Black Hat Blues (34 page)

So Sandee had never asked about the machine under the table in the

corner that was always plugged in and ready to go. It was just one more

humming metal box. But when Sandee shot back up the stairs with

Bee’s drill from the shed outside, he saw that Bee had pulled the thing

into the center of the room and was putting something from inside the

computer she’d just disassembled on top of it.

“I’m going to degauss these,” Bee said. “I need you to then drill some

holes in them.”

“What?” Sandee asked, more out of reflex than actual confusion.

“The degausser erases the drives and the drill makes sure. Luckily I

upgraded to some terabyte drives last month, so we have fewer to get

through.” Bee removed the hard drive from the degausser and handed

it to him. “This one’s ready.”

Bee started taking apart another of the computers, while Sandee tried

to figure out the best places to drill holes with the diamond tipped drill.

On the screens the FBI agents were still poking around the empty Party

scene, cutting open mattresses and cushions and generally making a

mess of the place. Two of the cameras had gone dark. “Can they really

trace us back here from there?” Sandee asked.

“I think so, yeah, now that I think about it.”

“How long do we have?”

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“I’m not sure. Half an hour seems reasonable. Maybe more?” She

pulled out another hard drive and started degaussing it, then saw that

Sandee hadn’t drilled his first hole yet. She came over and showed him

just where to drill. The screeching sound made further conversation

impossible. A couple minutes later Paul came tumbling back in, his

hands full of laptops for them to erase as well.

“We’re taking one laptop and the backup drives. All encrypted right?”

Paul asked.

“Yep,” said Bee, handing him an external drive that she’d pulled out

from under a table. “Here it is.”

“How long?”

Bee degaussed a third drive as she looked around the room. “Ten

minutes maybe?”

“And your go-bag’s where?”

“In the closet.”

Paul went to the closet and rooted around, pulling out a small black

duffel bag. “Sandee, where’s yours?”

“My go-bag? I don’t have one.”

Paul stared at him with a moment’s confusion. “Shit, OK, well, I’ll

throw some of your clothes in a bag for you. We’re leaving in fifteen

minutes.” Then he was out the door again.

“When were we supposed to pack go-bags?” Sandee asked Bee.

“I’ve had mine since we moved in. Well, since the last time we bugged

out I guess.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Once with Chloe. Well, sort of with Chloe. And once on my own

back before. Here, this one’s ready to drill.”

The repercussions of what was happening began to sink in on Sandee.

They were going to leave and not come back. Because if the cops found

their way here and already knew about The Party, they would have

plenty to go on when they started asking questions. It was a small

town, a small island. Everyone in the party scene on Key West knew

Sandee—that was how they got such high attendance and spread to

word to wealthy out-of-towners. Someone with a drug charge hanging

over them would talk. He was going to have to leave or go down in

flames. There was some small relief in the idea that most of those people

knew him as a woman or at least a drag queen. He never interacted with

that crowd in his boy form. But no matter what, that meant the woman

Sandee wouldn’t be able to live in Key West anymore. His heart sunk

deep down, crashing into his stomach and bursting into butterflies.

He wanted to cry and scream and hit something, maybe all at once.

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Instead he drilled holes in a fucking hard drive and tried not to drill

one in his hand.

By the time they finished with the drives, Paul had packed everyone’s

bags, including Sacco and Chloe’s, and the feds had found all the cam-

eras in the Party house. Bee’s computers were all down now, but she still

had a phone that could tap into her island-wide surveillance network.

When she told them that was going down too, Bee was no longer in

any doubt that they’d find their way to the house. It was only a matter

of time.

Paul stood in the living room, looking around with an intensity just

short of wild-eyed. He’d taken the SIM cards out of all the cell phones

and Bee had degaussed them before putting them in the microwave on

high for a few minutes. “Our fingerprints are all over the place, and I’m

pretty sure there’s nothing we can do about that, or the DNA, short of

burning it down.”

“We’re not burning it down!” said Sandee. It wasn’t even their house,

for God’s sake. They were renting it from some old gay couple who lived

in Boston and couldn’t come down anymore since one of them was put

in a wheel chair.

“You’re right, that would just draw more attention and I’m not sure

we could stop it from spreading to the neighbors.” Paul said, looking

around the room again for the hundredth time. He’d taken the tear gas

grenade out of the light fixture and they’d disconnected all the security

measures. The last thing they wanted was to fry some fed and add even

more reasons for the cops to be after them. “Bee, how long do you think

it’ll take ‘em to get here.”

“I’m assuming they’ll be able to track down our blind. From there

there’s not obvious way to find this house in particular, so they’re going

to have to go door to door. We should take down the antenna though.

It’s a dead give away, if they know what they’re looking for.” The blind

was a house down the block where they rented out the bottom floor.

In the attic was the hub for all their internet access, which was then

beamed wirelessly from to an antenna on their roof. Thus there were no

wires going into their actual home, aside from electricity.

“Good idea. If they see it they might consider that probable cause,”

said Paul. “I’ll get up there and take that thing down. If they don’t

have a warrant and no one’s home and they’ve got no probable cause

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to enter, it could take them hours or even days before they get inside.

That’s a good head start.”

“I’ll do it,” said Sandee.

“Do what?”

“Take down the antenna. Come on Paul, I know you hate the heights

and I can be up and back inside via my bedroom window before you

prop the ladder against the wall.” Paul was many things, but he was no

gymnast. All they needed right now was for him to slip on some loose

shingle up on that shitty roof and break a leg.

They agreed that Bee would make one last pass through he house

looking for anything vital and Paul would go get the getaway car—a

ten year old Honda Civic registered to a dead-end name and paid for

in cash, that they kept a couple blocks away. It looked like a junker, but

ran like a dream. Sandee looked at the mess Paul had made of his room,

at the dresses and wigs strewn about the floor, and sighed. There were

probably ten thousand dollars worth of clothes there, and he hated to

leave them all behind. He gave the dress he’d been wearing before Sacco

stripped it off him one last lingering look before sliding out the window

and shimmying up onto the roof. Two or three hours a day of yoga and

martial arts combined with the healthiest diet someone who drank as

much as he did could manage made it almost as easy as walking. He

walked up the slope of the roof towards the peak where the tall antenna

was secured about ten feet away from the much taller lightning rod.

As he got to the edge, he looked down and over to see Paul walking

as nonchalantly as he could towards the car, one of the duffel bags (pre-

sumably the one with all their cash) slung over a shoulder. There was a

hidden compartment up under the trunk that was only accessible from

beneath the car, which is where he’d probably try and hide the money

if they had time. Sandee took the screwdriver from where he’d tucked

it at the small of his back and started unscrewing the antenna. Far up

and away Sandee heard the faint thrumping of a helicopter in flight.

That wasn’t unusual of course—tourist and coast guard choppers flew

over Key West all the time—but Sandee had seen
Goodfellas
. He looked

up and watched as the aircraft made tight, slow circles over old town.

That was unusual. That was a bad sign.

He’d gotten the second of the three clamps undone when Paul

returned. He’d moved the car, probably somewhere closer, but he wasn’t

about to pull it up in front of the house, which was good. Sandee

waved and hissed, trying to get his attention without drawing anyone

else’s. Paul finally looked up as he was crossing the street, and Sandee

made throat slitting motions and waved him off, pointing up. Paul

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183

glanced casually towards the helicopter and kept walking down the

street. Sandee worked hard on the final screw, and heard Bee’s cell

phone ring from downstairs. A minute later she walked out the front

door, weighed down with a laptop bag and two duffels, headed in the

opposite direction Paul had gone.

The antenna finally came free, and Sandee just tossed it off the roof,

hoping against hope that the helicopter hadn’t seen him. He slid back

down the shingles towards the edge and then flipped down and through

the window into his room in one smooth motion. He glanced over at

his dresser and froze. Shit. Paul hadn’t opened his hidey hole, which

made sense, since Paul didn’t know about it. Sandee ran over, pushed

the dresser aside and used the screwdriver to pry it open. Inside were his

extra party favors—an emergency supply of ecstasy, pot, and some coke

for those unfortunate nights when Bernie couldn’t come through for

them and the Party guests were in need. With the hard drives destroyed

and the money gone out the door with Paul, there wasn’t anything else

incriminating in the house, but when the cops found his drug stash,

it was enough to lay on a felony distribution charge if they wanted.

Sandee snatched the ziplock bags and ran to the bathroom. He started

flushing the coke, then the acid, then the pills. There were only a dozen

loose joints, which he saved for last. It took five, maybe ten minutes at

most, during which time he knew Paul would be freaking out.

He flushed one last time for good measure and only as he was headed

down the stairs did he hear the sound of car engines outside. Multiple

engines, multiple cars. There weren’t any sirens or flashing lights, but

he knew what was going on. He looked through the peephole and saw

dark haired men in suits that looked quite familiar from the earlier

surveillance footage walking up the front porch steps. They knocked

on the door with confidence and authority, not quite banging, but not

banging either. “Federal agents, open the door!”

Sandee took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, the

tip of his tongue touching the roof of his mouth. He took two more

breaths before he responded, shutting out the knocking and yelling,

if only for a moment. “Who is it?” he called, trying his best to sound

butch and tough.

“Federal agents, open the door.”

He looked through the peephole again, and could tell they knew he

was looking at them. He could probably beat the crap out of both of

them before they could draw their weapons, but that wasn’t any kind

of solution. No, he knew what he needed to say.

“Where’s your warrant?”

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“We just want to ask some questions.”

“Write this number down. It’s my lawyer. Ask him any questions

you’ve got and come back when you’ve got a warrant.”

The two men looked at each other in obvious frustration and Sandee

smiled, if only for a moment. He’d stymied them, bought the others

some time, but that was all. The two men weren’t about to give up,

although they did retreat from the front door to discuss tactics. One

of them made a phone call, while the other ordered his fellow agents

to surround the house. There was no doubt in his mind that they’d get

their warrant soon enough. Sandee started to go over the details of his

story in his mind. The house was watched over by a rental company. The

Crew controlled the rental company, and Sandee was a legal employee,

with a right to be here. He had his own home apartment in New Town

that he never spent time in, but which was his legal residence. He was

just the property manager, he’d say. They were good tenants, always

paid their rent on time, never caused any trouble. And then last night

they’d just up and left, just left a note on the office door with the keys

taped to it. He’d come by to look the place over and found the house

in its current state. That was the story anyway. It might explain his fin-

gerprints everywhere. It might be enough for his lawyer to work with.

There was DNA though—all over all those dresses. He had some time,