"Steven Gould - Jumper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

There was no sign of the sleeper from the night before. Two old women sat there, deep in
conversation. They glanced up at me, but kept on talking; I walked down the sidewalk.

I'd tried to get honest work. They wouldn't take me without a social security number. Most of
them also wanted proof of citizenship—either a birth certificate or a voter's registration. I had none of
these. I thought about illegal aliens working in the U.S. How did they get around this problem?

They buy fake documents.

Ah. When I'd walked down Broadway in Time's Square, several guys had offered me
everything from drugs to women to little boys. I bet they'd also know about fake IDs.
 But I have no money.

I felt very third world, caught in a trap between needing money to make money and no
superpower's loan in sight. If I didn't pay my hotel bill the next day, I was also back out on the street.
I would need some form of debt relief.

The shriek from the Forty-second Street burglar alarm seemed less frightening in broad daylight.
I thought about stealing VCRs or TVs and hocking them at pawn shops, then using the money to try
and buy fake ID.

The thought of carrying a VCR into a pawnshop frightened me. I didn't care that I was
uncatchable. If someone was itchy enough I might take a bullet. Perhaps I was being paranoid. If I
stole something worth more? Jewelry? Go to the museum and rip off paintings? The more expensive
the item, the more chance I had of not making any money from it, getting ripped off or killed.

Maybe the government would hire me?

I shuddered. I read Firestarter by Stephen King. I could imagine being dissected to find out
how I did this thing. Or drugged so I wouldn't do it—that's how they controlled the father in that
book. Kept him on drugs so he couldn't think straight. I wondered if they already had people who
could teleport.

Stay away from the government. Don't let anyone know what I can do!

Well, then—I guessed I'd have to steal money itself.



The Chemical Bank of New York is on Fifth Avenue. I walked in and asked the guard if there
was a bathroom in the bank. He shook his head.

"Up the street at the Trump Tower. They have a rest room in the lobby."

I looked distressed. "Look, I really don't mean to be a problem, but my dad's meeting me here
in just a few moments, and if I'm not here he'll kill me, but I really got to pee. Isn't there an
employees' rest room somewhere?"

I didn't think he'd buy it, but the lie, plus any mention of my father, was making my distress real.
He looked doubtful and I winced, knowing he was going to send me away.