I sat there on my bike for a long time. I hadn’t even left the parking lot yet. I kept thinking about the blood. The way it ran like a dozen little rivers across the floor.
I will never be free of this, I thought. There is no way out.
And now I have to turn around and drive for three days straight, all the way across the country. To a houseful of thieves. To the only place where I will ever be welcome.
All those miles. And I am so tired.
Unless …
No. I can’t.
Yes. I have to. It may be my last chance. I may never be this close again.
I started the bike and pulled out onto the road. But instead of going west, I went north.
Two hours later, I was in Michigan.
Twenty-three
Michigan
July, August 1999
*
I didn’t know where Amelia had gone. Where she was hiding until her father let her come back home again. And of course because I am not a normal person, she couldn’t just call me on the telephone. She couldn’t call me and talk to me and tell me she was okay and that we’d be back together soon. Not like any other two young lovers who might find themselves separated.
No. If I couldn’t see her in the flesh, she might as well have been taken to another planet.
No messages. No words. Just gone. And as impossible as this may seem, I knew that there was only one way for me to bring her back.
I had to learn how to open a safe.
I worked on the lock most of the night. I kept turning the dials, trying to feel whatever the hell it was I was supposed to be feeling. Then I rummaged around for my old combination locks, found the old lock I had cut open and sat there studying the damned thing for the next hour.
It was really so simple. You line up all three notches, the shackle opens. There’s no way I shouldn’t be able to do this.
I went back to the lock the Ghost had given me. I was so tired now, after everything that had happened that day. I kept seeing that giant fish half out the window.
Just feel it. Turn the dial and feel it.
I fell asleep. I woke up, with no idea what time it was. The lock was still in my hand. I spun the dial again and this time I thought I was feeling what I was supposed to be feeling. I pulled the shackle and the lock opened.
I could barely see straight. Maybe that was the key. Maybe every other signal in my head had to be so weak and fuzzy before the “lock” signal could break through and be heard. Whatever it was, I kept working at it until I felt like I could zero in that signal. Until I finally had to close my eyes again.
So big freaking deal. That nagging voice in the back of my head, sounding exactly like the voice of the Ghost. You can open a cheap little combination lock now. That voice stayed in my head until the next morning, when I headed back down to Detroit. The air was heavy with the threat of rain. Finally, the clouds opened up and I was soaked through in a matter of seconds. I got to West Side Recovery and rolled my bike to the door. I knocked and waited another full minute in the rain before the Ghost appeared and let me in.
“How did you do with the lock?” he said. “Try not to drip on everything.”
I took the lock from my pocket and held it up for him.
“It doesn’t look open to me.”
He stood and watched me work on it while the rain pounded away outside. Right, left, right. Boom. I pulled the shackle open and handed the whole thing to him.
“Don’t start acting like a smart-ass,” he said, snapping the lock shut. “I’ll throw you back out in the rain.”
He turned toward the back office. I followed him. About halfway, he picked up another combination lock off an old table and threw it directly over his head. I wasn’t expecting it, and as
usual the light level was about one-quarter what it should have been. I was lucky to snag the lock out of the air just before it hit me in the face.
I was still working on it when we had passed through the office, down the narrow hallway, and out into the backyard. The rain rattled off the green plastic, so loud we might as well have been standing inside a giant snare drum.
“Okay, then,” he said. Then he stopped when he saw I didn’t have this second lock open yet. Even while walking in near darkness, trying not to trip over a thousand pieces of junk, I was supposed to have it open already? He folded his arms and watched me, maybe two minutes going by, but each of those minutes feeling like an hour. When I finally got it open, he grabbed the lock from me with such utter contempt I was sure I was headed for the front door again. Instead he just threw it on the workbench and told me to wait where I stood.
He pushed open a sliding door. A dozen rakes and hoes and other assorted garden tools came tumbling out at him. He swore and karate-chopped his way through them until he was standing inside a storage room. There was a single naked lightbulb in the center of the ceiling. When he pulled on the string, nothing happened.
More swearing. More junk being kicked aside or tripped over. Then the Ghost backing out of the room, pulling out something on a dolly and struggling with the weight of something covered in a dusty white sheet.
He rolled it back away from the door, telling me to get the hell out of the way before he gave himself a hernia. He stopped and let the thing settle on the floor. Then he tried to catch his breath.
I knew what it was, of course. Four feet high, maybe three feet wide, two and a half feet deep. The exact shape of a medium-sized safe. But why was this particular safe kept in the storage room, hidden under a sheet?
“This is the first thing you have to see,” he said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Get ready, because this is about as obscene as it gets.”
He pulled the sheet off, raising a cloud of dust. It was a safe, all right, but it had been torn apart in every way you could conceivably tear apart a safe. On one side, the outer shell had been stripped away, the middle layer of concrete apparently hammered at until the inner layer was finally exposed and somehow pried open.
Lock Artist Page 27
