rayaso | UNDER LOCK AND KEY

LJ Idol Topic #1: Trust Everyone, but Cut the Cards

UNDER LOCK AND KEY

“Trust is for suckers,” thought Hank, who had learned his lesson the hard way, because it had come with a one year jail sentence, plus a life-long aversion to orange jumpsuits. It had been a steep price to pay for a fashion tip, but just about right otherwise, even though his cellmate was the notorious Gasman Jones.

Hank had once told Jones that he always knew he’d get caught, adding “I don’t believe in the perfect crime, just good lawyers.” Fortunately, Hank had had a good lawyer on retainer. Jones had not, so he was doing 20 years for stealing a Prius under the third strike law.

Hank had accepted Jones as part of his punishment. Jones was a compulsive talker who knew only one subject, cars, and he had only one interest— competing with Fat Ass Michaels in the next cell to see who could fart the loudest. Jones’ frequent plaintive cries of “I won! Tell him I won, Hank!” had echoed down the cell block even more loudly than the noxious blasts preceding his pleas. Hank had entered prison as a reasonably friendly guy, but Jones had finally worn the gregariousness out of him.

Now, Hank had only two weeks left behind bars. Twelve months in jail for sixteen years of burglaries – not too bad, he thought, especially since he’d been arrested only for the most recent one. All his other jobs were outside the statute of limitations, so Hank had gotten away with nearly all of his work, and “work” was exactly how he thought of it. Crime was just a job to Hank, although it did lack certain things like health benefits.

Hank had even worked in an office, once. He had been the sole proprietor of Lucky Locks, a once-popular locksmith shop in the trendy Eastside district. His clientele had been mostly young and highly paid, more interested in where they drank their coffee than in keeping track of their keys.

Lucky Locks had been one of the few surviving businesses from the old neighborhood, or so Hank had wanted it to seem. An old-fashioned neon sign of a key in a padlock had hung above the door, with a small window sign reading “Established 1963,” supposedly by Hank’s father. No one had ever bothered to check whether it was true. “No one ever checks anything,” Hank had thought when he first opened the store in 1998. “When they play poker, they always cut the cards, but they just hand me the keys to their homes. Incredible.”

Lucky Locks had been located between Stan’s Dry Cleaning and the popular Eastside Café, so it had become the best place for everybody’s security needs. Hank hadn’t just made copies of keys, he had also installed the latest, most secure, and most expensive locks and security systems. “I can keep you safe,” Hank had assured his customers, despite having other plans.

In truth, the store had been fairly prosperous, and if Hank had been someone else, he could have been happy with Lucky Locks. But Hank was a criminal, and only a life of crime could make him happy. He was the son of a thief and his father had brought him up in the trade, and it was a legacy he just couldn't abandon.

Pops had been a good teacher, but he'd had a limited imagination. Smash and grab was a classic technique, but it lacked finesse. The quickest way into a home was with a key. The best way past a burglar alarm was with the codes. And the easiest way to avoid detection was to be invisible.

With Lucky Locks, Hank had a way to pull the whole scheme together. People actually gave Hank their keys and security codes. All he had to do was make a second copy of the keys and keep a record of the alarm codes, and then wait for the last part to play out.

Only time could make him invisible, and Hank had been a very patient man. He had kept the keys for at least one year before using them. When the police had asked the victims if anyone had a copy of their keys, they had never even thought about Hank or his shop.

Hank had just been a friendly neighborhood guy, always above suspicion. He had made it his business to know the local beat cops, and he always had a coffee and Danish on hand, plus an endless supply of bad police jokes: “I was drunk when I had my driver’s license picture taken. That way, when the police pull me over, I don’t need to stress.”

A year or so after making a key, Hank would use the spare to break into a house. He knew everyone’s schedules because he always listened to the neighborhood gossip.

Hank had several business principles. Never take too much – only the best jewelry and art, never the TV’s or electronics. Those brought a low return for the risk, and Hank thought of himself as a higher class of burglar. Never damage anything, never hurt anybody, and steal only the insured stuff.

Hank had only committed one or two burglaries a year. His most important motto had been moderation in all things, and Hank had been happy as a moderate thief -- with an immoderately fat off-shore retirement account.

All good things must come to an end had been another of Hank’s sayings, and it had eventually come true for Lucky Locks. Hank had always thought that the police would catch him someday, just not the way it happened.

One day a new couple, the Kleins, had come in needing upgraded locks. Judging by their car, clothes, and arrogance, they were richer than most and wanted everyone to know it. They had been in a hurry, and had wanted the locks installed immediately to protect their art collection.

The Kleins were jerks, and they were too juicy to pass up. Hank knew he'd be visiting them again. He did the lock work and filed the copy key away for later.

Later came sooner than Hank would have liked, but he couldn’t let such an easy score pass him by. Two months after installing the locks, the word on the street (a friendly barista named Willlow) was that the Kleins would be leaving in a week for a European vacation. It had been altogether too tempting, even though Hank wouldn’t have as much time for preparation as he would have liked.

The end had been almost boring. There had been no chase scene, no shots had been fired, and there were no sirens. Hank had used his spare key to open the Kleins’ door as usual, but as soon as he had lifted the first painting off the wall, the police had rushed out of one of the bedrooms (“Oh shit!”). Hank had carefully put the painting back on the wall, removed his ski mask, and held out his hands to be cuffed.

It turned out that Hank had been on the Burglary Unit’s radar for at least a year, after an enterprising detective had gone through some cold cases and had noticed that two files contained Lucky Locks receipts. Past victims had been re-interviewed, and most had then remembered that Hank had done work for them.

It had taken awhile to set up the sting, but the police had finally captured their invisible man. That had been the end of Hank's success at pulling off the almost perfect crime.

Hank had figured it was impossible to avoid conviction, so he'd copped a plea and gotten the best deal possible. His time in prison had still seemed to last an eternity, but now his sentence was finally coming to an end.

Release was just weeks away, or 14 days and 6 more hours, to be exact. Hank had plans for the future, plans that didn't involve going back to a life of crime. He would move to the islands and spend that retirement fund he'd been building all those years.

He was looking forward to it – plenty of sun, no bars on the windows, and no orange clothes.

There was a chance he would miss the excitement of being a criminal, but he'd take those odds. Living with Gasman Jones and other people whose safest hobby was competitive flatulence was a lesson he only needed to learn once. Bad as prison had been, he'd been luckier than most.

A smart man has to know when to cash in and walk away.

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