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Here’s a question. Are statistics merely a way to look at information to favor the person running the poll?
—Moore You Want
It shocked me that I had to study, take an exam, and train for weeks before Florence would let me even listen to one of her calls. She sniffed. “Devil’s Lair has a reputation to protect.”
Counting thirty-five of us on shift at the time, I murmured, “Apparently, a good one.”
After acing Phone Sex 101, I was trained by “Becca,” Florence’s manager, who informed me, “None of us use our real name here, doll. You need to pick one to go by.”
“Such as?”
“Anything you want.”
Whipping out my phone, I Googled the Latin translation for daughter. Then, I pronounced my alter ego to be “Filia.”
Becca noted it before giving me a set of milestones, including, “Prepare a character profile because you will be asked about what you look like.” Not to mention the psych and medical evals, plus a security briefing in the event we got any whack jobs.
I admit I balked a little. But then I was reminded, “These men and women are elite,” Becca emphasized. “It’s why we charge such a ridiculous initial five-minute rate and our per-minute rate after is twice the national average.” She then went on to explain pre-payments, gift cards, and other options first level operators offer our callers.
“What happens if you get someone who can’t pay?” I questioned.
Becca’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Well, let’s just say they’re welcome to find their own ‘happy ending.’”
It didn’t take long to settle into my routine—working at the museum or taking Mama to treatment during the day, Devil’s Lair by night, and calls and texts to Ethan through it all.
So far, it seems to be working.
Men, women, aliens can spend as little or as long as they want on the phone in an attempt for me to pull from them anything, be it a prolific conversation about art history to a “cum-and-go” where the person just wants a quick jerk off before they hang up. Nothing’s taboo on a Devil’s Lair call. “Your job is to keep them talking,” Florence reminded me pragmatically.
So, talking is exactly what I do, just not with the one person in the world I need to—my boyfriend. Each night I do so, I subtly shut out Ethan at a time when I need him the most at my side. But it’s my mother’s request for silence that holds me prisoner when all I want is to bare everything to the man I love and not listening to strangers I’m helping vocalize their fantasies in a desperate attempt to keep her alive.
Something I know deep down is failing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
KENSINGTON, TEXAS
Kevin Mitnick, who pioneered the technique of tricking employees into helping him steal software and services from big phone and tech companies in the ‘80s and ‘90s, making him the first hacker to ever appear on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, died last year at the age of 59 of pancreatic cancer.
However, many question the relevance of his teachings in light of today’s more damaging technical payoffs, such as Ransomware. CEO Leanne Miles, Castor Industries, a staunch Mitnick opponent, was quoted as saying, “Attend DefCon and you’ll see firsthand the lessons Mitnick taught still apply today. He only wrote the first chapter of a very detailed playbook. My problem is I hate that the book even exists.”
—InfoSec Gov News
I shove the keyboard away from me in frustration. “We’ve tried everything!”
Sam’s snaps at me. “We haven’t, or we’d have cracked the code.”
“Well, what do you want to do? Call up Devil’s Lair and ask them for their fucking passcode?”
There’s a pregnant pause before, “That’s not a half bad idea, actually.”
“Sam? Did your wife talk to you in too many languages this morning?” Sam’s wife, Iris, is the lead translator for the Secretary General at the United Nations.
“No. Kevin Mitnick.”
“Black hat. First hacker to be on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. Dead.”
Sam interrupts the bare bones statistics I’m reciting about the son of a bitch who persistently hacked some of the largest tech companies of his time. “Think about how he did it, Ethan. Why was Mitnick so successful?”