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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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,