“Trueman!” said Gwen. “Imagine meeting you here! Would you like a drink? I’ve been wanting to talk to you for days!”
I wasn’t sure what to say, because my SR screen was blank.
“Um, I don’t drink alcohol,” I said. “It kills brain cells. I need my brain functional to do detective work.”
“What did he say?”
A man in an expensive gray suit was speaking in a loud, drunken voice. His breath smelled like bourbon and a brand of Cuban cigar named Cohiba Esplendido. From experience, I knew this was an expensive cigar. This man was rich, loud and smelly. His presence made me dizzy and sick. I looked down to my SR for help, but the screen was still blank. That usually meant that I was safe, no matter what I did. But when I looked at this drunken gangster, I could interpret the potential for violence in his eyes and I wondered if my SR was working correctly.
“Huh?” asked the gangster. “Did you hear me or what? I was telling you something! This guy here in the yellow said he’s a detective? Is he joking? What’s his problem, lady?”
Gwen waved her hand in front of her face.
“Your breath stinks, pal!” said Gwen. “Mind your own business, too! Me and Mr. Bradley are having a private talk!”
“Mr. Bradley?” asked the gangster. “Not Trueman Bradley? That genius detective I heard about in the papers? Hey, fellas! We got a celebrity in the room! Hey, shut up fellas!”
The gangster stood on his chair and put two of his fingers into his mouth. He whistled loudly and everyone looked at us. It seemed like every person in the whole casino stopped what they were doing and stared at us. I was so nervous, I wanted to hide under a chair. I looked at my SR, but it was still blank.
“Hey, fellas!” said the gangster. “This here’s Mr. Trueman Bradley. You know, that guy what solves crimes with math! We got a detective come to wish the boss a happy birthday!”
I saw the faces of dozens of gangsters, staring at me. The big boss, who was dressed in the pinstripe suit, was also looking at me. I was too nervous to interpret very much of the gangsters’ emotions. But the small amount I was able to interpret convinced me that gangsters didn’t like detectives. I was starting to get scared.
“Okay, SR,” I whispered. “I think this is getting close to a surprise! You have to warn me and tell me what to do!”
As if it were able to understand my words, the SR responded with a beep and instructions appeared on the screen.
“Unpleasant surprise is imminent,” I read. “To avoid unpleasant surprise: Throw alcoholic drink on gangster.”
My eyes widened and I was unsure if my SR was malfunctioning. I had read many clothing catalogs and memorized many details about expensive Italian suits. This gangster wore a Brioni brand suit, which was worth more than 3,000 dollars. If I were to stain his suit, I was certain he would react violently.
The SR beeped and warned me that I must obey its instructions immediately, or risk violating the plan. I knew that I was safe if I followed the SR’s plans, so I gathered my courage and dismissed my fears.
I grabbed the alcoholic drink from Gwen Tone’s hand and threw it at the gangster’s chest. Gwen had been drinking something with chocolate liqueur mixed in it, so the gangster’s expensive suit was now stained with brown streaks.
“What the hell!” shouted the gangster.
His eyes opened so wide, I could see every small red vein in his drunken eyes. I couldn’t interpret his emotions, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what he was feeling. He looked at me in a way that made me want to run away, but the SR instructed me not to move. The gangster reached into his jacket.
“You looking for trouble, punk?” he asked.
The gangster pulled a gun from his jacket and aimed it between my eyes. It was only a small Smith and Wesson double-action .45 ACP semi-automatic compact pistol; small enough to fit in his palm. But I could see from my perspective, looking down the barrel, that it had been used a lot and quite recently. Maybe it had been used to murder impolite private detectives.
“You are dead meat, punk!” he said.
“Wait!”
The big boss in the pinstripe suit had called from the other side of the bar. His voice was deep and croaking, like a frog. In fact, his bald head and wide mouth made him look like a frog in a suit. He was surrounded by big, well-dressed men.
“Don’t get emotional, Emilio,” said the boss. “Don’t hurt him, yet. Let me talk to him. Bring him over here, will you?”
Emilio, the gangster I had offended, made a face I could easily interpret as angry and poked his gun into my back, pushing me towards the big boss and threatening me.
“You just wait, punk!” said Emilio. “No one ruins my suit and gets away with it! You’re not leaving here alive, I’m telling you that for sure! You’re as good as dead, punk!”
All this talk about my imminent death was starting to make me nervous. As much as I wanted to trust in the SR, this was a very dangerous situation and I started to wish I could forget about my equations and inventions and go hide somewhere safe.
“Listen!” I whispered, to my SR. “In the future, could you find a less dangerous way for me to complete my missions?”
As if in response, my SR beeped and gave me another instruction.
“Unpleasant surprise is imminent,” it read. “To avoid unpleasant surprise: Give gangster boss three truthful responses.”
I looked up from my SR and saw the big, frog-like face of the gangster boss. He was concentrating on me, silently studying me. He breathed heavily, as if he was asthmatic, and his eyes were so yellow they looked like they were made of amber. I felt nervous, being stared at, and tried to think of something I could say or do to make the situation less tense.
“Happy birthday!” I said.
He pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed it at me. I jumped back, expecting another gun. But soon I realized that he wanted me to shake his hand. I took his big, moist hand and was relieved to see a smile on his face.
“Thank you,” said the boss. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m glad you could attend my birthday celebration.”
The gangster boss motioned for me to sit next to him and I hastened to do so. He lit a Cohiba Esplendido.
“They call me Benvolio,” said the boss. “And you? You’re that genius mathematician I’ve been hearing so much about, is that right? You’re a private detective, then, are you?”
“Yes,” I answered. He had just asked me two questions. I wasn’t sure if I had just answered his first or second question.
“I was only answering your second question,” I said.
“Oh… right,” said Benvolio. “Well, I got another question for you. Although you’re welcome at my party, may I ask you exactly what is your purpose in being here?”
I knew that I needed to answer Benvolio honestly. The SR had told me to answer three of Benvolio’s questions honestly. So far, I had answered one.
“I’m here to nail Chief Stokowski,” I said.
Benvolio coughed. For a moment, it seemed like he was choking on his cigar. He spat the cigar out of his mouth and it flew across the room and landed at the bartender’s feet.
“What?” asked Benvolio. “And you told me that? What, are you stupid? Stokowski works for me! Everyone knows that!”
I was shocked to realize that Stokowski worked for this gangster. I was starting to realize what kind of illegal activity Stokowski was involved with. Maybe this is why he wanted to cancel my license. Because he feared I would be able to expose his connection to this gangster and the local Mafia.
I was happy to finally know what sort of criminal activities Stokowski was involved with, because now I had a better idea what kind of evidence to get to send him to jail. But my happiness didn’t last long. I could easily recognize the aggressive, hate-filled look in Benvolio’s yellow eyes. I guessed he was not happy to know that I was trying to nail Stokowski; after all, Stokowski was his criminal partner.
“And you’re supposed to be
a genius?” asked Benvolio. “You walk right in here and admit that you’re trying to send my partner to jail? You know you can’t leave here alive now, don’t you? Do you think I’m gonna let you live now? What kind of idiot do you think I am? Huh? What do I look like to you?”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I knew I was in trouble. I also knew I had to follow the SR’s instructions exactly, or I wouldn’t get out of this dangerous situation alive. I had to answer one more of his questions honestly.
“Did you ask what you look like to me?” I asked.
“Yeah, I did,” said Benvolio.
“You look like a frog,” I said. “You look like a big frog in a pinstripe suit. You sound like one too.”
Some of the gangsters started laughing. But they quickly stopped when they saw Benvolio’s face. His anger was so intense, I could easily recognize it. He was so angry, his face had turned red. He was so red, he looked like the red poison-dart frog which I read about in my zoology book. Also called “Oophaga Pumilio,” it lives in the Costa Rican jungles.
“Emilio?” asked Benvolio.
“Yeah, boss,” said Emilio.
“Take him upstairs,” said Benvolio.
“With pleasure, boss,” said Emilio.
Emilio poked the gun into my back and pushed me across the casino, towards a big stairwell. Several large gangsters joined us. As he pushed me, Emilio continued to threaten me.
“There you go!” he said. “What did I tell you, huh? You’re dead meat, punk! When the boss says to ‘take someone upstairs,’ you know what that means? Huh? It means you’re dead, that’s what! There’s no escape for you now, punk!”
His threats were making me nervous and I consulted with my SR for guidance. To my horror, it was blank. Emilio continued to threaten me and poke my back with his gun. We walked across the busy casino and were soon at an elevator with a brass door.
“Alright, get in there!” shouted Emilio. “Get in the elevator! We’re going upstairs!”
I don’t like elevators, because it involves being very close to people. They jab me with their elbows and breathe in my face. Ever since I was a child, I hated elevators. I resisted getting on the elevator, but Emilio forced me inside.
“No!” I said. “I hate elevators!”
“Oh, do you?” asked Emilio. “Well, you’re gonna hate them even more before the day’s through! You know why? Huh? Do you want to know why we’re going upstairs?”
The elevator was small, with little oxygen, and it smelled like cigars. I could vaguely discern that we were going up, but other than that I was too uncomfortable to notice anything about my environment or to respond to Emilio’s questions.
“Well, I’ll tell you anyways!” said Emilio. “Because I know you’ll like this! There’s an old broken elevator shaft on the other side of this casino. We use that elevator shaft to… ‘get rid’ of people. You know what I mean? We’re taking you to the top floor. Then we’ll take you to the broken elevator shaft and we’re gonna push you down! Understand now? You’re gonna like elevators even less when you’re falling down that shaft! Now you know what the boss means when he says ‘take him upstairs,’ huh?”
The gangsters started laughing. The cramped elevator, mixed with the stink and the gangster’s cruel laughter, made my stomach tense and I felt sweat forming on my brow. I had the vague realization that I was going to be pushed down an elevator shaft and killed and I started whining out loud.
“No!” I said. “SR! This is an unpleasant surprise! Why didn’t you warn me? My inventions don’t work! I’m a failure!”
The gangsters laughed some more.
“What the hell is he talking about?” asked Emilio.
As if in response to my whining, the SR beeped and it started giving me urgent instructions.
“Urgent!” it read. “Unpleasant surprise is imminent. To avoid unpleasant surprise: Call the following telephone number and let it ring only twice…”
I was able to make telephone calls on my wrist TV and I hastened to dial the telephone number specified by the SR. To my surprise, a ringing emanated from Emilio’s Brioni suit. He took out a small mobile phone and stared at it. I let it ring only twice and Emilio’s eyes widened in response.
“That’s the signal!” said one of the gangsters.
“Yeah, I know,” said Emilio.
“What do we do?” asked another gangster.
“Stop right here,” said Emilio. “You heard me! Stop the elevator!”
The gangsters pressed the button to stop the elevator on the sixth floor. The doors slid open and I saw a darkened hallway. It seemed like this floor was not in use. The walls were bare and streaked with paint. The lamps on the ceiling were hanging from thin wires. Dust was everywhere. None of the lamps worked and the only light came from windows. Emilio grabbed my arm and pushed me roughly along the hallway.
“Okay, listen punk!” said Emilio. “We just got a signal that indicates maybe there’s trouble…”
“No, Emilio!” said another gangster. “If your mobile phone rings twice and then stops, that’s the signal that means the cops are coming and we gotta get out of here, fast! It doesn’t mean ‘maybe’! Come on, Emilio! Forget about him and let’s go!”
“Okay!” said Emilio.
Emilio opened a door leading into an empty room and pushed me inside. He stared at me with a face I couldn’t interpret.
“Me and my pals are gonna go check out what’s happening,” said Emilio. “I’m gonna lock you in here and I’ll come back and get you later. Count yourself lucky, punk. You’ve got a few extra minutes to say your prayers, before you die.”
Emilio slammed the door shut and I heard him lock it.
“I am lucky,” I said. “Lucky to have an SR.”
I kissed my SR and looked around the room. It was dark and smelled like broken plaster and dust. The walls were bare and broken in places. There was only one window and it was so dirty, it hardly let in any light. I walked to it and opened it. There was absolutely no way I could escape out the window. I was six floors up and there was no fire escape.
I sat on the floor. I was grateful to be rescued from Emilio. But how could my SR possibly get me out of a locked room on the sixth floor? Perhaps my SR had, in fact, led me into a hopeless situation. What if I remained trapped here until Emilio realized there were no police around? He’d come back and get me. He’d throw me down the elevator shaft. With horror, I imagined that Emilio may already realize the signal was false. Maybe he was already coming to get me.
The dim light and the dusty smell of the room was depressing and the hopeless situation I was in made me want to escape reality. I was tempted to comfort myself with prime numbers, something I had not done for a long time. I had become so confident in myself that I had not needed prime numbers to help me deal with reality. I didn’t want to go back to the way I had been, when I was a weaker man, with less confidence. But this situation was so bleak and uncomfortable, I was tempted.
My SR beeped and the screen glowed. Urgent instructions appeared on the SR; instructions that made my stomach tense.
“Urgent!” I read. “Jump out the window!”
My heart started beating fast and I felt sick. If I jumped out the window, I would certainly die. There was no rope to grasp, like at the Marine Air Terminal. This was certain death.
And also, I had decided to never use my CCC again; I had asked Rozzozzo to destroy it. I had decided never to use it because the newspaper had reported that I jumped off a building and survived. Nora had read this story to me and she mentioned how she hoped no one would try to imitate me and jump off a building. I was worried someone with Asperger’s would admire me and try to imitate my jump. If someone fell off a building and died because they were imitating me, I would be so horrified, I’d probably “become autistic” for a week! So I decided to never use the CCC again. The CCC technology was not included in my SR. So, why was the SR asking me to jump out of a window? It shouldn’t be telling me t
o do something so dangerous. It could not have been working correctly. Maybe my invention was a failure, after all?
I had told my friends to trust in my equations and my inventions, but now I was starting to seriously doubt myself. I felt like the SR was telling me to kill myself. As if I was such a failure, my own invention wanted to me end my failed life. I was so confused and horrified, I surrendered to my temptation. I ignored the SR and thought about prime numbers.
“2, 3, 5, 7…”
The beeping of the SR interrupted my counting. I knew it was giving me an urgent warning that I was jeopardizing my mission by not obeying its commands, but I didn’t want to hear it. I was sure it didn’t work, because I couldn’t possibly jump out of a window and live. I switched the SR off and continued counting prime numbers.
“11, 13, 17, 19…”
My wrist TV made a crackling noise and I heard Nora’s voice.
“Trueman,” said Nora. “I believe in you. I believe in your equations and your inventions! I admire you and your mind! So, please believe in yourself too! I know you can do it!”
At first, I was confused by this. How did Nora know to call me and give me encouragement, right when I needed it?
“How was that?” asked Nora.
Confused, I looked at my wrist TV.
“Was that a good message?” asked Nora.
I could see that Nora was on the wrist TV screen. I was also on the screen, standing beside her. Nora gave me an embrace and I smiled.
I suddenly remembered this was a recording I had made with Nora a few days ago. I had considered the possibility that I might not be able to trust in the instructions of the SR if they sounded too dangerous.
I knew, if this happened, that I might get upset and “become autistic.” I would probably try to comfort myself with prime numbers. I would probably also switch off my SR, so I would not be disturbed. So, I arranged for this pre-recorded video to play on my wrist TV if I shut off my SR during a mission. I knew a message from Nora, saying how much she admired me and believed in me, would restore my confidence. And it did. I felt confident again and I switched on my SR.