The Lock Artist

Twenty-two

Ohio

September 2000

The Ghost had made it clear to me. I knew the rule. When the red pager goes off, you call the number as quickly as a human being can pick up a phone and call a number.

“That was fast,” the voice said. A rough voice that I knew I’d heard before. “Good boy. Now write this down because I’m only gonna say it once. We need you to get yourself to Cleveland. We’ll be down there on Friday morning, bright and early, like around eight o’clock. So you’ve got what, two and a half days from now to get there. Here’s the address…”

I wrote down the number and the street name.

“It’s a bar. Restaurant, whatever. Just go on inside and hang out until we get there. Oh, and one more little detail. Things are kinda hot right now, so do not fly there. You got that? Do not get on a fucking airplane. Are we crystal clear?”

He actually seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

“Can you press a goddamned button or something to let me know you’re there? Once for yes, twice for no, how’s that?”

I pressed one of the buttons. One time.

“There you go. We figured out how to communicate. So I’ll see you in Ohio. Getting there won’t be any more fun for me than you, believe me. So don’t bitch at me about it.”

He hung up. I looked at the address on the pad. I tore it off, put it in my pocket, and started writing on the next page.

I need to go. Back in a few days.

I put the pad on the table. As soon as somebody came back here looking for me, I knew they’d find it.

I did a quick packing job. Then I hit the road.

____________________

Ohio was over two thousand miles away. A hell of a trip, but I didn’t figure I had much choice. I hit Las Vegas by the time the sun was going down. I was just past St. George, Utah, when I stopped for the night. I checked into a little motel, paid cash for a room, and fell asleep on the bed with my clothes still on.

The sun was hot on my face when I finally woke up. Galaxies of dust floating in that one ray of light that shone through the gap in the curtains. I got up, grabbed some breakfast, and hit the road again.

I made it through Utah that day, then through Colorado. I could feel my hands going numb. The road was dead straight by the time I hit Nebraska. I kept the bike between the lines and just rode and rode. This is a test, I thought. It’s impossible to do this, but they want me to do it anyway.

I stopped at another motel outside of Grand Island. It was hard to walk when I got off the bike that night. I paid for the room, took a shower, and tried to sleep. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t close my eyes. I sat up, turned on the light, and started drawing. I had all of my stuff with me, of course. I couldn’t imagine going anywhere without it. So I drew myself sitting there in the bed, in that little motel room so close to the road I could feel the walls shake every time a truck went by. Another chapter in my ongoing story for Amelia. Michael on his way to Ohio to do God knows what.

In the morning, as I was packing up again, I heard the blue pager go off. The guys from New York? Did they somehow know I was already halfway there? Thinking maybe I could swing by and do a second job on the same trip?

I picked up the phone right there in the motel room and dialed the number. It didn’t even finish the first ring before the man on the other end picked up and started talking.

“Michael, you have to listen to me.”

It was Banks. First yellow, then green. Now he had the blue pager number.

“Time is running out, my friend. You need to face reality. We’re almost past the point where I’m going to be able to help you.”

I looked out the window. I had a sudden feeling that I was being watched, at that very moment, right here in the middle of Nebraska. That the door would come busting down and a dozen men would jump into the room and yell at me to lie down on the floor with my hands behind my head.

“This might be your last chance. Are you listening to me?”

But no, he wouldn’t call me first. If he knew where I was, he’d just come get me. He wouldn’t bother with the phone call.

“Michael. Don’t hang up. Okay? Just stay with me here. I want to help you.”

They can trace this. I’m sitting here in a motel room and they can trace this call.

I hung up the phone and got out of there.

I hit some heavy traffic around Chicago. Then I lost another hour in the time zone change. It was after midnight when I finally got to Cleveland. I stayed at my third motel in a row, this one by the airport. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, wondering what the next day would bring.

When the morning came, I got myself together and rode over to the address I’d been given. It wasn’t eight o’clock yet, but I could see the long black sedan in the parking lot. The same car I’d seen before, back in Michigan.

I parked the bike next to it and was about to go inside. That’s when Sleepy Eyes came out the door.

“Welcome to the mistake by the fucking lake,” he said. “What took you so long?”

I pointed at my watch.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it. Let’s go.”

He went back inside and got the other two men.

“The kid is here,” the first man said, looking me up and down. “In the flesh.” He wasn’t actually wearing a fishing hat today, but he’d always be Fishing Hat to me.

“How was the trip?” the second man said. Tall Mustache. It had been a year since I had last seen these guys. They didn’t look any different at all. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Sleepy Eyes opened up one of the back doors for me. As he did that, the other two men got in front. Sleepy Eyes shook his head and muttered darkly to himself. I could see that the wonderful team chemistry in this crew hadn’t changed, either.

The morning sun was in our eyes as we drove down the expressway. So we were going east. Through Cuyahoga Heights, Garfield Heights, Maple Heights. A lot of Heights out here in the suburbs of Cleveland. It was a warm pale blue morning in the Midwest, like the days I knew when I lived in Michigan. I didn’t want to be here. Not like this.

“So let me ask you something,” Sleepy Eyes said, tapping my arm.

I turned to look at him.

“Do you know how far we had to drive down here, from Detroit?”

“Oh God,” Tall Mustache said. “Here we go.”

“I know you just rode across the whole fucking country, but hell, you were on a bike. That’s different.”

“Just knock it off,” Tall Mustache said.

“So here’s my question,” Sleepy Eyes said, ignoring the other man. “How come it’s always me who has to sit in the fucking backseat? Can you answer that for me, please?”

“You can’t drive,” Tall Mustache said, “because you lost your license, remember? And it wouldn’t make any fucking sense for you to sit here in the front, because you’re like a foot shorter than me.”

“A foot is twelve inches. I am not twelve inches shorter than you.”

“My legs are a lot longer than yours, is what I’m saying. That’s why you’re in the back.”

“Will you two knock it off!” Fishing Hat said. “Do you always have to do this?”

“On the way back,” Sleepy Eyes said, “it’s me and the kid in front. Whaddya say? Then when we drop him off, it’ll just be me by myself.”

“I’d say you’d have to kill both of us first,” Tall Mustache said.

“One more word,” Fishing Hat said, “I’ll turn this car right around and take you kids straight back home.”

That got Tall Mustache laughing.

“Yeah, that’s funny,” Sleepy Eyes said. “I’m dying of laughter back here.”

Nobody said anything for a while. I thought about the three hours it would take to get to Detroit from here. I hadn’t been back to Michigan yet. I couldn’t help but wonder what Amelia was doing at that very moment.

“I always get the shit end of the stick,” Sleepy Eyes said to me. “Any time there’s an unpleasant job to do? Somebody’s garbage taken out? Something hot and boring and dangerous? Who do you think does it?”

“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 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.

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.