A Jimi Thing

CHAPTER THREE

61.

“Let’s take it from the top then,” I respond, pushing back in my chair, crossing arms behind my head, “tell me the story, and take as long as you like, of how you became a tool of terrorism.” I have decided to try the ‘let’s be friends and bare our souls’ routine sensing that she will take the bait and voluntarily reel herself in. Instantly she tilts her head hard left, saying without a word, that she understands the play and is somewhat offended at its banality. She shakes out of the temporary malaise, sits upright in her chair and searches for the proper place on her timeline to begin the tale. 

“I was born in Seattle. My Dad was a drummer for a bunch of local rock bands in the early sixties. He played with Jimi Hendrix at the Spanish Castle and parlayed it into a career riding on his legendary coattails. He met my Mom there. By the time I was born they had both been in and out of rehab several time. We moved to LA because one of Dad’s junkie friends told Dad that he had a record label. Turned out that actually meant he drove forklift in its warehouse. We bounced around, Dad always looking for the big score, I went to several schools, never made any real friends, stayed home, wherever that happened to be and read, played my cheap guitar and tried to keep the house clean. Mom and Dad started fighting again, Dad split and Mom pretty much stayed drunk. I was fifteen.” 

I sit listening to her sad story. I am fighting the urge to comment, to take her side in the saga and make suggestions on coping with a world whose soul has been missing since the false god of fame and fortune replaced honor, dignity and respect. I consider how today’s Cult of Ignorance got its pathetic start. I take a deep breath, nod my head in sympathetic commiseration and ask her to continue. 

“One of my counselors suggested that I take a computer class. Introduction to. He said it might open some doors for me. He was right. So I spent the next two years doing nothing but going further and further down the rabbit hole. I learned to code, started a web building side hustle, joined some underground on-line groups,” at this she looks at me with eyes suggesting this might be an inflection point, “and met a guy who said he had some work if I might be interested.” She pauses to take a sip of water knowing exactly what my question will be and its precise wording. 

“What kind of work?” I play along. 

“Code hacking.” 

Recognizing that her story, while grotesque and all too common, has been without exaggeration or embellishment so far, I inch my chair closer and invite her to provide details, expecting a turn of dramatic events to soon be revealed. 

“Basic stuff at first, simple, fast, profitable. Data bases mostly, we’d, I would, hack the code, grab the data, reformat and compile into useable lists that we would sell to our clients. Credit cards, social security, banking, savings and loans, we even hacked libraries and ATMs. Easy as pie, we were rolling in it. And then one day,” I see her cringe with the use of the cliche, “We get an odd request asking for a face to face meetup with our most consistent client.” 

“Who is the we?” I ask risking the loss of momentum. 

She gives me the ‘I’d rather not rat’ look and I return with the ‘deal breaker’ glare. 

“My boyfriend and business partner Cyrus.” I look at her coldly and non-verbally ask the obvious question.

“Williamson.”

“We meet with the client, the guy you shot in the head, and he wants us to hack some weird branch of government for code on radar use on our Southern border. Cy tells him that is big time stuff and will come with compensation equal to its value to him and risk to us. Mr. Big, I swear that is what he called himself, asks if a quarter of a million will suffice.” 

I am trying to conceal any response to this treasure trove of intel Vi has provided. I choose to push it up the chain. 

“This Mr Big, who survived the shot by the way and rests in protective custody at this very moment, led the local cell of a terrorist organization known as The Axis, correct?”

She nods her head slowly in positive affirmation. 

“Do you have any information that might get us closer to the top of that group?”

She again nods.

I wait.

She is ice.

I stare.

She stares. 

I stand.

“Wait.”

I widen my eyes.

“Immunity and witness protection.”