One afternoon I broke into my husband’s computer. Little ol’ me vs his company’s firewall-this, password-protected-that. First time I’m seen the firewall, I got scared, had to catch myself. But come on, girl, quit micin, quick Thank You to Lord Jesus & I’m in. 1st I couldn’t believe it. Ya girl’s staring at the screen with my hands over my cheeks, whispering Bye-no-bye, bye-no-bye!! In the BRMS network, this little worker bee found some vicked booster rockets!
Can’t think of any problem I couldn’t solve from there. It’s like the world spread itself out below me, a living map that I can change just by pushing a few buttons. The hackers’ world is a shadow of the eyes’ & ears’ world. Hidden behind it, lurking almost in plain sight, & at the same time distant, above everything else. That other world can turn this one upside down without even really touching it.
I went deeper but not too deep. Scared to stay long. Cyberspace don’t run on Bermuda Time! But I was too long anyway. Too much time being scared & then giggling when I wasn’t scared. Martin didn’t catch me, Honey didn’t notice nothing. It was that other one, the new girl with the lightning tattooed on her head, the white-hat hacker on Martin’s team. White-hat cuz what she does is legal (she says). She saw me. She knew right where I was.
Poor Martin came home all up a tree. I watched him run around to all the windows & wiggle the doorknobs, peeking in the keyholes cuz he thought somebody broke into our house. Or the cleaning lady stole the laptop I take with me every day & taught herself Python. Poor Honey, he was all over the place. I felt bad, stupid, vexed, scared again, & at the same time, I don’t know, maybe the tension was too much, maybe I sorta wanted to see what he would say.
“Honey, it was me, all right?”
“What was you?”
“In your computer.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was, Honey. I’m sorry.”
“But you don’t know how.”
“Well, yeah I do.”
“No you don’t. The person who did this used a very sophisticated programming language.”
“Honey, you can learn that stuff online. Just ask that child with the squiggle drawing on her head.”
My husband looked at me like I was something weird in the Aquarium. More than anything else, I think he was floored by the idea that I could learn something he’d call “sophisticated.” But the weird look only lasted a second.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at anything confidential.”
Not much, anyway. But Martin got all vexed. He went into that mode that could’ve made him a preacher. Poor Honey was tired, he’d been traveling a lot, & I guess he had a right to be disagreeable, but he even brought up Psalms 55 (going too far in my opinion) & wouldn’t let me get a word in. When he asked me why I did it, the man answered for me.
“Boredom, is that it?” He compared me to a kid trying to get attention.
“You’re being real unfair, you know that?”
“But I pay you every attention. Anything you want—”
Sigh! “It has nothing to do—”
“Then what does it have to do—”
“Nothing. I said I was just looking.”
“What, pray tell, were you looking for?”
Well, I wasn’t looking for a fight. Our first in years, I was thrown right off my track. One good thing about the Psalms, they gave me time to think. Lord, take note. I spoke not a single lying word.
“A client told me, well, it’s just a rumor. HSBC’s into asset management & CAM, which Kenji’s family—”
“I’m aware who owns Caines Asset Management, & they wouldn’t dare. HSBC wouldn’t either.”
“The competition between them is really—”
“No it isn’t. HSBC is a bank. CAM is not a bank. CAM invests. Nabilah, what you heard is gossip. You’re blowing it out of proportion. It’s not your fault, you’re just mixed up. You’re mixing up whatever this person said—”
“I’m not stupid, Martin.”
“Then you know you should’ve ASKED instead of breaking into my system. You want to worry about somebody, what about me? What about the security of my company’s systems & the data that belongs to those who depend on us for confidentiality?”
Well, ya girl said more Sorrys than I can count, I promised I’d never ever do it ever again, I’d stop pretending to be a hacker forever & ever. Then I spilled some tears. Honey didn’t notice they were hot & frustrated. We made up. Haven’t quarreled since. I’m writing this down to remind myself of what I learned. & cuz you gotta write it down before you can shred it.
Maybe it wasn’t smart to mention CAM. After that I had to steer M away from K. For some reason I thought about the guy who was steering the Sea Venture when that hurricane drove her into razor-sharp rocks. I’ve asked Jesus why I thought about that guy. I still don’t understand since what I’m dealing with is really a much simpler thing. Like driving 2 bumper cars at the same time.
Oh, & here’s what I learned from this little adventure:
1. Proxy server’s not enough. Gotta mask in layers. Masks for the masks, shadows for the shadows, hiding places for the hiding places.
2. Finish praying 1st. Never hesitate.
Next time, I didn’t get caught. Or the time after that or anytime after that. I hacked Kenji’s computer too & found drafts of things he’ll never finish, some of them just a few lines, poor Baby. This acegirl’s ringin, as they say.
GIRT BIG bonus for M this quarter, yessai! So proud of him. Great night celebrating @ Lido, Elbow Beach. Talked about upgrading to BMW. Walked on beach hand in hand under stars. I made him make out with me, nobody around, mussing up his tie to tease him, Honey didn’t like that but didn’t want to stop either, that’s what makes it so funny! So happy for my Martin. Keep telling him you don’t have to worry so much, everybody loves you down that place. You go Honey! We’re movin on up.
& when he finally realizes he’s got a hacker (!) “on the outside” that he can trust to help him find the answers that much faster, even for shadowy questions he don’t dare ask out loud? Well, you just wait & see, those lot gonna be begging to hand him a Directorship.
“Did Aetna Simmons have a criminal record?”
Not the same thing, n.b., as being a criminal.
“No,” said Javon.
“Why didn’t you say that in our last meeting?”
Shuffling of papers. Shuffling in seat.
“You said you didn’t find any photographs. So why did you send me one?”
“It was in the file.”
“Ten suicide notes. That’s what you told the press. You sent me nine notes and a photograph.”
Shuffle, shuffle. Looking down at fingers clinging together. Disconsolate eyes, lacking focus. Rounded posture, barely able to prevent himself from curling up and sobbing until dehydration made him quit.
Hallelujah withdrawal. I treated him to a smile and spoke slowly.
“Nine notes. And a photograph.”
“That’s what we got.”
“I had to surmise that the photograph is a suicide note in an alternate form. Would you agree?”
“I don’t know, I guess so. Look, man, I sent you everything I could find, I swear.”
Since he was about to cry, I let it go. Bleeding heart that I am.
Javon sighed, “Man, that shit you gave me.”
“Crucial, innit.”
“It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful shit I ever had.”
“It’s called Hallelujah.”
“Hallelujah.”
“Hundred bucks a pill.”
“Fack.” He shook his head, helpless and woebegone.
“Did Saltus double-check these Clocktower people?”
“Say what?”
&nbs
p; “Clocktower Insurance. Their name’s on her W-2.”
“Double you who?”
People tell me I’m impatient. For the life of me, I don’t know where they get that.
“That form you gave me? Remember? With her writing on the back? That form means Aetna Simmons worked for Clocktower Insurance. Sure, maybe it was sometime in the past. I mean, they’re in New York and she was living here. But still, they must have records. So why would they act like Saltus pulled her name out of nowhere? He didn’t press the point?”
Nervous titter. “Well, if we were looking for an actual perpetrator, then yeah, sure, he would’ve.”
“How do you know you shouldn’t be looking? Did he get a psychologist to analyze those suicide notes? What about a forensic document examiner?”
Tight smile eking toward grimace. Javon leaned over his desk as though in preparation for a juicy secret.
“Kenji, how about spotting me a couple pills. I got fifty bucks on me right now, but I can—”
“You do realize it’s possible to fake a suicide note.”
Mind-blowing. Stupendous. “That don’t even make sense. The woman killed herself. She said so.”
“You sure Clocktower never heard of her, Javon? The woman worked for them, you know.”
He made a face. Like I’d asked him to define the categorical imperative. So he wasn’t lying. But Clocktower? They’d heard of her all right. They just didn’t want to say so. And no one felt like making them.
“Kenji, what’s the deal? Why do you give a shit? She’s dead. I’m alive, man. I’m right here. A paying customer.”
“Paying? You call fifty dollars paying? What do you think I’m running, some kind of special financing bullshit? Installment plans are for poor people.” (Note: installment plans should head the list of unacceptable payment methods. Who else but that idiot would’ve come up with that crap?)
I really think a couple tears showed up in his eyes. “Kenji? Have you ever been on Hallelujah while you’re listening to Kenny G? I swear on God’s good name it’s the most beautiful thing I ever did in my whole life. It was like being in church but with a lot of beautiful women singing and being nice.”
I should’ve laughed. I wanted to, but I’m too considerate. “Let’s talk about Mrs. Trimm. Aetna’s landlady. Tell me what her statement had to say.”
Soggy eyes on the desk. Idgit’s whole body rocking back and forth. “She said she was quiet and paid her rent.”
“Were those her words? Why don’t you get out the file and read me her exact words.”
There were files all over the place. You’d think Aetna’s would’ve been among them. I mean it’s not like I dropped by unannounced.
But Javon said, “It’s missing.”
“Javon, it’s a police file. This is the police station.”
“I know. It’s just—the hard copy I had the other day? It wasn’t where it should be. You know, with the other files. And the sign-out book didn’t say nothing. And the computer version’s gone like it was never there.”
“So you let me drive out here for no reason.”
“I thought if I could remember or it showed up again—”
“Haven’t I always done you right, Javon?”
“Yes. Yes, Kenji, absolutely.”
“This is how you repay me? You lure me here on false pretenses so you can bullshit me and rob me blind?”
Squirm, shuffle, shuffle. Beginning to sweat.
I got up to leave. It never occurred to me that he might’ve confessed to other cops and sold me out. He hadn’t done that, of course. He never will. He’s in love with Hallelujah and the keys to her boudoir belong to me.
“Wait. I didn’t know you’d have those kinds of questions. Specific like that,” he said.
“So what. If my questions weren’t specific, you’d have made shit up to tell me?”
“No. Please, I swear.” On the threshold of his office, he even grabbed my arm.
The door was partly open. I disengaged myself and shut it. What if someone had been walking by?
“Until you get me that file, we have nothing to say to one another. Prices are non-negotiable. Payment due in full upon receipt. Cash.”
And do you know that motherfucker called me that same night? No file, just a thousand dollars. I was on my own.
Imagine Big Ben but smaller. It’s drawn in navy blue lines. Each of the round faces has different amounts of yellow and purple shading. The tower rotates once every five seconds, so the effect is of the moon in four different phases. Except the moon’s trapped in the tower with the hands of a clock etched into it.
This is the logo for Clocktower, Inc. They sell life insurance and health insurance. In other words, they take your monthly premiums and give you nothing in return unless you die or are variously maimed. I’m not going to list the contents of their website which, for anyone excited by insurance, is nothing short of riveting. It would be a crime not to let it speak for itself.
What it doesn’t tell you is how Clocktower came to be worth billions. People must die now and again. Yet the company’s share price is astronomical. You’d think dividends were their only expenses. They also don’t tell you who runs the place. I mean it looks like all there is to Clocktower is five people. “Chief” people like Jim J. Falk, Chief Risk Officer and Executive Vice President. One would assume, since you can buy Clocktower’s insurance anywhere in the US and file a claim almost anywhere in the world, that Jim has at least a couple underlings. I did learn that women hold twenty-four percent of Clocktower’s executive positions and thirty-two percent of their recent hires were people of color.
Not that I was prepared to write off the Internet as a resource, especially since it was the only one I had, but in hours of scrolling and messing with search terms, Google made few interesting contributions. One was an image from some issue of The Bottom Line, a business magazine by the makers of our Royal Gazette.
Interesting really isn’t the right word. Disturbing would be better. Even brain-curdling. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.
On the evergreen lawn of Bacardi’s Pitts Bay Road headquarters, the fountains do all kinds of things from geometric dances to impersonations of delicate forests. The building itself is a stone and glass structure inspired by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. From across the street, it resembles a crouching animal about to spring, perhaps a scarab or a headless sphinx; and when the lights come on at night beneath the trapezoidal cascades flanking the shaded terrace, swaddled in dark glass and crowned by Bacardi’s golden bat, the place is like the entrance to a city of tombs stuffed with treasure. It’s easy to see why the Association of Bermuda International Companies chose Bacardi to host its annual dinner.
I’ve visited Bacardi many times. They ask me to attend all their glitzy events, especially when bored, cranky, thrill-seeking, or singularly rich bigwigs descend from the heavens abroad. Usually I oblige them. But never the ABIC dinner. Martin goes to ABIC dinners and parades his wife around in glittery outfits.
Little did I know these dinners were more hazardous still, oh yes, more perilous even than Mrs. Furbert in a gown without a back.
You can see I’m having difficulty coming to the point. The point is Jim J. Falk of Clocktower Insurance underneath the golden bat. He and another man, happily intoxicated, press champagne upon a black-clad woman. She abstains, of course she does, faced with The Bottom Line’s inquisitive camera. Her smile is the glint of diamantine fangs. The men are some of the masticated morsels which have become the leather in her Gorgonian wings.
Jim Falk, Barrington Caines. And the dragon is Masami.
I don’t remember what I googled, the whole thing is too distressing. I shut down my computer, rebooted, did the search again. It didn’t help. She was still there. So was the man who, whether he knew it or not, had paid a lot of money to a certain “consult
ant.” Also the dimwit who tries to forget he’s my father.
It was ever a surprise to come upon this man in the house where those who share my DNA, including him, once lived. Only when Masami was in the room would I bother with Good morning, otousan; ohayou gozaimasu, esteemed paternal entity. Which after a while embarrassed him, so he stopped noticing it. Whereupon I quit noticing him too. Since he never came to my defense even once, I consider him as good as null, not even null and void; void implies too much potential, void has actual philosophical significance. He might as well have not been in that picture. Had it just been him and Jim, I would’ve scrolled on by. The operative figure was Masami. The operative was always Masami.
I became convinced that Masami must be some kind of ikiryou, a poltergeist driven out of its living body by the demonic compulsion to make someone else’s life a living hell. After all, Masami doesn’t believe in destiny. What happens to you is your own responsibility, she says. A person dies in a moped accident because he was dumb enough to buy a moped, not because of bad luck, which incidentally doesn’t exist except in sniveling excuses. So unless the Masami in that picture is an ikiryou who feeds on nothing but vengeance and hatred and exists with no other purpose but to torment me, Masami and Falk stuck themselves in front of that camera to flaunt their relationship. A relationship which at least indirectly includes Aetna Simmons.
I put my money on the living-ghost scenario. Why? Because it made that photo impossible. And it only stood to reason that the photo was impossible. What reason? Aetna was mine. My opportunity. Masami would not use her to entangle me in poison-coated wings. On that point I was determined. I tried to forget the photo.
My nightmares wouldn’t let me.
I’m sure his momma keeps him busy, but still. Kenji’s little brother’s been coming round Bull’s Head. Looking for him. First time was a Thursday, Baby wasn’t in. It was lunchtime, M & I were going to Harbourfront, so Erik didn’t get to tell me what he wanted. I figured he’d call K himself, & he did, but Baby didn’t answer. He kept not answering all weekend. I know this cuz E came back the following Friday (Baby not in). Now, 1st of all, Iesha answers when I call/text her, but if she can’t, if she’s got dinner on the stove or something, she is not gonna leave me hanging all weekend! But men are different. Sigh. Those 2 have never done right by each other. So on the Friday, I took E to lunch. I thought if all he needed was to get stuff off his chest, maybe I could help & he wouldn’t have to wait on K.
Drafts of a Suicide Note Page 5
