“You know, bang, bang, stabby, stabby, spy stuff.”

I looked at Sill. He smiled and shrugged. “That was Eigen singing by the way. The email.”

“Yes, that was my terrible song,” Eigen said.

“Well, it was kinda bad. I didn’t understand it.”

“What’s to understand? It’s a song.”

“It’s got words, right? Well, those words didn’t make sense.” Trigo barked. “See, Trigo agrees. Who’s the he in the song? Him?” I nodded to Sill. “Round the moon? The moon moves around Earth and it doesn’t rotate.”

“It’s a song.”

“Please, please,” Sill said. “We can argue about this later. Or not. Right now you need to finish your burger and then we need to get to the airport. My jet is fueled up and ready to go.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Miami.”

“Why?” I asked.

“To do some bad stuff,” Eigen said.

“Why am I going?” I asked.

“For company,” Sill said. “By the way, I put another million or so in your bank account. I think that will stir up a bit more interest in you. Also, I might have hidden a couple of cell phones in your house, with calls in the history to known international terrorists and the dons of a couple of drug cartels.”

“This is blackmail,” I said. Trigo barked.

“More like persuasion.” Sill ripped a paper napkin, but not all the way through, and set it on the table. “Shall we?”

I pointed at the napkin. “Is that supposed to mean something? Why didn’t you tear it all the way in half?”

“I got tired.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because he’s bad,” Eigen said. “He’s real bad. It turns out I like bad. Who would have thought that? I mean, this morning I was concerned with norms and pointwise convergence and tonight, who knows, I might kill someone.”

“Well, keep a good thought.”

I went with them. I had nothing to lose.

Miami

1

John Sill’s Bombardier Challenger 350 was obviously a source of pride. I let my body weight and the weight of the day sink into the white leather seat. Trigo was next to me in his own chair. He was unfazed by the situation, as was his wont.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” Sill said. “It’s not the biggest jet. I didn’t get the 650 because, well, it’s a bit ostentatious.”

“I’m very comfortable, thank you,” I said.

The flight was very smooth. I slept. I slept a lot in those days, though not always at night. I was a big dreamer, though I was not certain they were always mine. During this flight, however, I don’t think I dreamed. I awoke to find my hand on Trigo’s snoring belly and my eyes on Eigen sleeping across from me. Sill was seated beside her and his eyes were wide open and focused on me.

“How does one become a billionaire?” I asked.

“Greed.” He smiled. “It helps if your mother leaves you twenty-five million in stocks and who knows how much in real estate. She bought apartment buildings and strip malls and parking structures in every city along the Mississippi and beyond, some three hundred properties in total. Then there were the books. My mother collected first editions of everything.”