Of course, I never ask. To do so would be unprofessional, and if my fledgling business needs anything at this point, it’s a profound level of trust, and a track record that will get me other jobs by word of mouth.
The unsavory nature of my growing list of clientele speaks to my competence, both as a security analyst and as a tight-lipped confidant among night-dwellers in the underground economy. I am generally paid in cash. Hundreds only.
We’ll call my contact Vinnie. Yeah, Vinnie. He ushers me into the compound and promptly chains and locks the gate behind me. We head to the first of a series of storage sheds. Barn sized and windowless metal structures, allegedly protected by “Fang,” an ancient Doberman Pincer who looks up and woofs in our general direction, then licks his balls before lying back down in the dust near shed one. The Beware of Dog sign on the fence has done far more to guard the area than Fang for quite some time. I guess that’s why they need me.
Inside shed one, Vinnie flips on a series of incandescent hummers, caged steel contraptions that immediately attract moths and illuminate airborne dust.
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