“Nothing,” I said.

Sill gave me a friendly, warm, brotherly slap on the back. “We can go home now. Our chariot awaits.”

The three of us, Sill, Eigen, and me, piled into a little Renault and drove back to the airport. I waved to Gloria. “Will Gloria take another car to the plane?” I asked. “I mean, she is your pilot, right?”

“Don’t fret, Wala. Don’t fret.”

A bijective function

1

One might think that it would be hard for a one-legged bulldog to express emotion, but I can’t tell you that is not true. Trigo was quite angry with me, as you say, pissed off. He seemed completely comfortable with DeMarcus, but he had a bone to pick with me.

“I’m sorry,” I said to him.

He just looked at me and squeezed out a shit.

I apologized again and gave him a Goober off which I had sucked all the chocolate. He liked that. He softened. I put him in the Björn and walked to the library. I needed the comforting smell of old paper and hide glue. When I got there, I found a note on the case containing the Gutenberg Bible. It read: Wala, figure out cardinality for me. I was confused because I didn’t know there was anything about cardinality to figure out. The number of elements in a set. What could be clearer? And because it was clear, the note troubled me no end. What was the cardinality problem? Could the note have been referring to the cardinality of the continuum or was it a reference to Hilbert’s silly hotel, a thought experiment to which I responded that not only will there always be an infinite number of filled rooms, but an infinite number of empty ones as well? Was it a cryptic joke placed there by Sill to annoy and distract me or was it a cryptic cry for help from Eigen?

I looked out the window at the noon-lit Biscayne Bay. The Coast Guard cutter floated by. There seemed to be some kind of ceremony being held at the memorial on the tiny island in the middle.

Trigo perked up and suddenly DeMarcus was there.

“Lunch is served,” the man said.

“Okay,” I said. I felt the resignation in my voice.

“May I give Master Trigo a treat?” DeMarcus asked.

“Of course.”

DeMarcus pulled a small can from his coat pocket. He pulled the tab and opened it. The smell of Vienna sausages hit me, familiar from my childhood. He reached in with his big fingers and extracted one, fed it to an eager Trigo. I thought I saw DeMarcus smile.

“He likes you,” I said.

DeMarcus fed him another. “Is that too much?” he asked.

“I don’t deny him anything,” I said.

“Very good, sir.” The can empty, it disappeared from view.

“Where is lunch this time?” I asked.

“Aboard the yacht.”

“Of course.”

I followed DeMarcus. Out at the dock I saw a sailboat that was perhaps nine or ten meters long. It was shockingly tasteful relative to all else I had seen, the jet, the helicopter, the submarine. My reaction must have shown on my face.