YNs—Checking the iPhone for Taps

2012

Large orange men gathered against a wall. Their height appeared to be about seven to eight feet. They waited for the right time to keep going with their plan. What was their plan? They wished to take out any and all drug dealers in Wilmington, Delaware. Their transparency in the light and complete disappearance in the dark provided them with the notion of being stealth.

They moved with an efficiency like water over a rock. Their flow seemed to be that of nighthawks as the lamplights spilled out their shine on the bleakness of the evening. Three of them all moved with precision of tracer rounds. Their powers shone bright in every movement. It seemed as if they had been taken in by the greasy steam rising from the vents of the city. Their senses became agitated at the mere psychic powers over the pushers in the streets.

One such figure had been an underboss and loved to be discreet in his actions. His name was Osmond Dole. He had a high forehead and soft features. At twenty-years-old he ruled the block he represented. His mind reeled still at the prospect of him not being able to come home that night. The iPhone in his pocket buzzed, he looked at the call and hesitated. He knew that if he took the call, he’d have to go through a whole app to get him to be on board with the rest of his team.

He answered.

“This is O,” his greeting seemed lithe, like the words bent with a supple contortion in just three words. He put his handsfree device up to his ear. He heard the subtle click of the phone. A glance at the caller ID showed someone he knew, but the sound still reverberated in his mind. He didn’t take the chance and he didn’t start a text message, either. He just hung up the phone and looked to a cash checking place for a land line. As he strolled through the doors a fan rotated and a television played. The sweat of the night had weighed heavy on his brow. With a few steps, he met up with the owner Tungsten Bevers, 42. He looked squat and happy. A fat, round face accompanied a wide but solid body.

“Hey, there young fellow.” His greeting voice changed with the guests, the words also altered to “ma’am” or “miss” or “old man” to “youngster.” He felt empowered to become even more resilient in his resolve to greet his customers, even those he knew for years.

“Hey, ‘Ten,” Dole replied. “Can I use your phone?”

“Of course. It’ll cost you though, this time. These phones on the landline are getting fewer and fewer every day.”

“It’s no problem. How much for ten minutes?”

“That’ll be five dollars.”

“Five dollars?! Just to talk on the phone?”

“Five dollars. I told you. The land line is witnessing obsolescence,” Bevers retorted.

“Alright, alright. Can I pay with my card or do you want cash?”

“Card is accepted….”

Dole swiped. He felt a rush feeling the knot of money in his pocket and the slim card slicing through the slot of the machine. A few green lights illuminated.

“Thanks, ‘Ten.”

Bevers nodded.

Dole dialed. No taps, no clicking sound…yet.

“Hey, you tried calling earlier. What’s up? You know we can only talk briefly. They’re after us.”

“You’re so p-noid.” The voice on the end of the phone was Philant Lowelly. He had just pushed fifteen kis in two days. Dole had made twenty kis in two days fly through the streets of Wilmington like a covey of doves.

“Look, the thirty five that we sold should give us enough breathing room to complete our run. What we’re looking for now is an awesome amount of work to come into the world.”

Dole nodded slightly in agreement. When he looked up he saw the timer on the phone call. Six minutes. “Okay, so we still have time. We can move the rest and still come out with a smooth profit.” Two minute warning.

“Alright. Bet. We make it out of this and we’ll clear at least eighty,” Dole reminded.

“That sounds about right.”

“I'll talk to you.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.”

Bevers leaned into Dole. “I know what you do. And I don’t care. I’m a student of Objectivism myself, and say legalize it all.”

“Right,” Dole responded with just a hint of relief from his schizophrenic nightmare.

He looked at his watch. It glittered with diamonds and gold like a prize winner's medallion.

“I’m out of here, ‘Ten.”

“You’ll be back.”

Dole walked down the block, his phone still ringing in his pocket until he shut it off. He walked to his car. A green Beemer, brand new off the lot. He didn’t want to put chrome rims on it so he just put matte BBS rims on it. His whole modus operandi remained to flash and shine while also keeping as low a profile as he could. He wanted the best of both realms. He wanted to listen to his playlist in the car so he turned on his iPhone and reached for his auxiliary cord, he plugged it into his car. The phone buzzed with an impertinent sound against the wood of his inner console. His inner peace became shattered at the constant ringing. He didn’t know what to make of this whole task. Sweat began to trickle down his back. The caller ID always showed someone he knew. Often it was a girlfriend or something like that. An obsessive compulsion wracked his mind as he considered the idea of a burner phone. It would be more of a burden to carry it around, not as sleek, not as sophisticated, but much safer.

In the moments that his head pressed against the leather headrest, he knew he would have to conceal his fears. He had heard about the large orange men, but thought of them as a farce. Now, their presence wouldn’t seem as bad as this constant vibration from the phone. To reach a level of understanding that would make sense to him, he would have to forget about the taps and the giant orange specters in the night. How could he though? If he wanted to use his iPhone with Facetime and all the features that enhanced and enriched his life, how could he possibly be able to do all the different functions that the super advanced Swiss Army knife had to offer?

If he wanted to play the songs, he still had a satellite radio station that he could play. He switched to that and turned off his phone. With the car in drive, he peeled off into the darkness only dotted by the streetlamps. No product remained in his car or his apartment. All of that stayed at his stashhouse on the West Side. His East Side haunts didn’t haunt him because he knew that his work would be given a haven from being raided by the authorities. A feeling of being tracked still terrified him. Didn’t the police have drones now? Didn’t they hover over and scan streets up and down the block? Did they notice European sports cars with black drivers? All of this came into his mind. A respite from all this consideration laid heavily on his conscience. By heading over to his girlfriend’s house, he sensed a feeling of knowing that Kalina Palmona would ease his troubled nerves.

She had brownish colored skin with green eyes that glistened in the light. Ample bosom and posterior added to her physicality but her master’s degree in chemistry spoke of her brilliant brain. She met him at the door. They kissed. They sat in her spacious living room.

“What is it? You couldn’t talk on the phone? I tried calling you.”

“You know it’s work, Kal’.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t text me.”

“Oh, but it does,” Dole replied. “You know, they might be listening right now.”

“Who?!”

“The feds, Kalina. The feds.”

“And they’re taking pictures, too.”

“Probably.”

“You’ve gotta get out of your line of work. You know that. You’ve got an MBA.”

Her adamant tone sounded like concern and admiration at the same time.

“I know. That’s how I can justify it. My work down at Burlington Coat Factory as the GM can only last for so long. Who knew that I could be so young and hold that position. But it’s wearing on me. I feel like I’m trapped.”

“It’s better than being in the trap, though, right?” She asked, stroking his waves against his dark brow. His iPhone buzzed again.

“Don’t look at it. They’ll eventually hang up. But when you see my name, make sure you answer that directly.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Kalina asked.

“It’s about the principle of it all. A man’s gotta have principles, ain’t he? Who said I can’t still run the streets and be a boss at a major retail store? What is it that is said that I can’t balance both of those with you in it, too?”

“I’m just saying, O, all you have to do is find your way to a new career that pays even better than this. An MBA at twenty is amazing.”

“Well, you’re a chemist at twenty-two. That’s just more impressive.”

“We can shower each other with pleasantries or we can look at this problem with a clear-eyed view,” she remarked.

“Of course.”

“That’s right.”

“So, what I do is hand in my resignation to BCF and continue on from there. I go in there and say, ‘I've found another position and I’ll be leaving in a few weeks knowing damn well I’m still tied to the streets.’”

“So cut out the streets. You can be a regional manager making at least three times more money than what you're doing at the big box,” Kalina countered.

“I don’t want to do that because this money is tax free. This money I know. I can see it coming and going with the grace of a saint who laid hands on the indigent.”

“I see your point but I would say the street life is too much for someone your age. You’re too old to be a runner and you’re not old enough to be a don. You’re stuck in the middle. I’d say cash out on whatever work you have and get out before it gets clumsy out there.”

“You mean me, getting clumsy? Like I’m going to mess up or something?”

Kalina shrugged.

“You’ve got me all wrong, Babe. You’ve got me painted as someone who hasn’t paid his way through school with his work. I’m the one who helped with your student debt, as well. That street life helped to furnish this house. What, you think I’m not going to be able to manage the pitfalls of the game?”

“I’m just saying you won’t have to worry about your phone ringing at all hours of the day if you just find a more sufficient means of labor.”

A chortle or a snort or both issued from Dole’s throat. “‘Sufficient means of labor,’ huh? I could do that. But I’m tied to a network that is stronger than any corporate America job. I could make a billion dollars with some company and still yearn for the streets. I won’t make that much, but the rush would still be there.”

Kalina looked at him and then raised up from the couch on which they had perched. “I’m getting some rosé Bordeaux. I’ll get you a glass. Calm your nerves.”

“No, I’ve gotta drive. If I start now I won’t be able to get out of here until tomorrow.”

Kalina poured herself a glass. She walked around her island. A quick glance at his watch led Dole to think about his own home. He then looked up and found Kalina just pacing back and forth.

“What is it?” he asked.

“This is the 1990 rosé.”

“No, all this? You trying to get me drunk?”

“Not drunk, just a drink. Relax.”

He turned on his phone. And of course, it rang.

“Don’t answer it,” Kalima suggested.

“I’ve gotta.”

He looked out of the window and saw a shadow. Was it one of the large orange men? Could it be a member of the DEA?

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Baby, I was going to make some steak.”

“No, it’s too late.”

Kalima threw up her hands. “Alright. Come back tomorrow, they’ll be a rack of lamb in the oven.”

“I gotta go.”

He rose to his feet and checked the phone again. He stepped out of the house and heard the lock click. At the same time, he answered the phone and heard the phone click. Lights washed over the house and men and women with bulletproof vests and the firearms drawn met with Dole’s expression as he looked at Kalima as she stood in the window and then shut the blinds.

“Get down on the ground and interlock your fingers!” Agent Sonya Soto commanded. Dole then abided and reached for his phone with the intent to have shots ring against him. The agents fired at him and neutralized him with prejudice. Kalima then opened the door and began crying, knowing she helped precipitate Dole’s death.