Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,87
second time and it’s a warning signal—he knows it—he hops back down, braces himself. As the wheels grind, he trills the sighting through his mind, matches it up against all the old tags in other parts of the tunnel, and he figures it’s brand new, it must be, yes, and he gives a quiet fist pump—someone’s come and tagged downtown.
Within seconds the train is in the pale station light of Wall Street and the doors are hissing open, but his eyes are closed and he is mapping it out, the height, the color, the depth of the new tag, trying to put a geography on it for the way home, where he can take it back, own it, photograph it, make it his.
A radio sound. The static moving toward him. He leans out. Cops. Coming up from the end of the platform. They’ve seen him, for sure. Going to drag him out, give him a ticket. Four of them, belts jiggling. He slides open the door to the car, ducks inside. Waits for the slap of a hand on his shoulder. Nothing. He leans back against the cool metal of the door. Catches sight of them sprinting out past the turnstiles. Like there’s some fire to get to. All of them clanging. Handcuffs and guns and nightsticks and notepads and flashlights and God knows what else. Someone’s bought it, he thinks. Someone’s gone and bought it.
He squeezes sideways through the closing doors, holding the camera sideways so it doesn’t get scratched. Behind him, the door hisses shut. A jaunt in his step. Out the turnstile and up the stairs. To hell with the barbershop. Irwin can wait.
ETHERWEST
IT’S EARLY IN THE MORNING and the fluorescents are flickering. We’re taking a break from the graphics hack. Dennis gets the blue-box program running through the PDP-10 to see if we can catch a good hook.
It’s Dennis, Gareth, Compton, and me. Dennis is the oldest, almost thirty. We like to call him Grandpa—he did two tours in ’Nam. Compton graduated U.C. Davis. Gareth’s been programming for must be ten years. Me, I’m eighteen. They call me the Kid. I’ve been hanging out at the institute since I was twelve.
—How many rings, guys? says Compton.
—Three, says Dennis, like he’s already bored.
—Twenty, says Gareth.
—Eight, I say.
Compton flicks a look at me.
—The Kid speaks, he says.
True enough, most of the time I just let my hackwork do the talking. It’s been like that since I sneaked in the basement door of the institute, back in ′68. I was out skipping school, a kid in short pants and broken glasses. The computer was spitting out a line of ticker tape and the guys at the console let me watch it. The next morning they found me sleeping on the doorstep: Hey, look, it’s the Kid.
Nowadays I’m here all day, every day, and the truth is I’m the best hacker they got, the one who did all the patches for the blue-box program.
The line gets picked up on the ninth ring and Compton slaps my shoulder, leans into the microphone, and says to the guy in his smooth clip so as not to freak him out: Hi, yeah, don’t hang up, this is Compton here.
—Excuse me?
—Compton here, who’s this?
—Pay phone.
—Don’t hang up.
—This is a pay phone, sir.
—Who’s speaking?
—What number’re you looking for …?
—I have New York, right?
—I’m busy, man.
—Are you near the World Trade Center?
—Yeah, man, but…
—Don’t hang up.
—You must’ve got a wrong number, man.
The line goes dead. Compton hits the keyboard and the speed dial kicks in and there’s a pickup on the thirteenth ring.
—Please don’t hang up. I’m calling from California.
—Huh?
—Are you near the World Trade Center?
—Kiss my ass.
We can hear a half-chuckle as the phone gets slammed down. Compton pings six numbers all at once, waits.
—Hi, sir?
—Yes?
—Sir, are you in the vicinity of downtown New York?
—Who’s this?
—We’re just wondering if you could look up for us?
—Very funny, ha-ha.
The line goes dead again.
—Hello, ma’am?
—I’m afraid you must have the wrong number.
—Hello! Don’t hang up.
—I’m sorry, sir, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.
—Excuse me …
—Try the operator, please.
—Bite me, says Compton to the dead line.
We’re thinking that we should pack it all in and go back to the graphics hack. It’s four or five in the morning, and the sun’ll soon be coming up. I guess we could even go home if we wanted to, catch a few zees instead of sleeping under the desks like usual. Pizza boxes for pillows and sleeping bags among the