“No worries. Either the miscreants kill us first, or we succeed and bring home the bacon.”
“Ain’t no bacon here,” he warned. “No glory either. We succeed, a bunch of folks outta jobs.”
“I’m no businessperson, but I’m willing to wager there are a bunch of good people in Sunshine willing to step up and keep things running. If we can freeze management’s phones and their assets with Roark’s hack, can we siphon off Sunshine’s funds into a new account that we control to keep operations going?”
Reuben shot her an evil look. “Dream on, little girl. Ain’t no bank, nowhere, gonna open an account without credentials. Go away.”
Evie grinned and texted Ariel with her idea. Ariel texted a thumbs down. But Ariel had a curious mind. She’d toy with the thought.
Evie hovered behind Jax, who was apparently blowing up battleships online in a game with Roark. She kissed his ear, and he tugged her down for a toe-shivering real kiss. That blurred her mental processes for a while.
It was possible this was more than sex. She might be having an actual relationship. Who knew?
The forwarded number rang on her phone. She dropped into the chair she’d been assigned and checked the scam being played on this victim. Eighty-two-year-old Japanese widow with late husband’s pension and social security, living in a boarding house in Memphis. She’d been threatened with deportation if she didn’t pay debts her late husband owed. Or most likely didn’t owe. Dirty, dirty, dirty.
Fortunately for Mrs. Ito, one of her roommates had set up the call forwarding at Pris’s request.
“’Erro,” Evie answered in a weak voice.
“Miz Ito, we gave you until today to pay this bill. We will have to garnish your social security and start deportation proceedings if you can’t send us the money today.” The male voice spoke sternly, although a hint of drawl lingered.
Roark wanted the scammer’s phone lines tied up for as long as possible, if only to prevent them from calling more victims. They had little hope of catching the thieves or providing evidence against them, but driving them crazy, hexing them, and shutting down their phones offered an opportunity to consider a different career path.
To that end, Evie answered, “Soshuh seculity, yes, at bank. You pick up newspaper while you theah?”
Evie didn’t have enough experience with Asian accents to carry this off well, but maybe the jerk didn’t either. She had a vague recollection that “l” wasn’t in the Japanese alphabet and “r” sounded like “l.” and they didn’t use articles the way Americans did.
Silence descended as the jerk looked for a place in his script to counter her inane request. “Ma’am, I don’t think you understand. You owe us a thousand dollars. If you can’t wire that money today, you will receive no more social security checks.”
“Yes, yes,moah,” Evie rasped excitedly as Roark sauntered over to listen in. “Soshuh seculity. Please, need moah. I need shoes.”
Irritation made the scammer sound more threatening. “You won’t have shoes or social security unless you send the money today. Can you get to the grocery store?”
So far, he seemed to accept her act. Grinning, Evie continued. “Glocey? You take me? I love go glocey.”
The next command registered weariness and disgust. “Credit card? Do you have a credit card?”
Roark flipped the page of her script and pointed at a line.
“Cahd? I have cahd. Just one minute.” As the script said, Evie put the phone down and leaned back in her chair to let the jerk stew. “No fun,” she whispered at Roark. “Let me play with him, please?”
Another phone rang. Roark shrugged, gave her a thumbs up, and wandered off to annoy someone else. Pris was still enthusiastically leading on her scammer. Pris and enthusiasm seldom came together in the same sentence. Maybe her cousin should start her own call center.
Dante looked up from his email to frown as Pris emitted a series of whoops, curses, and stuttering Tourette’s noises. Dang, the girl was good.
Evie returned to her own victim. “Zoom? You got Zoom? I show you cahd.”
“Just read me the numbers, ma’am,” officious voice demanded.
Evie summoned every bad accent she’d ever heard in old movies. Since she seldom watched TV or movies, it was pretty bad. “Me no lead numbah. Me show you. Big, big numbah. Husban’s cahd. Melican. Black. Plitty.” How in heck did anyone talk without “r”?
But the vague description of an unlimited American Express card had El Jerko salivating. “Yes, that will work. Can you ask someone else to read it for you?”
“Zoom,” Evie insisted, although what she’d do if he agreed, she couldn’t say. She didn’t have any Asian lady to stand in for her. “Me show you cahd.”
“Ma’am, I can’t do Zoom. What is the name on the card?”
“Husband,” she crowed. “Husban name Ito. Velly good name, Ito. You know him? He died.”