The Hard Bounce - [39]

Having a regular broadcast game was a treat, an event. But our one TV in the rec room was always flipping between light snow and blizzard conditions. Not blessed with cable or a serviceable antenna, we’d pocketed enough tinfoil from the dining common to wrap the television like a cocoon. The only parts visible were the knobs and screen. Problem was, the night before, the TV decided to shit the bed all the way. Most of us had spent a large part of the day figuring out what the fuck we were going to do come game time.

After lunch, a large group of us headed to the rec room, tinfoil in pockets, hoping to wrestle some life, if not reception, into the old Zenith. We would suffer reprimands and punishment for cutting classes, but fuck it. Hope had a price, and we were willing to pay it.

We walked into the rec room, then stopped short enough to get nearly knocked over by the kids behind us. Mouths hung open in shock at what lay before us. The kids in the back swept around us, all trying to see what had stopped us in our tracks.

Somebody said, “The fuck?”

A lanky new kid named Ollie had not only unwrapped years’ worth of carefully calibrated foil, but also managed to get the TV apart. We all stood there, gobsmacked at the sight of our beloved television, its parts laid out like chess pieces on the checkered linoleum. Ollie only looked up at us briefly, adjusted his Coke-bottle glasses, and furiously went back to his task.

Grumbling began to well up from the stunned mob. Grumbling that ran along the lines of how to make the new kid’s head fit up his ass. It may have been a shitty TV, but it was ours. We didn’t have many things we could call ours.

The threats grew louder and more ominous. One boy picked up a folding chair, tested its heft, and made his way over to Ollie in order to brain him properly. As the chair was raised overhead, Ollie plugged in the set. The screen lit up on Roger Clemens warming up in the bullpen. The grumblings erupted into cheers and handshakes. Ollie was smiling nervously and sweating through his shirt in a dozen places. He had to know how close he’d come to getting crippled. The kid ready to do the crippling lowered the chair and opened it front and center, a seat of honor for Ollie. Ollie watched the entire game seated in the chair that almost caved in his skull.

The Red Sox won the game, 9-8.

At St. Gabe’s there were only two ways to insure your safety: be dangerous or be useful.

Ollie became one of the strays who wandered in with me and Junior’s crew. He may not have been a brawler, but he earned his keep. And those smarts had brought him a lot of cash since his days at The Home. He wasn’t a complete flake job like Twitch, but he was koo-koo for Cocoa Puffs in his own fashion. If the Unabomber was pro-technology rather than anti, he might have been Ollie.

Ollie’s basement apartment looked like a utility closet on the Death Star. The walls were painted sterile white, all four layered with computers, pieces of electronics, and what looked like miles and miles of wires twisting around themselves in a three-dimensional Jackson Pollack.

“You guys gotta see this,” Ollie said, leading us to one of the many screens posted along one wall. “I can’t tell you guys which, but one of the major airlines just dropped a chunk of cash in my hands to test their electronic defense systems. Look.”

On the screen was a radar layout. Little dots slowly moved around the screen, identifying numbers beneath the dots.

“That’s the system?” I asked.

“Nah, it’s a simulation program they’ve linked me into. Basically identical to the real OS they use, same security and whatnot.”

“Solid system?” I asked, as though I had any idea what we were talking about.

“This?” Ollie huffed at me like I’d just defended the Ewoks. “This is shit work. Any hack with half a brain, half a system, and a little bit of patience can break into it.” Then Ollie smiled and held his hands apart like a magician about to yank a rabbit out of a hat. “Ever see a man crack a Federal Black Ice firewall in under a minute?”

“Uh… No?”

“Watch this.” Ollie went to work. He leaned forward in his chair as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Numbers that were meaningless to me raced down the bottom of the monitor. Junior gaped at the screen like a chimp forced to translate ancient Egyptian. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and popped open his Zippo.

Ollie whipped a pointed finger at Junior. “Do not light a cigarette in here. These machines are exceptionally sensitive.” His eyes never moved off the dancing numbers. The hand remaining on the keyboard picked up speed, as if to compensate for its missing brother. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see smoke curling off Ollie’s fingertips.

Junior frowned and flipped off the back of Ollie’s head. He tucked the cigarette into his T-shirt pocket.

“Now,” Ollie said, “watch this.” With the last few flicks of his fingers, the dots on the screen disappeared. It looked like the computer had shut off.

“Taa-daa!” Ollie sure was excited by the blank screen.