I took out the pick gun and set to work. It was a two-handed operation, employing a torsion wrench in my left and the pick gun in the right. The mechanism was ingenious. Once the pick gun was inserted in the lock, the squeezing of the trigger activated an internal mallet that compressed an adjustable spring. If all went well, the rapid oscillation of the pick would coax the pins up one by one, holding them above the shear line. By applying a steady pressure with the torque wrench, once all the pins had been breached, the plug would be free to turn and I’d be in.
The mechanism made a pleasant little clicking noise as I maneuvered it. The sound put me in mind of an electric stapler firing staples into paper. Peggy hovered at my shoulder but mercifully asked no questions. I could tell she was nervous because she shifted restlessly, arms folded tightly as though to keep herself in check. “I should have peed while I had the chance,” was the only comment she made. Already, I was wishing she hadn’t mentioned it. We were in enemy territory and we couldn’t afford to pause to take a whiz.
I’d been at it less than a minute when the lock yielded. I tucked my tools away and opened the kitchen door with care. I stuck my head in. The booming from the television originated from one of the three bedrooms that opened off the hall, and the sound of canned laughter was loud enough to make the kitchen curtains vibrate. There was a strong smell of bleach and I could see a bottle of cleanser sitting on the counter with a damp sponge nearby. I moved into the room and Peggy slipped in after me. I peered around the kitchen door into the corridor. The auditory onslaught was coming from Tiny’s room at the end of the hall. I signaled to Peggy, pointing to the third bedroom, where the door was slightly ajar. I heard Tiny shout out a sentence in response to something on the TV, but his words were formless. I hoped his limited intelligence wouldn’t interfere with his ability to pay attention to the program.
My first job was to slip into the living room and unlock the front door in case we needed Henry’s assistance in the house. He’d apparently left his tools at the curb, mere props in the drama that was playing out. I could see him standing on the porch, his attention riveted to the empty street. He was the lookout man and our success depended on his spotting Solana’s car and giving us sufficient warning to get the hell out. I turned the thumb lock and secured it in the open position, then returned to the hall where Peggy was waiting, her face pale. I could see she hadn’t developed my appetite for danger.
Gus’s bedroom was the first on the right. The door was shut. I closed my fingers around the knob and turned it with caution until I felt the latch bolt ease out of the switch plate. I opened the door halfway. Curtains had been drawn and the light coming through the window shades gave the room a sepia cast. The air smelled of unwashed feet, menthol, and urine-damp sheets. A humidifier was hissing away in one corner of the room, giving us another layer of sound cover.
I stepped into the room and Peggy followed. I left the door open a crack. Gus was propped up against the pillows, motionless. His face was turned toward the door and his eyes were closed. I stared at his diaphragm, but there was no comforting rise and fall. I hoped I wasn’t looking at a guy in the early phases of rigor mortis. I crossed to the bed and laid two fingers on his hand, which was warm to the touch. His eyes came open. He was having trouble with his focus, his eyes not quite tracking in unison. He seemed disoriented and I wasn’t sure he remembered where he was. Whatever meds Solana had him on, he wasn’t going to be much help.
Our immediate problem was to get him on his feet. His pajamas were flimsy cotton, his bare feet as long and thin as a saint’s. As frail as he was, I didn’t want him navigating the outdoors without a wrap of some kind. Peggy got down on her hands and knees and fished a pair of slippers from under the bed. She gave me one slipper and we each took a foot. I had a problem because his toes were curled and I couldn’t force the slipper onto his foot. When she saw my plight, she reached over and pressed her thumb against the ball of the foot with all the skill of a mother wrestling a toddler into hard-soled shoes. His toes relaxed and on the slipper went.
I checked the closet, which yielded nothing in the way of an overcoat. Peggy started opening and closing dresser drawers, apparently without success. She finally came up with a woolly sweater, which didn’t look all that warm but would have to suffice. She freed Gus from the tangle of covers while I moved him forward and away from the pillows. I was working to get him into his sweater, noting that his arms were hinged wrong. Peggy moved me aside and employed another mommy trick that got the job done. Together we grabbed his legs and swung them over the side. There was an afghan folded at the foot of the bed. I shook it out and wrapped it across his shoulders like a cloak.
From down the hall I heard manic theme music erupt as a game show came on. Tiny was singing along in a loud tuneless moan. He yelled a word and I realized belatedly he was calling Gus’s name. Peggy and I exchanged a look of dismay. She swung Gus’s legs back and pulled the spread up to conceal his slippered feet. I whisked off the afghan and flung it to the bottom of the bed while she removed the sweater in a single smooth action and shoved it under the blanket. We heard Tiny clump into the bathroom. Seconds later, he was pissing with a force that mimicked a waterfall pouring into a metal bucket. For emphasis, he farted one long musical note.
He flushed the toilet-good boy-and shuffled down the hall in our direction. I pushed Peggy and the two of us took silent giant steps, trying to clear the field. We stood motionless behind the door as he swung it open and leaned in. Big mistake. I could see his face reflected in the mirror hanging above the chest of drawers. I thought my heart would stop. If he glanced to his right, his view of us would be as clear as our view of him. I’d never actually seen him, except for the one encounter where I’d stumbled across him sleeping in what I’d thought was an empty house. He was enormous, with a wide meaty neck and ears set low on his head like a chimp’s. He had a ponytail down his back, secured with what looked like a rag. He vocalized what might have been a sentence, complete with an upward tilt at the end to indicate a question. I gathered he was urging Gus to join him for the laugh-fest in the other room. I could see Gus on the bed guilelessly flick a look in our direction. I wagged a finger like a metronome and then put it to my lips.
In a feeble voice, Gus said, “Thank you, Tiny, but I’m tired now. Maybe later.” He closed his eyes, as though to nap.
Out came another garbled sentence and Tiny withdrew. I listened to him shuffling down the hall, and as soon as I judged he was settled on his bed, we went into high gear again. I pulled the covers back. Peggy guided Gus’s arms into his sweater and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. I draped the afghan across his shoulders. Gus understood our intentions but he was too weak to assist us. Peggy and I each took an arm, mindful of how painful our touch must be when he had so little flesh on his bones. The minute he was on his feet, his knees buckled under him and we had to shore him up before he fell.
We guided him toward the door, which I pushed open to the full. At the last minute, I placed his hand on the frame for balance and whipped into the bathroom, where I snagged his medications and zipped them into my fanny pack. At his side again, I took Gus’s weight on my shoulder, anchoring his arm for stability. We struggled out into the hall. The high-decibel sounds from the television masked our halting advance, at the same time making the threat of discovery seem more immediate. If Tiny stuck his head out of the bedroom door, we were screwed.
Gus’s pace was slow, progressing by way of baby steps that advanced him inches at a time. Covering the fifteen feet from the bedroom to the end of the hall took the better part of two minutes, which doesn’t sound like much time unless Solana Rojas was on her way home. When we reached the kitchen door, I glanced to my right. Henry didn’t dare bang on the glass, but he was waving and pointing frantically, making hurry-up motions and sawing an index finger across his throat. Solana had apparently turned the corner from Bay to Albanil. Henry disappeared and I had to trust him to save himself while Peggy and I focused on the task at hand.