by Lisa Libby
I hid Ava from my enemies, right under their noses. I rented an apartment across the river from the Irish in the city of Cambridge. If you want to hide from your enemies, move next door. I hired a babysitter at night to be able to continue my work with the Mob. I needed to maintain some normalcy so nobody would ask questions. One morning, I was stopping at the store to pick up some formula and diapers when I bumped into Mary. Growing up, Mary lived down the street from me and when I did go to school, I’d see her in class. She was a nerd, and her parents were strict. She wasn’t allowed to play outside. Even with her thick tonic bottle glasses, she was a pretty girl, but far out of my league.
“Jimmy… Jimmy Coonan?”
“Mary, ya parents know you outta tha house?”
“My parents are dead.”
“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry, I was just … just makin’… never mind, how the heck ah ya?”
“Okay, I guess. I just lost my job, so things are tough.”
Her eyes begin to water.
“Hey, ya gonna be fine.”
I give her a hug, holding her tight. She peeks in my shopping cart.
“Jimmy, you have a baby?”
“Nah, I mean ya. Mary, come over for super and a few beahs. You can meet my little girl.”
“Really? That would be great.”
At that very moment, I knew I’d found my fate; it was Mary.
Being home reminds me how dark Boston can be. The Irish are now battling each other to take control of all South Boston, Charlestown, Dorchester. Somerville has always been controlled by the Irish, but the Hispanics are slowing taking ground. The Irish rally against the Italians, but not our group, we have long-standing deals with the Italians, from the North End to East Boston. We haven’t always established standing relationships with them, but with the African Americans and Hispanics it’s becoming difficult to share business without them taking over our neighborhoods. The Irish and Italians working together, an unlikely duo; we kept control over a lot of businesses and kept our footing in neighborhoods that were African American or Hispanic. At first, both sides refused to unite, but in one last attempt, Claire, my boss, made a deal with the Italians. Together, the other groups stuck to controlling their own neighborhoods. There were constant, unnecessary turf wars against each other. The Irish and Italian didn’t work like that in the beginning. Everyone worked together in the best way, but these are criminals and criminals are difficult to predict. We have mighty Irish egos, and kill over stupid shit like women, cars, drugs and money. I’ve had more than my share of friends dying over spilling whiskey on the wrong man. When you get drunk in one of our bars, you better be on your best behavior because you don’t know who’s who sometimes. We get powerful people pop up in our bars to do business all the time. If you see a new face in the bar, they’re either a big boss or an informant. That’s why you never see me walking through a bar with a drink in my hand. If I’m killed, it better be for a goddamn good reason.
PAUL
CHAPTER 4
Hack that Jack
I read an article today declaring less than forty-four percent of the American population purchase newspapers and magazines. This number is way off; I envision only a quarter of people in the world buy newspapers, based on the difficulty of finding a store that sells them. Some days I need to take the subway to Harvard Square just to find a newspaper. If I wake up early, I can grab a paper from the small corner store near my apartment. I would have the paper delivered to my house, but that leaves me susceptible to people knowing where I live. A simple thing like newspaper subscription is a window of opportunity for hackers; I should know. Although nothing in the apartment’s under my real name, I still wouldn’t take the risk.
Paul isn’t my birth name; I think the name sounds like an old man, rather than a young man of my generation. Criminals don’t take to a request from specific names, so I simply changed it.
I wasn’t always a criminal, or, as I prefer to call myself, a hacker. Once, I lived a regular life. Before my sophomore year of High School, I was accepted to several prestigious universities all over the world. I chose to stay close to home. Harvard University and MIT were both options. However, I chose Suffolk University because they gave me a full ride including housing and food. My parents set up a college fund, but I didn’t want to use their hard-earned money on college when I could go for free. Plus, having that money for the future was appealing, but eventually the money in the bank burned a hole in my pocket. I had to spend it or invest it. I decided on investing the money in the stock market. I thought I had a bulletproof plan and saw rapid returns in the first quarter, until, Bush, 9/11, the recession and housing market crash sent the market spiraling out of control. This happened my first year at Suffolk. It was devastating to lose so much money so fast. Around this time, I met Ava in my advanced accounting class. Her beauty caught my eye first, then her intelligence. It was difficult not to notice her since she annoyingly asked the professor so many questions in class. Most of her questions were what if’s? Everyone in class sighed every time she opened her mouth, everyone but me. The student who asks the most questions is not the dumbest. She was just trying to learn the angles of accounting. I found her questions were rather criminal, but the innocence of her face made the questions seem sinless. I never asked questions in my classes because I already knew the answers. Suffolk turned out to be an easy master’s degree. I should have challenged myself, but laziness got the best of me.
Ava and I grew close those six years. She doesn’t know this, but her thesis paper about investments gave me the idea to hack my way through the stock market. Her paper was inspiring and helped dissect the errors made by some of the largest US money market scandals. There was one other inspirational mutual friend of ours: Thomas Kennedy. The best way to describe Thomas is an over-privileged rich boy. His family provided him with money to stay invisible in their political involvement; he was an embarrassment to the family name. Thomas was a troublemaker, instigator, and would argue with anyone just for the joy of arguing. He was studying to be a lawyer, but he was unmotivated and lazy. He dropped out his second year, but still came to visit me at the dorms. He liked the college atmosphere without the being a student aspect. He wasn’t always troublesome, but after his younger sister drowned in the Bahamas on a family vacation trip. His family blamed him because he didn’t protect her, and it was his idea to go cliff diving. Plus, the parents needed someone to blame besides God. They were jumping off cliffs, and when his sister didn’t resurface after a jump, he dived in after her. He almost drowned himself looking for her. The water was rough, but he found her and pulled her to shore. He did CPR until the lifeguard arrived. Thomas could never get to the rest of the story. He always stopped at the bit where the lifeguard arrived. Thomas drank, and smoked weed daily and would always talk about his sister. The stories would always start cheery and turn dark when he would go back to the day she died.
He was my closest friend until we both admitted we were gay. Then we secretly started dating. Thomas could never come out as gay; his family would make sure of that.
He was there in my dorm the first night I hacked. It was a rush; an exciting night – we didn’t sleep the entire night and spent most of the next day hacking. We started off small, hacking a local credit union, skimming one cent from every bank account and transferring it into a new account. Then we stole credit card numbers, but the real fun was when we started sharing corporation’s secrets to investors and sharing politician’s secrets with corporations. I hacked the secrets and Thomas took these secrets to bribe politicians and businessman. He was the face of the business, a rather adept salesman; the most confident, narcissist manipulator I’ve ever known. He built a relationship with his political empire of a family just to make more connections and make money from the unsuspecting rich family members, friends and business partners.
All didn’t end well when his family found about what he was do
ing. That’s when the darkness took over our operation, making it risky, but it got darker when I found Thomas dead in his home. Investigators confirmed that he died by suicide, but I know otherwise. He was making a mockery of his family’s name by being labeled as a criminal. I alone know of more than a few associates we did business with who could’ve wanted him dead. Someone did want him dead, and with a snap of their finger, Thomas was gone. I was terrified to go to his funeral for fear of being the next victim. Most murderers show up at the funeral and if it was a family member that had him killed, they would certainly be there so not to raise suspicion. Also, I couldn’t bear to see my lover and best friend in a casket.
His death temporarily ended my greedy hacking practices, but I slowly returned to hacking, much like an addict saying they’ll only do drugs on the weekends. We all know it will turn into being every day. I told myself the same thing when I started hacking again. I can’t help it; I’m addicted to scamming people and hacking into private accounts. I love finding out secrets and bribing others. Your secret is safe with me, but only if you pay the bribe. Soon as you miss a payment, that’s it – my victims are exposed.
I still have the dirty money Thomas and I made in college. The last I counted it was over a billion dollars’ worth on the dark net, but exchange it into usable cash, it amounts to about a quarter of that. I’m one of the top twenty wealthiest men in Boston, but it’s no bragging right, since I can’t tell anyone, and I can’t spend the money in the real world, only in the criminal world. I could shop all day on the dark web. Instead of buying stuff from a store, I buy political influence, police protection, entrance to hacking highways one can only dream of. I can buy any drug, in any amount I want. The money is dirty, and I never want to clean it, because when you clean money—that amount of money—you’re most susceptible to getting caught. The way I clean the money is when someone pays me for a job or a bribe, I only accept cash unless my services are requested from other hackers in the dark web. Wiring funds from my accounts to another hacker is our own currency; we call it H-SAC; the H is silent. One H-SAC dollar equals about $0.10 US clean money. It fluctuates depending on the dark web market. There are membership fees and transaction fees just like corporate banks. An anonymous hacker oversees the H-SAC accounts. You need a lot of money and credibility to get an H-SAC account. With the account comes other perks, like protection and alerts when the FBI or others catch on to the criminal activity. Having someone with the ability to wipe out my account is risky, but it’s the same risk normal law-abiding citizens take when they put their hard-earned money into the stock markets, real estate and banks.
Ava, like everyone else in my life, knows only a little about my criminal acts and my financial wellbeing. The only reason Ava knows anything at all is because Thomas was a blabbermouth. We both trusted Ava, but some business deals shouldn’t be discussed. I believe being paranoid all these years has kept me alive and out of jail.
I never would have thought she’d put herself in this situation, and in the same breath, I’m shocked to hear her deny any wrongdoing. I know the level of intelligence she has and it’s bullshit she didn’t know Atlantic was laundering money for the Irish. She’s devious and a fantastic liar who always needs to understand everything. If there was one number off in the accounting sheets, she would backtrack until she found the accounting blunder. Either way, I’m in no situation to judge my friend and will support her in any way possible. I will not allow a friend of mine go to jail over such a minor crime, and especially not over an underhanded tycoon like Atlantic Street Financial. They’re messing with the wrong girl.
When Ava sent me the email about hacking into Atlantic, I was excited, and felt excitement again, like I did when Thomas was still alive. Having Ava work at Atlantic is every hacker’s dream. I gave her my customized hacking software with a USB, so all she had to do was install it to her computer, and the lines would open, like a vein when heroine is injected. I was riding the money highway. We achieved pilfering the original target. We’d still be embezzling if Atlantic didn’t get caught laundering money with the Irish. I’m waiting patiently for Ava to come because she claims she has additional information about the case with Atlantic.
AVA
CHAPTER 5
To Do
I’m awoken by heavy banging on my bedroom door.
“Ava, someone’s car is parked behind me in the driveway,” yells Samantha.
Am I dreaming or did my roommate just ask me who’s parked behind her? How the hell should I know? I don’t have a car, maybe it’s the neighbors.
I look to my left. Fuck, it must be Johnny’s car. He’s naked in my bed.
“Um, give me a minute,” I say, pulling the sheets back. What the fuck happened last night? I’m tripping over my feet and all the clutter on my floor. I think I’m still drunk. I throw last night’s clothes on and grab Johnny’s keys from the nightstand. I don’t want Samantha to know Johnny’s in my bed. She’s a nosy little bitch who loves to run her mouth. Samantha is from South Boston, so she likely knows someone who knows Casey.
“Hold on, I’ll move the car, give me a sec,” I yell through the door.
When I get out of my bedroom, I see Samantha nosily searching my face for answers.
“Who’s that?” she asks trying to see past me. I close the door fast and stand guarded.
“It’s an old friend I met at the bar last night,” I lie.
“Ooh, I want all the details, text me later. If I’m late, my boss will have my ass.”
I hurry out the door behind her to move Johnny’s car. It’s a real badass car, a white Mercedes; not sure what type, but it looks and smells new.
I brew a pot of coffee and peek in my room at Johnny, who’s sound asleep. I hop in the shower, grabbing clothes, trying not to wake him. I see a condom in the trash can, so that answers the most important question, did we sleep together? I’m both flattered and puzzled that Johnny and I ended up in bed; I never thought he was the least bit attracted to me. I’m sure it’s just a drunken mistake for him.
I hear a knock on the bathroom door.
“Ava, I’m comin’ in.”
What the fuck? Oh my God, does he not understand privacy?
I ignore him and stay quiet.
The bathroom door opens. I peek from behind the shower curtain. Johnny’s naked, taking a piss, one hand above his head leaning against the wall for balance, the other hand gripping his large, erect penis. I’m not complaining; while the notion of him pissing is awkward, his body from this angle is nicely sculpted. His back and arms are covered in tattoos: crosses, roses and skeletons. Not a fluffy bunny tattoo kind of guy. I didn’t know he had so many tattoos because he always wore suits to work but lately it’s jeans, hoodies, and his dirty, ripped up Red Sox ball cap. He has let his facial hair grow out, giving him a disheveled appearance. His thick brown hair is now long enough to pull back into a ponytail. I can’t decide if he looks better in a suit and tie or casually dressed.
“I have extra toothbrushes in the top left drawer near the sink, and clean towels on the top shelf.”
He doesn’t answer me; instead he steps behind me in the shower and grabs the bar of soap from me. I swear he’s still drunk, or just an inconsiderate jackass.
“Rememba last night?” he says with a smirk.
“No, but I think I can figure it out.” I rinse off and leave the shower without washing my hair.
“Ava, come on, we were drunk, it happens; we’ve all been in this situation, there’s nothin’ to be ashamed about.”
If a psychic told me a year ago, I’d be here while Johnny is taking a shower after a night of sex, I would’ve asked for a refund.
“This wasn’t a good idea. I want us to remain just friends, and I need you on my side.”
He steps out of the shower and he gives me a long wet naked hug, kisses my forehead. “You’re over thinkin’ this.” He grab
s my face, leans his forehead against mine, looks me in my eyes and lies to my face. “Everything will be all right.”
He leaves after a cup of coffee and sharing a smoke. I’m relieved; I have so much to do. First, I’m going to pay a visit to my friend Paul, a genius tech junky, who works from home part-time for a local college. He’s always home so I can pop in whenever, but he still makes me schedule an appointment.
I hop on the redline train, a few stops to Central Square where Paul lives, and just a short walk from the station. His small crummy apartment is next to the housing projects. I know he can afford to live in a better part of Cambridge, but I think he just likes the location. Paul buzzes me in. Five flights up with no elevator in the building; the last door on the left. The hallway is scarcely lit. I knock a few times before he comes to the door.
“Come in, quick.” He’s wearing a ridiculous gaming headset and looks down the hall, paranoid.
I push past stacked computers, books and newspapers cluttered in the barely passible hallway; it’s impossible to get from room to room without stumbling.
“Can you get me a computer and cellphone that can’t be traced by the FBI, or anyone?” I say, taking a seat in an old brown recliner.
He’s back to focusing on his video game.
“Yeah, you already know I can, but why?”
