Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 01

I'd like to thank Lastman for the notes and recommendations. I like to work on smaller, episodic stories while I'm working on the larger Criminal Affair detective stories. These come out monthly and I try to release the detective stories quarterly.

The annual awards voting is ongoing right now, so if able, be sure to go to the forums and vote for your favorites.

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Tuesday - April 5, 2021

A circle of people sit on fold out chairs in a room of the Grace United Methodist Church. They each take a turn, going on long diatribes about progress and relapses. The father who promised his kids a trip to a theme park but lost the money betting on sports. The second-grade teacher who resisted the urge to buy four hundred dollars of scratch offs. The lawyer who used his firm's expense card at the casino. One by one we discuss victories and defeats.

We started the meeting like all the others. The organizer leads us in a prayer, and we recite the twelve steps. Any anonymous meeting goes the same way. Alcohol, narcotics, and gambling.

This week, I managed to not go to a poker game. Small victories. It was a small buy in, only fifty dollars. I probably could have made it. I should have gone. I could have gotten out if I lost and not bought back in. Are they having another game next week?

"Lisa, care to share this week?" Theo asks. He's leading the group, a recovered addict himself. He gambled away his kid's college fund. Forty-seven thousand on black.

My name isn't Lisa, but this is anonymous after all.

"I passed on a game this week. Holdem. Fifty buy in. Said I needed to work, which I did, but that usually doesn't stop me," I say, and the room applauds. I give an uncomfortable smile and look at my toes. "All I want to do right now is call and ask if there's a game next week."

"Letting go of gambling is hard because it's FOMO. Fear of missing out. One more hand. One more bet. All I needed to do was play one more time and I would have won. It's always just one more hand, but it never is, is it?"

Some of my fellow gamblers stay behind for coffee and conversation, but I don't. I leave the second we're done and cross Avenue B to the gravel parking lot. When I reach the other side the parking lot I dig a pack of cigarettes out of my purse and pull one out by pinching the filter with my lips. Before I light, I see someone leaning against my car. I sigh and slide the cigarette back into the pack.

"You're surveilling me now?" I ask the detective.

Detective Miles Deacon is one persistent sonofabitch. The moment you land on his radar, he bites down like a bulldog and doesn't let go. He keeps it casual in jeans and a button up shirt beneath a black leather jacket. He's off duty, otherwise his shield would be visible on a lanyard around his neck. A veteran officer who has likely been a cop longer than I've been alive. Salt and pepper hair, but more salt than pepper. Even his 70s pornstar stash has gone grey.

"Just in the neighborhood. Saw your car. Figured I'd say hi," he says, adjusting himself to cross his arms. "You think about what I told you?"

"I'm sticking with I don't know what you're talking about," I say and try to step around him. He takes a step to the side, blocking my door. "Unless I'm under arrest, let me in my car."

"You're running out of time darling," he says.

"I'm not your fucking darling."

"Gambling debt I take it?" he asks.

"Move," I demand.

"Four homes were broken into last month. Talented group doing it. They get in, they get out. You know what the properties all had in common?"

"Move."

"They all patronaged the lock smithing services of Lady Smith Lock and Key. Curious coincidence."

"If you had more than a coincidence, we wouldn't be having this conversation in a parking lot," I say. "Get the fuck out of my way."

Miles takes a step away and opens the car door for me. I groan and sit in my car, him closing the door a second later. He knocks on the window, and I turn the crank to lower the window just an inch. My car is so old it still has a crank.

"You don't need to wear a wire. Just tell me what they're hitting and where, and I'll hit them back," he says, and I crank the window pack up.

I don't wait for him to leave before I pull out of the spot and drive toward the exit. When I turn onto the road, I roll down the window and finally light my cigarette.

--

My shitty apartment is waiting for me. The kind you'd be excused for believing it was a shitty motel. Close to the underpass and immediately off the highway exit. The sweet sounds of traffic. When I step out of my car, I crush the butt under the heel of my foot. I look both ways before opening my trunk and removing the tools from my car. My pick set, key fob programmers, drills, bump hammer, the works. No way in hell I leave this stuff in my car overnight.

It's heavy, and every night I struggle to bring it up to my apartment on the second floor. I place the bag on the ground, use my key to open my door, and walk inside. I'm across the threshold when my phone rings. I'm advertised to work until nine, and it's nine thirty. It's a number that isn't in my contacts.

"Lady Smith Lock and Key," I say after putting the phone on speaker so I can use my other hand to drag the bag past the door.

"I'm locked out. Broke the key in the door. Could use a good drill," a male voice says. His voice is shaky, like he's not sure if he has the right number or is asking for the right thing.

"Single cylinder is a hundred. Double cylinder is two," I say.

"It's a double."

The man gives me the address over the phone, and I write it down on a sticky note I place on my mirror as I change and freshen up. I find my best cocktail dress I can wear without a bra, slide off my normal panties and drag up a black thong. Deodorant and a spray of perfume. I look at myself in the mirror, and practice making a sexy face.

My cheeks are so red, I always look like I'm blushing. Pale skin doesn't help. My light brown hair is held together with a ponytail, but I let it loose and brush it straight. In the right light, I'm almost a blonde. When free it completely covers my breasts. Not big, not small, but a healthy handful of perfect symmetry. A jealous friend once said they remained perky in defiance of gravity.

I take the sticky note off the mirror and exit my apartment, locking it behind me. The GPS tells me it's a hotel, and I start driving. Twenty minutes later I pull into the parking lot and look at myself in the visor mirror. I apply lipstick and pucker to make sure it's even. I walk through the lobby of the hotel and straight to the elevator. Third floor. Room 317. I knock on the door and wait.

A man opens the door and looks down the hall both ways before letting me in. Is he looking for a cop or his wife? His gold ring shines against the overhead lights of the room. There is a single bed in the room and a computer open on the desk. Excel spreadsheets with what looks like accounting information. His suit jacket is hung up on the back of the shower door. Overall, he has a traveling businessman look, wanting that away from home fling.

"Ground rules. Money up front. No anal. No kissing. You wear a condom, no negotiation," I say, and he nods. He goes to his jacket and removes his wallet. He hands me ten crisp and freshly withdrawn twenty-dollar bills. I count it and put it in my purse.

"How do you want me?" I ask.

"I don't know. Not sure how this works," he says nervously. He's never done this before. He's probably in a rough patch with his wife and this is something he thinks she'll never find out.

"What does your wife not do?" I ask and think for a moment. "Besides anal."

"I can't remember the last time I got head. She doesn't do doggy," he stammers.

"You can have all that and more. The hour is all yours. You come, if you get it back up in that time frame you just go again," I say, and turn my back to him. "Help a lady out." He undoes my zipper, and I let the dress fall to the floor. He's on the clock now. He kisses my shoulder, and I turn around, and softly push his head back. "No kissing."

"I figured you only met lips," he says.

"I could make an exception for the other pair," I tease and grab his belt. He jumps a little, bumping my purse off the table. The contents spill out, but I ignore for the time being. "You sure you want to do this?"

"I do."

"I'm getting mixed signals," I say.

"My wife and I, it's..." he starts, but I place my index finger to his lips to shut him up.

"Stop thinking," I say. I walk to the bed and position myself on all fours. I reach under my body and between my legs. The thong is moved, giving him an inviting view of my pussy. I peel myself open to make it more enticing. "All yours."

The man just stares at me for several seconds, and I roll to my back to look back at him more comfortably. The thong is still tucked to the side, so he's still getting that perfect view.

"I hate to sound like your supervisor, but your hour has started."

"I just found out my wife was cheating on me. Part of me wants, payback, I guess," he says. He sits down on the desk chair and puts his head in his hands. Normally my Johns don't talk this much. This is weird, and even I'm uncomfortable for this man. "Can we just talk?"

"Your hour," I say. Great, now I'm a therapist.

His name is Matt, and he's been married for fifteen years. He recently found out his wife had several affairs. One of these affairs overlaps with the conception of their second child. He wants a paternity test, but he doesn't. He loves his daughter and has been nothing but her father for seven years. It's hard to question something that he used to be so certain of. What if Rosemary isn't his biological daughter? Does he just stop being her father? Does it erase all those memories?

I took the bathrobe while he talked, figuring modesty made this conversation a little less unusual. Nothing like vetting your fears and frustrations to your escort. A half hour passes and Matt offers me a drink.

"I have to drive after this, and I also don't take drinks from clients. Nothing against you, but if you're going to do something stupid, be smart about it," I say, and he understands. He makes himself a Jack and Coke from the minifridge. He retakes his seat and drinks a hearty gulp.

"Half hour left," I say, and he looks up at me. "Just saying."

"I have to be the saddest fucker you've ever seen," Matt says between sips.

"You're not the first guy I've had change his mind when I get there. You're the first who talked for the first half hour. Everyone has something."

"What's your name?" he asks, and I shake my head and giggle. "No names either?"

"Lady Smith is the most anyone gets."

"You can keep the full price. I don't know what I was thinking," he says. Matt picks up my dress from the floor and extends it out to me. I shimmy off the bed and take it from him. He turns around as I drop the robe and redress.

"Help a lady out again," I request. He looks over his shoulder cautiously, and sees I'm asking to be zipped up. He hands me my purse I dropped earlier, and I take a quick peek inside to get idea if he got everything. "Can I just say something?" He nods. "Who taught Rose how to ride a bike? Tucked her in? Held her as she cried? Scared away the boogiemen in the closet? You did. If that's not a father, I don't know what is."

I say nothing more and leave the room. When I get back to my car, I lean against the seat and laugh. What the fuck just happened?

--

Wednesday - April 6, 2021

My phone rings and scares me awake. I catch my breath, and squint from the light coming through my blinds. Groaning, I rub my hands down my face and roll on my shoulder to the night stand. Number, not a name.

"Lady Smith Lock and Key," I answer, trying to hide the grogginess of my voice.

"Do you do lock installs?" a male voice asks.

"If you have the locks, I can. I have a small inventory of locks if not. What kind you looking to install?"

"Medeco M4," he says, and I nearly curse over the phone.

"Dang, that's some serious security there."

"Seriously expensive things need serious security," he replies with a jovialness to his voice. "Take it you're familiar with it?"

"Yes sir, I am," I say, and start getting dressed. Expensive locks mean big pay. "How many you looking to install?"

"Four exterior doors. Interior doors I'm just installing some cypher locks."

"Simplex, Schlage, Trilogy?" I ask, name dropping brands. Helps my credibility.

"Schlage," he says. "Box says FE575."

"Didn't want to jump for the 595?"

"Didn't like the curved handle," he humorously says. "You passed."

"What?" I ask.

"You passed. I went down the line of locksmiths when I searched on Google. You're the first one to actually sound like they know what they're talking about."

"Thanks. I think," I say, and laugh as well. "Address and time?"

The man gives me his information and I ask for his name. Lucas Justin. Something about people with two first names make me laugh. He asks I show up at two in the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to take other calls throughout the day. Not long after we end our call, they start coming in.

A woman locked her keys in her car in a grocery store parking lot. I ask the make and model of the car and research it while I make the trip. It lets me know which tools I'll need before I even get there. All I need is a small prying tool, a blood pressure sleeve, and my extender. When I arrive, I pry the door open just enough to slip in the sleeve. I pump air into the pressure sleeve, increasing the gap large enough to push my extender through. I flip the manual lock and open the door. The alarm goes crazy until the woman can get her keys.

She pays with a card I swipe on my Square, and she signs with her finger on my cellphone screen. I send her an email with the receipt and get another call ten minutes later. Man locked out of his home.

I ask the man to read the brand of the lock if visible. Kwikset. Easy lock, single cylinder. Just the pick set should do. I can crack that in ten seconds.

When I pull up he starts giving me the story of how it happened. A lot of people do this. Trying to create the reason they were stupid without having to say they were stupid. Apparently, he keeps his front door locked and enters through his garage door. His wife and him left at the same time, but she was going out of town for a few days. She had accidentally taken both garage door clickers. He returned home to grab his work laptop, otherwise he would have discovered the mistake later in the day.

It takes me less than ten seconds to open the lock, but the chain is still on. Simple fix and I have the tools in my car. With his permission, I snip one link, and bend it back with a pair of pliers. I request to take pictures of both sides of the door and explain it's for my protection against liability. Plenty of people try to claim I damaged their doors well after the fact. He has cash, and I send him a receipt via email.

I handle two more cars before noon and stop for lunch. It took me this long into the day to realize I didn't have my wallet on me. Thankfully, some customers paid in cash, so I get a slice of pizza from a local place and eat it in my car. I get another home lock out before two. Double cylinder, but it's no match for me. After that I start forwarding the callers to another smith. Before I drive over for the install, I go home and change. Normal calls I don't care how I look, but installs I tend to be there a minute, so try to look marginally more professional.

The job takes me to the industrial part of the city. Warehouses, utilities, and gas. The sign on the edge of the parking lot directs me toward a large steel building. I exit the vehicle and look at the signage. King's Chariot Luxury. A private driving service that picks up people who can afford drivers.

If I had to guess, this is a warehouse to service the vehicles.

I take the tools I think I'll need and make my way to what looks like the front door. With these buildings it's never clear which door is which. There is a posh waiting area with a large reception desk. One woman is manning a phone and is currently on a call via a headset. She's my age, mid-twenties, and seems to have made better decisions.

"Sorry about that," she says after touching her screen to end the call. Touch screen call service on the computer. Cool. "Do you have an appointment?"

"I do. Lady Smith Lock and Key. A Mr. Justin called," I say, and she checks her computer. From the reflection on her glasses, I see the colored tabs of a Microsoft outlook calendar.

"There you are. I'll give him a call and he'll be with you momentarily."

I look around for a seating area, but do not see one. The woman takes a call and I drum my fingers on the counter to pass the time. My phone rings, and I refer them to another smith. I drum my fingers more.

"Locksmith?" a voice asks. I turn to the voice while nodding.

Lucas Justin is a gorgeous man. I don't remember the last time a man made me feel like a schoolgirl with a crush the moment I saw him. Full suit and tie, tailor made and fitted to him personally. His hair is black and shiny, slicked back over his head with a few strands dangling down too cosmetically perfect to be an accident.

"That's me," I say, and he extends his hand out for a shake that I return.

"Lucas Justin," he replies. "What's your name?"

"Lady Smith is fine," I say. He seems to find that humorous and releases a light chuckle.

"Well then M'lady, let me show you what we're doing."

Lucas takes me to the first exterior door of the warehouse where he plans to have me install these locks. He leads me through a massive warehouse with dozens of cars in it. Luxury for sure. Several black Rolls-Royces. Many models of Mercedes from sport to SUV. Range Rovers. Pick a luxury car, they have it.

Mechanics are conducting basic maintenance on the vehicles. Oil changes. Tire changes and rotations. Engine checks. We walk out of the repair shop and into an equally large detail shop. Cars are getting vacuumed, leather is getting polished, and the exterior and getting washed clean. It's an impressive operation.

"I'm in the wrong business," I joke and he walks backwards for a moment to look at me.

"Not yet. Still hasn't made a profit," he says. I thought he was head of security until he said that. He sounds more like the CEO of the company.

"Serious?"

"Oh yeah. Most business don't get black on their books for the first few years of operations. You need capital to lease or buy the land, facilities, inventory, employees. You start in the hole. People always sneer trickledown economics, but don't know the first thing about how a business is actually started. My employees will get paid long before I ever see a profit, and I carry the risk if it fails. That's not including the people I paid to develop the land and build the structure."

I can relate to that. Not to his scale, but I acquired my tools and equipment piecemeal over two years. That cost me over ten thousand. Add a mild gambling addiction and you have a woman who is constantly worried about her next rent payment.

"Door number one," Lucas says, and opens it for me. I look at what I have to work with and start preplacing the tools in the order I need them. Before I start, I pull out my phone to take pictures of both sides. "What's that for?"

"Evidence that I didn't damage the door," I say, and slide the phone into my back pocket. "Not saying you will try to say I did later."

"Take it you get that a lot?"

"At least twice a week."

I remove the housing cylinder on the interior side and separate the cylinder from the mounting plate by sliding the spindles out. The screws holding the striker to the door are removed, and I slide out the deadbolt. Next the exterior housing cylinder is removed, and I start prepping to remove the handle. Similar process, and now the door has two holes ready for new parts.