In the Unlikely Event... (11 page)

Dewey peered down at the handcuffs. “Oh, my, it’s a Santini.”

Huey nodded.

“Is that a bad thing?” Chase asked, feeling the panic arise again at the prospect of spending the rest of her life imprisoned in a library chair courtesy of her best friend. She did find satisfaction knowing Lacey would be furious and worse, frustrated by Chase’s escape. Fury, Lacey could handle. Frustration was an entirely new beast for Lacey since opening the Institute. Lacey hated when things didn’t go her way, and Chase’s defection would rate high on Lacey’s list of transgressions. So far as Chase knew there were only two other people who had qualified for inclusion on the list. The first one was the attractive Asian plumber who had come as a volunteer to teach household plumbing to a class of do-it-yourself lesbians as part of the curriculum for Empowerment. DIY could not only save a homeowner money, but it was a source of pride and self-reliance. The plumber, during a demonstration, had dismantled the first floor restroom sinks and flooded the Vegetarians’ kitchen because she neglected to turn off the water to the restroom, and this had not been the worst of it—the plumber was a fraud. After checking her records, Lacey had discovered the farce.

The other incident also involved the Vegetarians’ kitchen. Which made them wonder if they weren’t being picked on, facilitating another discussion group-panel thing in which the Vegetarians aired their grievances about the general hostility toward non-meat eaters living in a carnivorous world.

The debacle as Chase remembered it revolved around the slipping of lard into the Mexican food entrée and real hamburger being substituted for soy crumbles in the chili. This was done by a new cook who had also faked her credentials. Her goal was revenge. Her girlfriend had dumped her for a vegetarian, citing that she couldn’t possibly share bodily fluids with a person who was stewing in animal flesh. The ex-girlfriend had been making the rounds of lesbian communes and restaurants like a Typhoid Mary of meat, spreading “bit-o-meat,” as the woman called it, “into those creepy, hemp-wearing, Birkenstock-shod lentil heads.”

After these two debacles, Lacey was as thorough as an FBI agent when she screened potential candidates for the Institute. This helped the employment-related debacles, but not the residence-related incidents. Yes, Chase thought the Institute was suffering some cracks.

“Well, Steve Santini is the master inventor of handcuffs and is renowned for making handcuffs that are virtually impossible to get out of,” Dewey said.

“He published a book,
Devices of Human Restraint,
in which he describes the history of restraints, and the book includes many of his own inventions,” Huey said.

“Your particular handcuff is a Hiatt Hinge with a spring-loaded key cover,” Dewey said.

These guys do not talk like thugs, Chase thought. What? Did thugs go to Harvard now?

“What’s so unusual about the Hiatt?” Bud said.

“Handcuffs have what is known as a ‘universal’ key, but the Hiatt key cover requires that you have two keys because the key hole is covered by a sliding metal shield,” Huey said.

“This means that you have to hold that part open while using the other key to open the lock,” Dewey said.

“Oh,” Bud said.

“Let’s get her inside so Louie can take a good look at them,” Dewey said.

“This isn’t something you guys can do?” Chase asked. Huey and Dewey with their equally squeaky voices no longer intimidated her, but what about this guy, Louie—master criminal and mobster?

“The Hiatt requires a steady hand and a unique set of tools to re-create the key that we do not possess,” Huey said.

Dewey nodded his agreement.

“I thought you guys said there was a universal key?” Chase said.

“There is, but unfortunately this set has been rekeyed,” Huey said.

“I’m going to fucking kill Lacey when I get out,” Chase said. She glanced up. “I mean figuratively.”

They picked up Chase and carried her inside like a Maharani with her entourage following. Passing through the house, Chase noticed the expensive bronze sculptures of Indians, bears, elk and the like—massive pieces that lined the tiled hallway that led to Louie-the-mobster’s den of iniquity. Chase glanced over her shoulder at Gitana, who smiled at her with her we-can-do-this look. Chase felt like smiling back with her we-wouldn’t-be-in-this-situation-if-I-didn’t-have-a-lunatic-for-a-best-friend look.

“Huey?” Bud asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Do you think Louie might show me some tricks of the trade? I am, by no means, denigrating his skills as a master in his field of expertise—I am certain that the picking of locks has a long history. But what one man or person, I’m sure it is predominantly a male-dominated field, can lock, so another can unlock.”

Dewey looked at Huey and then said, “I am a great admirer of fellow savants. I would be most pleased to inquire on your behalf.”

Chase frowned at Bud, who shrugged. Who the hell were these two? They looked like Sopranos, talked liked Alvin and the Chipmunks and were overeducated. No wonder they didn’t fit in with the other mobsters. “Did you guys go to Harvard or something?” Chase said.

“We attended Harvard followed by two years at Oxford,” Dewey said.

“Actually,” Huey said, “there have been some very good women pickers throughout history. Women are not as noticeable. People don’t expect them to be—”

Donna gave him a warning look.

“Engaged in unlocking things,” he finished.

Dewey took it up. “Some women reached the pinnacle of the trade, picking some difficult locks as well as becoming safecrackers, which is by far the most difficult lock to pick, as well as having the highest monetary gain.”

Donna forgot to be taciturn about her relatives’ job description.
“Really, I didn’t know there were women safecrackers.”

“Can we Google them?” Bud asked.

“Of course. Ah, the beauty of the Internet,” Dewey said.

The discussion might have continued had they not come to the end of the corridor and a massive set of ornately carved wooden doors.

“Donna, can you get the door?” Dewey said.

“Sure,” she said and touched a certain piece of scrollwork on the door’s frame. The buzzer sounded and the doors opened.

It was something akin to the parting of the Red Sea, and damned if Louie-the-mobster didn’t look like Moses with his mane of silky silver hair—only he wasn’t wearing a roughly woven robe. Instead, Louie wore a red velour running suit with a thick gold chain with a gold skeleton key around his neck.  He looked like an aged gansta rapper. Louie noticed Chase staring at the key as he introduced himself as Louie Salvatore.

Louie fingered it. “You like it? It was a retirement present from the boys.”

Chase nodded. “It’s very nice.”

Louie smiled and then studied Chase. “You know, Chase, I’ve read all your Shelby McCall mystery books—I’m a big fan. When Donna asked me if I could help, well, I have to admit I was excited that I was going to meet one of my favorite authors and as you can see,” he said, stretching his arms out to illustrate his point, the room was full of books and artwork, “I am a patron of the arts.”

Chase smiled, thinking at least he was a fan—that had to count for something.

“After I get you out of this—I would appreciate it if you would grant me one favor.”

Chase considered. What if he wanted her to hand over her firstborn child as payment? Bud would be raised as a mobster and with her brains she would become the criminal’s criminal—a mastermind of all things devious. Or did he want Chase to pose as some fancy art collector to distract one of the gallery owners in town so Louie and his gang of criminals could crack the safe? This was unlikely, she thought. In the electronic age, no one had gobs of cash stuffed in safes. It was all in Geneva or the Cayman Islands along with Mitt Romney’s money.

“Of course, she will,” Donna said, giving Chase a pointed look.

“I’d be glad to, Mr. Salvatore,” Chase said.

“Louie, please call me Louie,” he said, spreading out his large hands as if in supplication.

Chase wondered how a picker of locks could have such large hands—locks were small, except maybe locks on back of semi-trucks or bank safes. She would have gone on thinking about locks had it not been for Bud’s intervention.

“Would you like Chase to sign your books?” Bud inquired.

Louie looked flustered and blushed. “I would, very much,” he said, glancing at Chase.

“You get me out of this chair and I’ll autograph anything,” she said, her hopes of release rising.

Louie rubbed his hands together. “Perfect.” He ordered Huey to retrieve his tools and Dewey to set up lights so he could better see what he was doing. “We will have you out of this in no time.”

“See, no worries,” Donna said as she and Gitana sat down on one of the Italian leather sofas.

Bud stood by Chase.

“Are you standing by for moral support?” she asked.

“No, I want to see how he does it,” Bud said.

“Really?” Chase said.

“Since when does a person get the opportunity to see a master at work?” Bud said, her eyes gleaming with the overexcited look of the eager accolyte.

Louie smiled benevolently. “I would be pleased. You know, I don’t have anyone to pass this on to.”

“No,” Chase said. “I mean, Bud already has a lot of homework, and I don’t know when she would use such a skill.”

“We could have used it today. If I knew how to procure your freedom we wouldn’t have had to carry you around in a chair,” Bud said.

Chase gave her the I-am-an-adult look despite being cuffed to a chair.

Bud hung her head. “I apologize for my disrespectful tone of voice, but can’t I at least watch?”

Chase deliberated. “All right. It might come in handy in case this handcuffing-to-a-chair thingy is Lacey’s modus operandi when dealing with dissidents.”

“I think we should contact Amnesty International,” Gitana said.

Chase heard Louie’s labored breathing behind her as he held the small Maglite between his teeth and peered into the recesses of the lock. “Piece of cake.”

Donna, who’d risen to peer over his shoulder, said, “So you can do it? I knew you could.” She kissed his cheek.

Bud watched as Louie inserted tools, carefully opening the spring-loaded side and using a blunt-ended tool the width of a tongue depressor to keep it open while he picked the other lock. In less than two minutes the cuff was undone.

Chase leapt up, hugged Louie and then stretched her back. “I hate that chair.” She gave it a little kick. She noticed Louie giving Bud explicit instructions on how to unlock the cuffs. She looked over at Gitana and Donna who were also listening—what, now the entire household excluding herself would be lock pickers? Then she remembered Lacey. Hmm…maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It would serve Lacey right. They would know how to free other dissidents.

Chase signed Louie’s books and they said their goodbyes. In the car, Chase rode shotgun due to her ordeal and her propensity for motion sickness. She studied Donna as they pulled out of the compound. “Are there any other skeletons in your closet that we should know about?”

“Suffice it to say, that was the worst one,” Donna said.

Somehow that didn’t make Chase feel better.

“I like Louie,” Bud said, examining her new set of lock-picking tools and peering into the depths of the handcuff.

“Please don’t grow up to be a criminal,” Chase said.

“I won’t unless the economy is bad and I can’t find legitimate work.”

Chase whipped around in her seat.

“I’m kidding.”

Chase hit the Ignore button on her cell phone. She scanned her call log. Lacey had tried to reach her four hundred and eleven times in a twenty-four-hour period.

“How many times an hour has she called you?” Gitana asked.

Chase took a calculator from the cubbyhole in the kitchen marked neatly with a laminated tag that read, “Math Implements” and did the math. “To be exact, 17.125 calls per hour.”

Gitana’s math skills were not impeded like those of Chase, whose right brain refused to perform any task that involved numbers—a flashback to her algebra days where the “x” and the “y” thingies were a constant torture. She said, “Wow, that’s four hundred and eleven calls per day.” She didn’t need a calculator.