Mickey accepted all sorts of clients. Some of his female clients asked Mickey to find out if their husbands were cheating on them. Usually they were, and Mickey always found out.
Mickey explained the back stairs to Henry like this: "We do our job. Sometimes our job makes people unhappy. I usually hear them coming, so the back stairs allow me to make a tactical retreat. They usually only have enough steam for one encounter. After that, they get a divorce or patch things up with their ladies. Either way, nobody gets hurt."
Henry smiled as he climbed the stairs. It was narrow, and each floor had a window which looked out on the alley. The windows were covered in grime, as the custodial staff never bothered with the secret stairs. When Henry got to the top, there was a slight landing and a door. It was locked. Henry took out his picks and let himself into Mickey's office.
The sound of the door closing behind him and the hollow echo it made struck a painful chord. The familiar was usually a comfort, except after the loss of a friend and mentor. Now it just stung.
Henry sat down behind the desk. It was cluttered with papers, racing forms, three coffee cups, and the March issue of Sport magazine. It featured Rocky Marciano on the cover, with the heading “Man of the Year.” There was an article about Leo Durocher, too, and a listing of the “U.S. College Coaches Select Basketball's All-Time All-Americans.” The look on Marciano's face seemed fake to Henry, like he was trying to act tough for the camera. Henry thought about how he was putting on a face now, while he looked for the man who ran down his friend.
Mickey loved boxing, almost as much as he loved baseball and betting the ponies. Though it was the current issue, the magazine had a worn look. No doubt it had been curled up and carried on a stakeout or two, joined him for lunch, and been read front to back several times. That is how Mickey did things. If he liked an article after he read it, he would mull it over for a while, then read it again. Mickey could almost see through the pages, right into the mind of the journalist, sitting ringside, taking notes. He could imagine the sights, sounds and smells of the match, as if he were in the squared circle himself. The writers who tried to bring all the senses into play, those were his favorites. It wasn't enough to know that the arena was smoke-filled - Mickey wanted his eyes to burn and to taste the cigars as he read.
Henry flipped through the pages and then tossed it back on the desk. He leaned back in Mickey's chair and tried to get into his old teacher's mind. Henry opened the notebook and looked at the last page, hoping to find a starting place, but he didn't do any better than he had at the diner. He looked in the right desk drawer and saw one of Mickey's lock pick sets. The leather case, worn from years of riding around in Mickey's pocket, sat there waiting for action.
Henry was taken back to his second week on the job. Mickey had called him into the office. Henry stood before the desk, cluttered in much the same way as it was now, and Mickey opened the very same right drawer and took out two sets of lock picks, the worn one and a brand new set, which he gave Henry.
"Sit down, let me explain how these work. You’re going to need to get into places where people would rather you didn't. These are your skeleton keys, as it were. Always keep them with you." He chuckled. Sometimes Mickey would laugh at things he said, just because. Some old inside joke, which he rarely shared.
After a short while of explaining how they worked, he had Henry practice on the secret door. It took Henry a while to get it right, but he finally got the hang of that lock. For the next week, Henry took the back stairs, up to the office, and opened the locked door with his picks. Mickey then had him try the three locks on the front door. Mickey had three different styles of locks, so it was a greater challenge. Another week and Henry had those down pat, too.
One morning, a few weeks later, Mickey made the coffee before Henry arrived. This was unusual, as he generally asked Henry do it first thing. They sat and talked. It was relaxed; Mickey didn't quiz him on anything, just two guys shooting the breeze. They finished one pot and Mickey made another. Henry was enjoying his bonding moment with his boss. Mickey had gotten up, said he was going to “meet a man about a horse,” and told Henry to wait there, as he was expecting a call. Henry sat there and drank his coffee while the boss visited the restroom.
When Mickey got back, he poured himself a tall glass of water, which was also unusual. The sound of the water made Henry realize he needed to excuse himself. "Sure thing, sport," Mickey said with a strange smile. Henry walked down the hall and slammed his face into the men's room door. Mickey had locked it. Henry called Mickey a bastard, ran back to get his picks, and then fumbled with the lock on the bathroom door for what seemed like a thousand years. When he got back to the office, that door was locked, too.