Avenue M ran through a number of Brooklyn neighborhoods.
"Can we narrow that down a bit?"
Abe pushed out his lower lip. "Can't say for sure, but I got a feeling that's a Flatlands address."
"How can you tell?"
"Old uncles I had used to live out there when it was predominantly Jewish. Now it's predominantly not Jewish."
Jack pulled out his cell phone and called the number Abe gave him. After four rings he was shunted to voice mail. He listened to the standard message—''Hi, this is Mike, blah-blah-blah"—and hung up. Then he called the office number and got voice mail again. A more formal message this time: "Hello. You have reached the Gerhard Agency …"
No question: Same voice both times.
Jack left a message: "Mister Gerhard, this is Jack—"
He needed a last name. He glanced around, saw Nike on a shoebox. No. Saw Prince on a racket.
"—Prince and T wish to engage your services. Please call me as soon as possible. It's an urgent matter." He left his Tracfone number.
There. All he had to do now was wait for his callback, arrange a meet, and convince him to square his accounts with Christy Pickering.
But while he was waiting, why not check out his "office."
3
ack hopped the A train down to 23rd, then walked over to the address of the Gerhard Agency. As Christy had said, a mail drop. Jack used a number of them himself, in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens, but this one was new to him.
He peeked through the window of box 624—Gerhard's "suite" number—and found it crammed with mail. Too bad this wasn't the drop Jack used a few blocks from here. He was sure he could wheedle a look at Gerhard's mail from Kevin, the guy who ran that place. But here, knowing nobody, he wouldn't even try.
His cell started to ring. He smiled as he pulled it from his pocket.
Mr. Gerhard, I presume.
But no. Abe's voice came through instead.
"I just called the hospital. Doctor Buhmann is awake and speaking. Shall we pay a visit?"
Oh, yeah. He had a few questions he wanted to ask the good professor.
4
"One-sixty-one."
Jack stared down at Doc Buhmann. He seemed to be fading into his pillowcase. The right side of his face drooped. The thin fingers of his left hand plucked absently at the bedsheet while the right lay limp at his side. Once he'd come to they'd moved him out of intensive care to this semiprivate room. Jack was glad for that. If he never saw the inside of an ICU again it would be too soon.
"I said, it's good to see you awake," Abe repeated.
The prof gave him a weak, lopsided smile. "Three-twenty-nine." The words slurred like someone at the end of a long bender.
Abe looked at Jack across the bed and muttered. "Three-twenty-nine? What's with these numbers already? I ask him a question, he gives me a number."
"Numbers are all he's said since he came to," said an accented female voice.
Jack looked toward the door and saw a heavyset nurse with coffee-colored skin approaching. She stopped at the foot of the bed.
"Is this usual after a stroke?" Abe said.
She shook her head. "First time I've seen it, but Doctor Gupta didn't seem too surprised."
"That's his neurologist, right? The one I spoke to. Where is he?"
"Down the hall. He should be here soon." She grabbed the small tent made by the prof's right foot and wiggled it. "Can you feel this, Peter?"
He gave her a watery stare. "Forty-nine."
"See?"
The prof was obviously responding to questions, but why with numbers instead of words?
Creepy.
A lean, dark-skinned man with a Saddam mustache strolled in carrying a chart.
"I am Doctor Gupta." His voice was high pitched, with a lilting Indian accent. "Which one of you is this man's son?"
Abe seemed to be in a trance, staring at the prof. When he didn't answer, Jack pointed to him.
"He is."
Jack wondered how Dr. Gupta could buy that fiction. Hard to imagine a less likely father-son pair.
Abe shook himself. "What? Oy. Yes. I'm him." They shook hands. "Tell me about this stroke."
"It's worse than a hemorrhagic stroke, I am afraid, although that would be serious enough. Your father has a brain tumor. That is what hemorrhaged."
"Gevalt!" He turned to the prof. "You never told me!"
"It's not exactly a brain tumor because it didn't originate there. It's metastatic from a lung mass which is in turn metastatic from a renal carcinoma. At least that is what we assume because his right kidney was removed not too long ago. Where would we find his medical records?"
Abe looked flustered. Jack knew he'd kept in touch with his old professor but this was obviously all news to him.
Jack jumped in: "But why is he speaking in numbers? I've heard of speaking in tongues, but—"
"The damage reached the Wernicke's area on the left side of the brain and thus has caused a form of receptive aphasia."
"Want to try that again in real-people talk?" Jack said.
"His speech is preserved but the content is garbled. He is most likely not understanding what we say to him."
Abe waved a hand at the prof. "But always with the numbers—why?"
"Ah, that is most interesting." Gupta seemed excited beneath his blase surface. "What numbers has he spoken to you?"
"Forty-nine just before you came in," Jack said.
Gupta jotted something on the chart cover.
Abe added, "One-sixty-one and three-twenty-nine before that."
More scribbling as he muttered, "Fascinating . . .fascinating.""
"Not so fascinating," Abe said, his face darkening. "More like tragic."
"Ask him something."
Abe shook his head, so Jack leaned over the man and touched his hand.
"Doctor Buhmann—where's the Compendium? It's not in your office. Did you hide it somewhere?"
The prof looked up at him. "Ninety-one."
"Yes!" Gupta muttered as he scribbled.
Abe's fury seemed to be growing.
Jack pulled out the Xerox of the Kicker Man and held it up.
"Why did you copy this?"
The prof's eyes widened. He raised his shaky left hand and pointed at the figure.
"Six-five-fifty-nine! Two-seventeen!" He snatched the sheet from Jack's hand and stared at it adoringly. "Seven-ninety-one!"
More scribbling by Gupta. "Amazing!"
Abe took a step toward him. He had mayhem in his eyes.
"Enough already! What's going on?"
"Multiples of seven! Every number he says is a multiple of seven! Seven-ninety-one is one-thirteen times seven. Two-seventeen is thirty-one times seven. One-sixty-one is twenty-three times seven. Six-five—"
"We get it," Jack said. "So what?"
Gupta looked up with bright eyes. "I have never heard of such a thing. I'll have to do a search to see if it's ever occurred before."
Jack could see visions of publishing a paper dancing in his head.
"But what are you doing about it?" Abe said.
"We have excellent speech pathologists on staff. I've already ordered a consult."
"What's that going to do for his cancer?"
"I have an oncologist coming in later, but renal cancer at this stage…" He shook his head.
Abe looked heartbroken.
Gupta said, "Tell me, he is a professor, yes?"
Abe nodded.
"Of mathematics?"
"No. Linguistics."
Gupta frowned. "Odder. One would expect—"
"Odd you want? Try this: All those numbers he's multiplying by seven are prime."