The Lock Artist Read Online Free PDF Page A

. . . the living, breathing
fear
I had been feeling, every second of every day . . . it was all gone. Every bit of it. At least temporarily. For those next few minutes, when I did what I did next. It was the first time I didn’t feel scared about anything since that day in June.
    The operator was still talking, her voice fading to a faraway squeak as I dropped the receiver and it hung swinging by its cord. Turns out that was enough to get the police there, by the way. You call 911 like that and leave the line open, they have to come check it out. But on this night, it wouldn’t be soon enough to stop the robbery.
    I opened the door and walked out into the store. Down the long aisle of bottles. I could hear the man talking in a quick, high voice.
    “That’s right, man. All the money. Right now, man.”
    Then Uncle Lito’s voice, an octave lower. “Just take it easy, friend. Okay? Nobody has to do anything stupid here.”
    “What’s that kid doing back there? Where’d he go?”
    “Don’t you worry about him. He’s got nothing to do with this.”
    “Why don’t you call him up here? I’m getting nervous. You don’t want that.”
    “He can’t even hear me if I tried. He’s deaf and dumb, okay? Just leave him out of this.”
    That’s when I turned the corner and saw them. I can still remember every detail in that scene. Uncle Lito, paper bag in one hand, bills from the open register in the other. The wall of sample bottles behind him. The coffee can on the counter, my picture taped to the rim, above it the sign asking for money to help out the Miracle Boy.
    Then the man. The robber. The criminal. The way he stood there with the gun gripped tight in his right hand. A revolver shining in the fluorescent light.
    He was scared. I could see that as clearly as I could see his face. This gun in his hand, it was supposed to take the fear away, to make him the master of this whole situation. But it was doing exactly the opposite. It was making him so scared he could barely think straight. This was an instant lesson for me, even at nine years old. It was something I’d remember forever.
    The robber looked at me for the first two seconds, swung the gun my way in the third.
    “Michael!” he said. “Get the hell out of here!”
    “I thought you said he was deaf,” the robber said. He came over to me and grabbed my shirt. Then I felt the barrel of the gun pressing against the top of my head.
    “What are you doing?” my uncle said. “I told you I’ll do anything you say.”
    I could feel the robber’s hands shaking. Uncle Lito’s face had gone white,his own hands outstretched like he was trying to reach me. To pull me away. I didn’t know which one of them was more terrified at that point. But, like I said, I wasn’t scared myself. Not one little bit. It’s the one advantage you have maybe, being scared all the time. When it’s time to
really
be scared, when all of a sudden you’re finally
supposed
to be scared . . . it just doesn’t happen.
    My uncle fumbled with the money, trying to stuff it all into the paper bag. “Take the money,” he said. “For God’s sake, just take it and get out of here.”
    The robber pushed me away, grabbing the bag with his left hand while he kept the gun aimed with his right, swinging it back and forth between us. Me, my uncle, me again. Then he backed away, toward the door, passing right by me. I didn’t move. When he was two feet away, he took one quick look down at me.
    I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t try to take the money away from him, or try to take the gun. I didn’t stick my finger in the muzzle and smile at him. I just stood there and looked at him like he was a fish in an aquarium.
    “Fucking weirdo kid.” He pushed the door open with his left elbow, nearly dropping the bag of money. He recovered and ran to his car and drove away, spinning his wheels as he hit Main Street.
    Uncle Lito scrambled out from behind the register and went to the door. By