The business model for New World Security systems had been kept pretty simple.
Step #1: Angie did the cold calling based on Ham and Chris's leads. In the weeks and months after the liberation it was hard to find anyone with a bankroll or a business (legitimate or il-) who wasn't paranoid as hell and desperate for protection. Add to that the fact that nobody trusted anybody to do the protecting for them, and you had a crop of ready-made consumers of custom designed security systems.
Step #2: Ham and Chris visited the prospects and basically just scared the living shit out of them by listing every single way they could be robbed, kidnapped, murdered, or otherwise interfered with in their current surroundings, and who would profit by it.
Step #3: Ham's longtime buddy and technical analyst extraordinaire Reno would do a detailed, stone-cold map-out of what needed to be done to prevent said robbery/kidnap/murder and interference, including materials, labor, and an estimate of what the ongoing operation and staffing would cost. Staffing was strictly the customer's concern. "More security for you," Ham would tell the customers. "No chance of a lawsuit if they're more crooked than the boss," Angie would tell Ham, "Win/win".
Step #4: Installation was undertaken by Ham and Chris, and only by them. This meant that one job had to be completed before another was started, but the unholy amounts of money being showered on them for the privilege of survival made that a moot issue.
Step #5: Angie took over to do her damnedest to undo, weasel around, outsmart, or just plain break whatever had been accomplished. Ham had promised her Geek Heaven, and delivered it in spades. Every computerized and low-tech means was at her disposal; all she had to do was shift her brain into Sneaky and go wild. Once the dust settled (and sometimes there was dust, after a controlled explosion or two), the weaknesses discovered would be corrected.
Step #6: Repeat steps 4 and 5 until Angie could no longer find a breach to exploit.
It worked like magic, and the money rolled in.
No matter how "friendly" any male client might become when he saw that the Geek Squad was a reasonably attractive brunette, a flash of her shoulder holster took over where the wedding ring left off. The first time she'd asked Ham about how to handle such things, his advice was to the point. "Blow 'em away. We don't need the business that bad." She'd never had to pull it, but no testosterone-fueled client doubted that she would. Not many men would try to mess with Ham Tyler's wife, whether or not he was around to see it.
Likewise, not many "friendly" female clients would bother to continue a come-on to Tyler after being on the receiving end of the up-and-down cold shower of a glance that was always followed by "Now why would I go for pond water when I have champagne at home?" With a look and a line like that, Tyler didn't need a wedding ring or a shoulder holster to keep the bimbos at bay.
Now, with everything coming full circle, Tyler's observation was dead-on. Any customer still standing would be a satisfied one. If they weren't going to be useful someday they'd never have made it into the Rolodex.
Angie had no great love for Jackie Bowdoin, but she'd come to know the guy was more pathetic than truly sleazy. At the age of fifty-five, he was single, straight, and friendless. Angie saw him pretty much as a permanent teenager who shares his dad's dirty magazines in a desperate ploy to be popular. Jackie had managed to parlay that insecurity into a multimillion dollar business. But the poor man still yearned to be popular, and it just wasn't gonna happen. Nevertheless, he was honest (within certain parameters) and after their first meeting treated Angie with professional respect. Well the respect jumped up when she saw him peering down her neckline as she bent over his computer, and she stood up quickly enough to flash the shoulder holster under her jacket. Now she almost felt sorry for the guy, standing in a corner on his own, not even able to find common ground with fellow refugees.
"Mr. Bowdoin, I'm glad to see you made it out in one piece." She called all the clients Mr. or Ms. Most of them ended up calling her Angie, sooner or later.
"Mrs. Tyler!" He always addressed her as Mrs. Tyler, though she'd never changed her name (even if there had been somewhere to do it). "I guess you could call this a model endorsement." His weak smile faded immediately, replaced by a look of genuine concern. "And your husband? And Mr. Farber?"
Angie almost smiled. Still a teenage dork. Everyone was Mr. or Mrs. or Miss to Bowdoin. Sometimes she wondered if he had even one friend close enough to call by a first name. "He's okay. The stormtroopers hit our place pretty bad, I was able to get out. Ham was in town, I think. All I know is he found me here."
"And Mr. Farber? And Mr. Sinclair?" Bowdoin persisted. Angie had barely known Reno had a last name until they began doing business with Jackie Bowdoin.
She tried to keep it detached. "We haven't found Chris yet." Dead or alive. "Reno... I mean Mr. Sinclair..." Here Angie had to gulp a breath. She really hadn't absorbed it yet, and really wasn't ready to say it out loud, but had no choice. "He didn't make it, Ham told me that when he went to the compound to look for me, he saw most of our staff were caught in the attack. They came in from above, you know, and the guys were outside, I don't know how they beat our warning systems, Ham said they have new tech or something, I don't know... I locked down but I don't know who else got out..."
A pornographer Jackie was, but he also was a human being. At least he'd tried to keep that part of himself intact. He'd never sunk to the level of torture or rape porn, just "plain dirty pictures and movies", in fact the name of his company was Old School Adult Entertainment Distributors. He respected women, in his way, and thought of them as equal partners in his business (though most of them were just pictures to him). And he genuinely liked this somewhat shady band of professionals who had built him a solid barricade against the world that he'd never managed to create on his own. He reached a hesitant hand out to touch Angie's arm.
"I'm sorry about your friends. It's the way of war, isn't it, the best people don't always get out alive."
Angie was a little ashamed... she'd forgotten that this awkward man had sheltered many members of the resistance and even had stored their weapons and supplies in his warehouses scattered around the city.
"Thank you, Mr. Bowdoin. You're right. It always sucks, doesn't it." Again, his reaction almost pulled a smile from her. He always looked a little taken aback when her language got colorful. She always tried to keep it professional while on the job, but could be heard swearing like a sailor under her breath when this or that application or operation didn't go as she wanted, and being her first job Bowdoin heard enough to set his ears on fire. "But we don't have time to play catch-up or boo-hoo... tell me, what have you heard about this new wave? It's not nearly as subtle as the first one."
Glad to be moving to more comfortable territory, he observed, "It didn't have to be. Fool us twice, and all that. But my East coast providers had caught something in the wind, so to speak, a few weeks ago. It just didn't make sense until now..."
Angie learned things it would have taken her, Ham, and Mike days if not weeks to gather on their own. Not a lot, but a start. It was true, there is no common denominator like porno to bring together every imaginable type of business and person. Everyday people doing everyday business, everywhere you could think of... the product just happened to involve the exploits of lots of naked people and the customers cut across every class, color, and career. Jackie had connections in the "hardcore" branch of the business, he just didn't ship their product. Right now, though, they were the most valuable connections to have. To gather information on unsavory activities required unsavory sources. As often was the case, New York and New Jersey combined as regional mecca for Unsavory, second only to Chicago. Behind every cliche was the reality that birthed it.
After Bowdoin told her all he knew for the moment, Angie shook his hand. "Thanks a million, Mr. Bowdoin."
"Hey, maybe it's okay now to call me Jackie, considering..." He looked around at the ragged crowd that surrounded them.
"Fine by me, Jackie. You can call me Angie, you know? Seriously, Ham is not gonna mind." Bowdoin looked caught out. Angie always had known that Bowdoin bore a secret fear of triggering some dark jealousy in Tyler if he seemed too friendly with her. She never bothered to convince him otherwise, mostly because she knew that Bowdoin would be mortified to know he was so transparent. Before he could lock up in embarrassment she added, "Look, you gonna be okay? You got somewhere safe to go? I'm meeting Ham and a friend and we're gonna figure out where to go next."
He looked surprised. "I don't know if that would be okay with..."
Angie stood up straighter and looked him in the eye. "If I say it's okay, it'll be okay with them."
"Hmm, no, I think it would be better if I went back to my office building and get re-oriented. It wasn't badly damaged. Honor among thugs, and all that."
Now Angie had to laugh out loud. "Mr. Bowdoin... I mean Jackie... a purveyor of Prime Slime you may be, but a thug? That'd take more practice than you have time for. Okay then, be careful, and we know where to find you if we need to."
"Take care, Mrs. Tyler. I'll see what else I can find out."
Before she could say, "Call me Angie," he had disappeared into the crowd. Angie glanced at her watch... five minutes to meet-up. As she headed for the door to get some fresh air, she hoped that Ham and Mike had had some luck finding fellow travelers. That would mean a safe place to stay, maybe something resembling a bed to sleep on. When she got outside she was overcome by a rush of... everything. She groped for the door-frame to steady herself. Chris, and Reno... Mr. Sinclair didn't make it.
A long time ago she and Ham had divided up their personal responsibilities according to who was best suited to handle them. Like the tactical analysis, construction, and computer stuff, each of them handled the load of loss and grieving differently. Ham would never wear that kind of thing on his sleeve, no matter how deeply he felt it. So it was decided: "Listen up, Angel. When everything goes to hell, hardass logic'll be my job. Crying'll be your job. Some things deserve tears, but mine got burned outta me a long time ago."
Right now, Angie didn't think even she had enough to give Reno what he deserved.