Yes. This was better. I was getting her now. More importantly, I was getting how I felt about her. How I saw her in my mind’s eye. This was almost passable.
Now all I had to do was to figure out how to get it to her. Could I roll it up, keep it in my pants somehow? Or maybe if I put it in a big envelope, keep it flat. No matter what, I had to have it right there with me, ready to give to her if I saw my chance.
Yes, that’s it. If you’re patient, the chance will come. For now, take your wreck of a body to bed and get some sleep so you’ll be ready for another day.
When I got up the next morning, I felt just as bad as the day before but no worse. I ate something. Then I drove to the Marshes’ house. This whole idea with the drawing, it had seemed like the perfect plan at midnight. Now in the light of day I couldn’t help wondering if it was a big mistake. But what the hell, right? What did I have to lose?
I got there on time. The drawing was in a large brown envelope, under my shirt, flat against my back. I figured I could take it out and hide it in the woods on my first trip with the wheelbarrow. Leave it out there so it wouldn’t get ruined by my sweat. Then if Amelia stopped by at any point during the afternoon, I could go get it for her. I just hoped to God that she’d actually take it from me. That she’d open the envelope and look at it. I didn’t think that was too much to ask.
Mr. Marsh was waiting for me. He had the locksmith with him. Not again, I thought. This I do not need today.
“You remember Randolph,” Mr. Marsh said to me.
I nodded. The locksmith had a knowing little smile on his face today, like he had a little present for me and couldn’t wait for me to open it.
“Come around back again,” Mr. Marsh said. “If you don’t mind.”
I didn’t get the feeling that I had a choice in the matter. So I followed them. The locksmith’s toolbox was sitting by the back door. The old lock had been taken apart and lay in pieces on the ground. The shiny new lock was in place now, waiting for me.
“The tools, if you will,” Mr. Marsh said.
The locksmith took out the same leather case from the day before and slapped it in my open hand.
“How do you feel about serrated pins, kid?”
Serrated pins? That was a new one on me.
“You’re giving it away,” Mr. Marsh said. “I thought this was supposed to be your big demonstration.”
“I’m not worried,” the locksmith said, smiling at me. “If he’s never done ’em before, knowing what’s in there ain’t gonna help him.”
I opened the case and took out the hook pick and one of the tension bars. If I bend down to do this, I thought, is he going to see the envelope stuck to my back? Maybe I should just give up right now, concede defeat, and go grab the shovel.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Marsh said. “What are you waiting for?”
I had to make a show of it, at least. Take a minute to work the lock, making sure my shirt didn’t ride up in back. Then stand up and give the locksmith his tools. That was my on-the-spot plan. So I got down on one knee, set the tension bar, and got to work. It didn’t take long to feel out each of the six pins. Hell, I thought, this lock doesn’t feel any harder than the last one. In fact, the pins weren’t very tight at all. No high-low-high-low to make things tricky. I worked from the back, feeling each pin set. It was too easy. When I got to the front pin, I didn’t think the plug would turn yet. If these weren’t plain block pins, as surely they weren’t, there would be a false set on each and I’d have to go back and do each pin again. I kept the tension just right, went back and felt the back pin go up another fraction of a millimeter. Then the one in front of that, and so on until I was back at the front pin.
Okay, here’s where you might want to think about what you’re doing, I thought. Don’t even set the front pin. Just throw your hands up, shake your head, give the locksmith his tools. Let him think he beat you with this lock. Let Mr. Marsh think he’s finally got a door that I can’t open. Stop having to go through this every day, especially if you plan on smuggling in any more drawings under your shirt.
“I told you he wouldn’t be able to open it,” the locksmith said.
“It’s a shame,” Mr. Marsh said. “I was beginning to think this kid could actually do something impressive.”
I looked up at the two of them. At their self-satisfied smiles. Then I went back to what I was doing. I pushed up the front pin. I felt it set. Now the plug turns and I’m done.
Except it didn’t.
I took the tools out of the lock, feeling the pins fall back into place while the locksmith laughed over my shoulder. I held up one hand to silence him, put the tools back in the keyhole, and started again. Back to front. Set a pin, then the next. I knew these were false sets. I knew I had to go back and bump each pin one more time. This is how a good lock works. False sets, real sets, open.
I got to the front pin again, felt it go up just enough. It was right there now. Every pin should be in place. The plug should turn.
It didn’t. The fucking thing didn’t turn.
“Never send a boy to do a man’s job,” the locksmith said. “Did I or did I not say that to you?”
“You did,” Mr. Marsh said. “But come on, it’s not like you just beat a world-class jewel thief or something.”
“Maybe not, but upholding the integrity of my craft-that’s a big deal in my book, any day of the week.”
“Whatever you say. Just take your tools so the kid can go dig his hole.”
I tried to wave him off so I could give the lock one more go, but he grabbed the tools out of my hand. “Just give it up,” he said. “This isn’t a toy. You can’t open it. It’s guaranteed punk-proof.”
I stood there looking at the door, at the shiny new lock plate. I didn’t want to move.
“Go on, get to work,” Mr. Marsh said to me. “Playtime is over.”
I kept replaying it in my mind as I finally walked away. Each movement in that lock seemed so clear. There was no way I could have overset any of the pins.
My head was pounding. I couldn’t breathe.
For the first time, I had tried to open a lock, and I had failed.
Fourteen
Los Angeles
January 2000
There was another staircase leading down to a back door of the club, apparently for use by VIPs only. Lucy opened the door, and we were back out in the parking lot. The night was cooler now, a light wind coming in off the ocean.
We got in the car. I sat up front next to her. She pulled out onto Vine Street.
“You’re doing okay,” she said. “Just keep it up. Stay cool.”
She drove back down Sunset Boulevard, then took a hard right and headed up into the hills. We retraced our route from earlier that day, up Laurel Canyon Boulevard. We took the same turn and stopped in the exact same spot. Now that it was dark, the whole city was lit up and spread out below us as far as the eye could see.
“Get out,” she said to me.
She waited for me to come around the car, to where she was standing.
“Take your clothes off.”
Excuse me?
“You don’t want to mess up the new outfit, do you?” She popped the trunk and took out a pair of jet black coveralls. Then she waited while I took off the suit jacket, the shirt, the pants.
“Shoes, too. I’ve got a couple pairs here you can try on.”
She took my clothes and put them in the backseat. I was standing there on the side of the road in nothing but my underwear. She looked me up and down before handing me the coveralls and a pair of black running shoes. When I was all dressed up in my new simple black, she took my sunglasses right off my face.