Travis took our rantings and ravings and put them online, first through blog posts then on our own blogs, then we linked to other blogs and leaked into almost mainstream press. It all had to be done very carefully. Travis had in depth knowledge of network security and the various tools at the government’s disposal to track us down.
I won’t go into details because I didn’t understand them, still don’t. Max and I were in charge of content, as was, later, Spencer.
Getting hooked up with Spencer resulted from a random reunion between Rosie and her brother Hector. We were walking down First Avenue when, quickly scurrying out of the Lusty Lady, came a man oblivious, he ran right into us, knocking notebook out of my hand and Rosie right on her can.
“What the fuck!” I said stepping forward and grabbing him by shirtfront. Taut muscles bulging and countenance scary made me regret my impulsive response.
“I say ‘what the fuck,’ mother-fucker.” And he made to hit me, brushing aside my hands from him with his left hand and pulling back his right.
“Hector!” Rosie shouted, now on her feet and at my side. “Wait!”
And Hector did, eyes going from angry to confused to stunned, then he whispered, disbelieving, “Rosie?”
Turned out Hector was something of a poorman’s Scarface, running a methamphetamine empire across the state out of a compound in the woods somewhere in the general vicinity of Eatonville, though there was no telling where, neither signs nor roads led there. Once a quarter he came into town for a sort of business review, checking on distributors, resellers, and his lieutenants on the streets. He was just unwinding at the Lusty Lady before his trip back to his compound.
As I got to know him better I discovered Hector was something of a sex addict. It was his Achilles heel. Rumor had it he kept a pair of hotties on call at the compound full-time, always one junkie and one speed freak, so if one went down he could juice up the other. He played the odds.
Spencer was Hector’s attorney. We’d get to know him soon enough.