Double Security

The four blocks to the avenue passed under an autumn drizzle that soaked the shoulders of Natalia’s coat. Puddles gathered in the cracks of the asphalt, reflecting the gray sky above the tram tracks.

A brass bell clinked over the door when she stepped into the narrow shop.

The air smelled of machine oil, cold iron, and burnt sawdust. Blank keys hung on wire carousels along the walls, three thousand shapes of teeth waiting for a lock. Behind a zinc counter sat an older man in a blue jacket, filing the burr from a copper key.

He laid the file down on a leather pad.

“Afternoon,” he said.

“I need an exterior cylinder,” Natalia said.

Her voice sounded thin against the whir of an exhaust fan. Two fingers rose to the hollow between her collarbones before she dropped her hand to the counter.

“Rim or euro profile?”

“Euro,” she said. “For a pre-war door.”

She pulled a folded receipt from her pocket. On the back, she had sketched the lock face with pencil lines, noting the distance from the fixing hole: thirty millimeters on the inside, thirty-five on the street side.

The locksmith picked up the paper and held it under a desk lamp.

“Good measurements,” he said. “Most people guess wrong.”

He wiped his thumbs on his canvas apron and looked at her face. He took in the wet hair plastered to her temple and the pale line of her jaw.

“Single or double security?” he asked.

“Double,” Natalia said.

“You want drill-resistant pins, then. Hardened core.”

“Yes.”

He turned to a wooden rack of boxes behind the cash register. He pulled down a green box with German lettering, set it on the counter, and slit the tape with a thumbnail.

From inside, he drew a sealed pouch made of blue plastic.

He cut the top with shears and tipped it over the zinc. Five brass keys spilled across the metal with a sharp ring.

The sound echoed off the tin ceiling.

“Five copies,” he said. “Owner code card inside. Nobody cuts a blank without that card.”

Natalia looked at the brass teeth shining under the lamp. No duplicates existed in anyone’s coat pocket. No leather loops were attached to them.

“Do you have a screwdriver?” she asked.

“Flat or Phillips?”

“Both,” she said. “The center screw is long.”

The man reached under the shelf and brought out a yellow case containing a rubberized driver and ten steel bits. He set it beside the box of keys.

“Thirty-eight euros for the cylinder,” he said. “Nine for the driver.”

Natalia counted out three twenty-euro notes from her wallet and laid them flat on the counter.

He handed her thirteen euros in change. The metal coins clicked against each other in her cold palm.

“Do you know how to throw the cam?” he asked.

“Turn the key five degrees to line it up with the housing,” Natalia said.

The locksmith nodded once, his chin dropping toward his chest.

“Keep the door open while you test the turn,” he said. “Never close it until the bolt throws clean twice.”

“I will,” she said.

She gathered the five brass keys and slipped them back into the pouch. The heavy cylinder went into her coat pocket, pulling the fabric against her hip.

She picked up the yellow case and walked to the door.

Outside, the rain had settled into mist over the pavement. Natalia turned toward the corner, her fingers closed around the cold brass in her pocket.