by Lisa Libby
After I grab my shit from Paul, I’m staying at a hotel room for a few nights. I need no interruptions while I plan my next move.
I’m still shaking with anger when I ring Paul’s doorbell. I hear him come to the door, peeking through the peephole, opening the door just a crack.
“Did you get rid of your phone?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Do you have any other electronic devices on you?
“No!”
I push through the door past Paul.
“What the fuck kind of shenanigans have you gotten yourself into?”
“Oh, you mean besides helping you hack Atlantic and steal their funds?”
“Shh, we don’t talk about that, not here. Sit; let’s talk for a moment cause there’s a lot to discuss.”
I move the stack of newspapers from the chair before taking a seat.
“Will you ever trust me?”
“I… I’m trying. You know trust is an issue since my mother’s death. It has nothing to do with you.”
“We thought we were stealing from Atlantic, but really it was the Italian Mafia, and it’s not the Irish’s accounts.”
“We need to find out for sure who, if anyone, knows we stole the money.”
“Yes, I know and I’m working on that right now. Likely, someone will eventually find out if we don’t fix it right now.”
“Fuck, it’s getting too complicated and dangerous.”
Paul lights a joint, takes a few hits and passes it to me.
“Why no loud music like the last time. Are you not worried about being bugged?”
“No; I installed a device in my apartment that blocks radio and Wi-Fi signals, and if they are detected they scramble the recordings. It’s a prototype I bought from the dark web. It’s actually quite interesting…”
I interrupt Paul. I have no interest in hearing about his high-tech toys.
“I’m sleeping with Johnny. I know for sure he’s the one that put the tracking device in my phone.”
“Come on Ava, really? I ran your prepaid phone number through several pieces of tracking software and noticed a lot of activity. It’s possible Johnny inserted the tracking chip or installed it remotely by using just your phone number. Whoever installed it isn’t too bright because they didn’t rename the app or block it from being discovered.”
“It’s a prepaid phone; I thought those were untraceable?”
“That’s a myth. Phone companies use it as a marketing scheme, to get people to buy the phones. The FBI has always been able to track them.”
“Can you tell who hacked my phone?”
“It’s not the FBI, they aren’t amateurs. Here’s my solution to the phone situation.”
He hands me two phones.
“The black phone no one can hack, except me of course. The phone has no registered number and the location is blocked, so internet searches are allowed, but I would suggest no downloading applications and refrain from checking emails even though they can’t be traced – we don’t want to make you susceptible to even the possibility of being hacked. You can make calls, but the phone number comes up unknown. The only calls you should receive are my calls. Now, the white phone is the decoy. Let Johnny or whoever hack the phone, but only take this phone with you when you don’t care about being followed. Leave it at home if you don’t want to be tracked. What you don’t want is to be untraceable; this will raise red flags. Do not search anything on this phone that you want to keep a secret, even from me.”
“Paul, you’re a fucking genius,” I say, hugging him.
“I know. Now for the laptop. This is bulletproof against any hackers. Even if they hack you, they won’t be able to trace it to anywhere. The serial number and manufacturing numbers are brand new and unregistered. I’ve disconnected the USB power; the sockets are all there but if you plug in anything, there’s no power. The battery and any component that can be opened on this computer has been glued shut, and has an alarm attached if someone attempts to open it. With that said, I still wouldn’t leave the computer with anyone for a long period of time, just to be cautious. Now, you can search whatever illegal things you like: how to kill someone, buy drugs, illegal guns, hire a hitman…” he went on and on.
“Paul, I think I get it.”
I hand over the cash for the devices.
He slowly and carefully counts it to ensure it’s all there.
We sit for some time bullshitting and smoking joints. When you smoke weed with Paul, be ready to listen because he loves to hear himself talk and he knows everything. His conspiracy theories make him come off as a lunatic, but if you listen long enough, he will almost convince you that it’s true, or at least leave you questioning your knowledge. He is convincing because he can back up his topics with facts from his in-depth research. He hasn’t admitted it, but I assume he has a photographic memory. He writes down nothing, unless it’s for publication. He is a published writer and has spoken at several events about various technology topics, most of which are about advancements in technology and how they affect the economy. From what he claims, he makes a lot of money from speaking engagements, but you wouldn’t think so from the look of this apartment.
“Paul, one last favor: can you book me a hotel for a few nights?”
“To get some distance from your new boyfriend? Do you think it’s a good idea, with what’s going on?”
“He’s not my… Yes, I need a few nights away to clear my head.”
Paul is a millionaire in dark web currency, but actual cash in hand, probably not much if he is charging me outrageous prices for the phones and computer. From what he has told me, the internet funds cannot be cashed out, unless he steals from actual accounts, like we did with Atlantic. I am still waiting for my portion from the Atlantic job, but he claims it takes time before it can be put into an account to be used in the market. He opens credit cards online under other people’s names and transfers the money to them, but he can’t do big sums without the credit card companies being alerted. The credit cards expire in days, not years, which makes them difficult to use.
“What city?”
“Boston.”
He makes a hotel reservation for two nights at the most expensive hotel in the city.
“They have the best security since only the very wealthy and elite stay here.”
“Paul, I could just kiss you. Thank you.”
Before I head to the hotel, I stop to pick up my new passport from Jose. My fake identity is Sherry Conley. The picture in my passport is a fat version of myself. I should’ve given Jose a more recent photo since I have lost weight.
I stop by my apartment to grab a few things for the hotel and text Johnny my new phone number from the white phone, leaving the phone on and charging, hidden under my bed with the ringer on silent.
It’s just turned dark outside when I get to the hotel. I pinch myself; I’m staying at The Plaza Hotel in the Back-Bay area of Boston, one of the most luxurious hotels in the city. When professional athletes come to our city, their players stay here, as do celebrities and the wealthy.
My room is larger than I need, but Paul claims this room is in a more secure part of the hotel.
I drop my stuff in my oversized suite and head down to the bar to eat. I’m dressed like a slob, with my hair tucked under my green baseball hat. I’m sure the bartender thinks I’m homeless, but I don’t give a shit. After dinner and cocktails, I head up to my room for the night. I feel relief to be the only one in the elevator; my paranoia has reached a new level. I would have taken the stairs if I wasn’t on the twelfth floor, but there’s no way with the amount I smoke I’d walk up that many flights without having a heart attack. I get off the elevator, and see a man waiting outside my room. His shape looks familiar, but I can’t tell because he’s too far away. Fuck: what should I do? I should’ve planned ahead. I have no gun, bu
t even if I did, I don’t know anything about guns. I could’ve at least invested in a taser or knife, but it’s too late. I need to know who is near my room door.
“Hey dickhead, why the fuck are you standing near my door?!”
I begin walking towards my door, facing my fear head on.
I realize the man coming my way is a familiar face. It’s Mr. Alterman. Last we spoke he was supposed to send a contract for me to sign. My phone number changed, so maybe he was trying to get in contact with me. I didn’t see anyone following me; boy is he good, but it’s concerning because this could mean someone else knows I’m at this hotel.
“I tried calling you, but your phone keeps going directly to voicemail. It’s urgent we talk,” he says.
“Come in. How the heck did you find me here?”
“I’m a good private investigator.”
I open the minibar, searching the selection.
“Whiskey?” I ask.
“Yes, dry.”
Mr. Alterman takes a seat in the oversized chair. I hand him a glass of whiskey.
“Cheers.”
We clink our glasses together. I sit on the couch.
“You didn’t mention the Mob are following you. It’s seems you are in deeper shit than you led on.”
I give him a dirty look.
“Mr. Alterman, can I trust you?” I search for eye contact.
“Well, that all depends. Can you be honest?”
“Okay… Atlantic is involved with the Mob.”
“Before you set foot in my office, I already knew everything about you, from where you live, down to the very brand of toilet paper you buy. I don’t need to tell you the pile of shit you’re in, but I’ll help you shovel it for a reasonable fee.”
He stands up and helps himself to the minibar.
“I’ve lived in Boston my entire life, and as you can see, I’m an old man, with old values. With my years of experience, I’ve familiarized myself with the Mafia, Mob, the various gangs from here to there. I know who’s trustworthy at the FBI and which cops can be paid off. This of course makes me a target, so my services are pricey.”
“What I need from you is simple. I just need to know who’s following me, and why.”
“I think you will need more than just that from me, but that’s a good start. You already know why and who, don’t you? You’ll need me to keep them from torturing and then murdering you. I don’t know many survivors that worked with the Mob. Usually, when they’re finished using you, they chop you up and throw you in the river.”
He’s trying to scare me. It’s not working, but he’s right, I need him as a lookout.
“My fee is $10,000, cash only. This is a deposit for current and future services. We will see how things go, and additional fees are to be determined. I suggest you purchase a gun and learn how to shoot it,” he says before standing up to leave.
“Will you tell me how you found me?”
“Boston’s a small city.”
“Give me two days to get you the money,” I say before closing the door behind him.
I lean against the door, sliding to a sitting position on the floor. I close my eyes, listening to my breath, talking myself down from my anxiety. I’m having a panic attack; my chest is heavy. I’ve never felt such shortness of breath and pressure on my chest. It’s stress, just so much stress. There’s been so much change in the last month. My emotions are on a rollercoaster, and my body is waiting in line for the ride.
I pull myself together enough to take a hot shower. I jam a chair underneath the doorknob, just an additional obstacle if someone tries to break in. I don’t bother getting dressed after my shower, but instead throw on a robe and wrap my wet hair in a towel. Off to bed with my laptop and a list of people to search and things to do. My first search is my biological father. My mother told me horror stories about him, and how he worked for the Mob. I don’t want to find him for a relationship, I want him to help me out of the mess I’ve created.
Paul gave me a few websites and installed several illegal search engines used by the FBI, including access to their database. It’s doesn’t take but a few minutes to find my father. His arrest history is over fifteen pages. Most is petty crap, like drugs, assault and license violations. There’re a few dismissed robberies and a murder charge. He must still be alive because I can’t find a death certificate or a missing person report. I dig deeper to see who he’s been arrested with and who visited him during his time in jail. I jot down the names to research later.
There may be a link to Susan’s family or associates, but I hit a wall. I search Claire Spillane, the Mob boss. I need to know who’s connected to her. The Irish Mob tree gets larger the more I search. There’s the ugly old bitch I met. She married Billy Coonan, my uncle. My father is Jimmy Coonan, his brother. Holy shit, a better connection than I thought I’d find. I’ve got to find my father.
AVA
CHAPTER 7
White Mountains
I fall asleep with the computer on my lap. The hotel room phone ringing wakes me. It’s a courtesy call, asking if I would like breakfast delivered to my room. I order breakfast and get dressed. I call Mr. Alterman.
“Good morning, Adam Alterman speaking,” he answers.
“Adam, what a lovely name,” I snicker.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, Ava. This is my new phone number.”
“You sound like you are in a glorious mood.”
“Is this a safe line to talk?”
“Let me call you back.”
He hangs up and seconds later my phone rings; it’s an unknown number.
“Yes, go ahead.”
“Write this name down: Jimmy Coonan. I need you to find this guy.”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s my father, he has a connection with the Irish Mob in Boston. He may get me out of this mess.”
“I see. Consider it done.”
We both hang up.
My breakfast arrives and I eat quickly, then call the concierge to reserve a car rental before checking my phone messages.
Paul gave me access to both my cell phones through the computer. I can see Johnny has been blowing up my phone with text messages and phone calls. I couldn’t care less – let him freak out a little. I see a text that tells me to get in touch with the lawyers on Susan’s case. I’ll call the lawyers on my terms.
I make a quick stop at home to pick up my fake passport and cash. Then I’m heading to New Hampshire to visit a shooting range, to purchase a gun and learn how to shoot. Mr. Alterman was right – I should have thought about protecting myself a long time ago. The FBI had the shooting range under surveillance during my father’s murder trial that was dismissed for the lack of evidence. I read that the gun used was bought from this location. I figure I can knock two things off my to-do list with one visit.
My drive to New Hampshire is relaxing. Once I enter the White Mountains region, I spark a joint. It’s a calming feeling being surrounded by mountains. There are piles of snow along the sides of the road, making the streets narrow, so I drive under the speed limit. The roads are icy, and the temperature has dropped fifteen degrees since Boston. I have always liked the winter. The constant struggle to keep warm is pleasing.
I get to the shooting range. The place looks like it was once a farm. I sit in the car for a minute to finish my cigarette. I’m nervous because I’ve never shot a gun or even held one. I get up the nerve to go into the gun shop. I’m looking for a man named Robert. He sounded old with a heavy smoker’s voice. I don’t think I will mistake that voice for anyone else.
Entering the shop, I see two older men sitting behind gun-filled glass counters. The small room is lit with fluorescent lights, half of which are not on or flickering. The walls are made of wood paneling almost matching the color of the wood floors. There’s a smell
of cigar and a musty combination odor. There is a thick lingering cloud of smoke throughout the room. When I inhale, my nose burns.
“How can we help you today, young lady?” the old white bearded man says. I recognize his voice; that’s Robert all right. He can’t finish a sentence without the last syllable sounding like a whisper, like he’s run out of air.
“I called earlier and spoke with Robert…” I hesitate.
“Yes; Sherry, right?”
I nod. I didn’t give them my real name because I don’t want the gun traced back to me.
“I’m Robert, we spoke on the phone.”
I pictured him in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank.
The American Indian looking man puts down his wood carving and stands up, looking at me. “My name is Koda; follow me.”
He’s very tall, over 6-foot, intimidating features, with dark, grey-streaked long black hair tied back into a ponytail. Around his head is a suede string headband.
These guys are real gun handlers. I have all the faith in the world they know how to handle any gun. I feel like I’m playing out a scene in an old cowboys and Indians film. Growing up, I’ve heard tales about Indians owning land throughout New England, and most history books mention tribes in this area, but I have never met a true American Indian. Lewis used to tell me Indian stories at bedtime. How they keep themselves hidden deep in the mountains, hidden from society for fear of getting their land taken by the government. He told me stories about his ancestors crossing the US border through Canada. He convinced me that if I ever did his family tree, I would find American Indian ancestry.
We enter a transformed barn with columns with half walls, shooting stalls – a sort of setup like the police target practices you see on crime and drama TV shows. I’m no longer nervous, but more excited to hold a gun and shoot it.
