Trueman Bradley - Aspie Detective (4 page)

“Thank you for the cake,” I said.

“You’re welcome!” she said. “I’m glad your Asperger’s doesn’t stop you from understanding good etiquette.”

“My granddad taught me about it,” I said. “I had some problems understanding the concept of etiquette, at first.”

I sat up and checked off “have tea and cake with Mrs. Levi” from my checklist. I picked up my piece of chalk and continued inventing my crime-fighting equation.

“What are you doing there, dear?” she asked.

“I’m inventing a crime-fighting equation,” I said.

“Pardon me?” she asked. “What sort of equation?”

“Well,” I said. “It’s an equation to determine when and where crime will take place in New York City.”

I opened a box and pulled out some papers.

“I’ve ordered these statistics,” I said. “They show when and where crime has occurred in New York City since 1951. If I can use this statistical data as variables, then I can make a mathematical equation that will determine where crime will happen next. I can’t use a linear equation, because crime is very complicated and has many variables. But I think I might succeed if I use a path integral equation.”

“Path integral?” she asked.

She looked completely confused.

“A path integral is an equation,” I said. “It is usually used in physics to determine the probability of what a particle will do in a plane or medium, given an infinite variety of trajectories. First I need to define the medium. The medium, here, is New York City’s criminal history. The trajectory can be any crime that has been committed or will be committed.”

“My goodness!” she said. “You are clever, Trueman! I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must be a mathematical genius! Can you really use equations to catch criminals?”

“Yes,” I said. “You can use an equation for anything.”

“Then, why hasn’t it been invented before?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Could you come back another time? I am scheduled to work on the crime-fighting equation right now and you are giving me a headache with all your questions.”

“What?” she asked. “Well, so much for good etiquette!”

Mrs. Levi’s voice had changed, but I couldn’t interpret her emotions. My words seemed to have disturbed her somehow.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did I say something bad?”

“It’s not good etiquette to tell a guest she’s giving you a headache!” she said. “How do you think that makes me feel?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You look disturbed.”

“Well, yes I am,” she said. “It’s rude to say someone is ‘giving you a headache.’ I’ll forgive you because of your Asperger’s, but next time, remember it’s a rude thing to say.”

I felt guilty for offending her without meaning to. But I still couldn’t see what I did wrong. How else will I be able to do my work, as scheduled, unless I tell her to leave? If her questions were giving me a headache, was I not supposed to mention it and pretend they didn’t give me a headache?

“Am I supposed to lie?” I asked. “I was only telling the truth. How is that rude? I don’t understand.”

“Never mind, Trueman,” she said. “I know that some things are hard for you to understand and I don’t mind. But, I guess, if I’m giving you such a headache, then I’ll just be going.”

She collected her cups and teapot and put them on the tray.

“I didn’t say you give me a headache,” I said. “I said your questions give me a headache. Because I am trying to work on my equation and listen to you at the same time.”

“So?” she asked.

“I can’t concentrate on more than one thing at once,” I said. “It is very hard for me. It gives me a headache. That is why I make this checklist of my daily activities. See?”

I showed her my checklist and she became calmer.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “You have trouble doing two things at once?”

“Yes,” I said. “And so I schedule my activities in an orderly checklist. When I work on math, I listen to music and must be alone. I am glad you brought the cake, though, because the smell of raspberry will also help inspire my math.”

“Oh, well,” she said. “In that case I’ll leave you alone.”

She lifted her tray and walked towards the door. It seemed to me she understood my explanation, but she was silent and it was not normal for Mrs. Levi to be silent. I felt she might still be upset, so I made an effort to be friendly.

“You are welcome to come back later,” I said. “I enjoy your company. I will schedule our next meeting in my checklist. Can you come at eight in the morning for breakfast?”

I was happy to recognize the pleasure on her face.

“Alright, dear,” she said. “I’ll make you a nice waffle. And if you like raspberries I’ll go see my friend Mrs. Bernstein. She makes the most wonderful jam. You’ll love it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I started playing Mozart’s Symphony #41 and placed the raspberry lemon cake nearby, so I could smell it. In one minute I was so concentrated on my equation that I had forgotten Mrs. Levi. I had already entered a third of the variables for my crime-fighting equation and I was excited because my equation was beginning to form a mathematical shape in my mind.

“Trueman?” asked Mrs. Levi.

The interruption made me drop my chalk.

“You’re still here?” I asked.

It was shocking for me to realize Mrs. Levi was here, when she was not supposed to be. This was the kind of unexpected occurrence that gave me stress. It made me feel slightly sick.

“Why are you still here?” I asked.

She was standing beside the open door, holding her tray.

“I just thought of something, dear,” she said. “My daughter-in-law, Nora, would be very interested in your equation. She’s a private detective too, you see. Why don’t you talk to her? She could help you by teaching you a bit about how to be a detective. You might be of help to her, too, with your crime-fighting equation and how well you notice details.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to get rid of Mrs. Levi, so I could work. I was not interested in her talk, but I pretended I was interested so she would go away and let me work in solitude. “I will write her name in my notebook.”

“Nora Lucca,” she said. “Actually, it’s Dr. Nora Lucca. She’s a PhD in criminology. You two ought to get along really well. I hear she’s good at math, so she’ll be able to understand all your talk about equations and such.”

I wrote Nora’s name in my notebook, but then realized I didn’t know how to contact her, so I couldn’t put her on my checklist. I can’t contact someone without an address.

“I can’t contact her,” I said. “I don’t have her address.”

“Oh, you don’t need it,” she said. “Nora will be at a convention for professional detectives, here in Manhattan, next week. Be at the Sentinel Hotel next Thursday, at noon. You can go to the convention and meet her there. I’ll call her and tell her to meet you. Oh, I’m glad you’re meeting Nora, dear. Now I don’t have to worry about someone robbing you or taking advantage of you. Nora will take good care of you. She’s a nice girl. And smart! Oh, she’s smart as they come.”

Mrs. Levi left the room and I wrote in my notebook.

“Thursday,” I wrote. “At noon, at the Sentinel Hotel. Meet Dr. Nora Lucca at Professional Detective’s Convention.”

I looked at what I wrote. What was a Professional Detective’s Convention? Is that where all the detectives meet? If that’s so, then Sam Buckley might be there. Suddenly, I became excited and hopeful. If I could finish my equation and show it to Buckley, he would be impressed! He might change his mind and decide I’m a good detective. He might even let me solve a case with him!

I was inspired and lit a candle. Candlelight also helps me to concentrate. I needed all the concentration I could get. I had to finish my crime-fighting equation before the convention.

“Three dogs, sixteen women and forty-nine men,” I said.

“What?” asked Mr. Sal Valle, my driver.

Sal was driving me to the Professional Detective’s Convention. We had started our drive in front of my office on Reade Street. We had turned left onto Greenwich Street and were now turning right onto Murray Street. Our destination, the Sentinel Hotel, was near the end of Murray Street.

“Three dogs, sixteen women and forty-nine men,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” asked Sal.

“On Greenwich Street,” I said. “On the area of Greenwich Street that is between Reade Street and Murray Street I counted three dogs, sixteen women and forty-nine men. I’m glad there were no bicycles on the sidewalk. They startle me. And it is illegal in New York City to ride a bicycle on the sidewalk.”

“Why are you counting people on the street?” he asked.

“Because now I know how many people are on that area of Greenwich Street. Next time I come this way I’ll know what to expect. I get nervous if I don’t know what to expect.”

“Well, there won’t always be the same number of people on the street, you know,” he said. “So why count them?”

“Because next time I can count again,” I said. “And I can use an equation to estimate the number of people likely to be on the street. Every time I come this way and count the people, my estimation will improve, because I get more data for my equation. Do you now understand why I count the pedestrians?”

“Maybe my English is not perfect,” he said. “But it seems to me you’re not making any sense at all!”

Sal was a bald old man. He had a big white mustache with orange stains on it. I could recognize the stains were caused by tobacco. I knew from Sal’s strong and aromatic scent that he sometimes smoked a pipe. He smoked his pipe in the car and it left a strong stink on his clothes. I was glad he wasn’t smoking now, because smoke from a pipe makes me sneeze.

He spoke with an Italian accent. But because he was still learning to speak English, he used no expressions. I had no trouble communicating with him and so I enjoyed his company. It was also helpful to have someone to drive me to the hotel.

I had finished counting the pedestrians on Greenwich Street and I had written the data into my notebook. Now I was counting the people I saw on this area of Murray Street. Over the last week, I had written so many ideas into my notebook that I filled it up and I needed to get a new notebook. I had learned many things from the difficulties I had encountered on Broadway, that day Seth had robbed me. Since then, I had thought of a lot of solutions, so I wouldn’t encounter any of these problems again. I had thought of dozens of great ideas.

One great idea was to wear special sunglasses whenever I needed to walk through a crowd. I painted over the sides of my sunglasses, so I could only see what is ahead of me. This way, when I’m in a crowd, I can look straight ahead without being distracted or startled by anything happening beside me. Another great idea I had was to carry my digital music player with me at all times. This way I could listen to music whenever I was in a crowd, and avoid being disturbed by sudden noises.

I checked off “get special sunglasses” and “get digital music player”
from my checklist of today’s activities. The next item on the checklist was “get chauffeur.” I had the idea that if I had a chauffeur to drive me to my destinations, I could avoid walking on the busy streets as much as possible.

“Sal?” I asked. “Will you be my chauffeur?”

“Chauffeur?” he asked. “You mean to drive you around every place you want to go?”

“Yes,” I said. “I need a chauffeur because walking on sidewalks and city streets is sometimes disturbing to me.”

“No,” he said, “I can’t do that. I am only a poor old man. How can I pay to put gas in my car? I can’t afford to drive you! I am driving you to the hotel only because Mrs. Levi asked me to do it. I owe her a lot of money for rent, so I do what she says. You understand? I can’t be chauffeur for free.”

I hadn’t expected him to say no, so I felt sad and didn’t ask him any more questions. I crossed “get chauffeur” off my checklist and continued to count the people on Murray Street.

“Forty-three men and thirty-nine women,” I said.

“What?” he said. “Oh, you count again. Listen, even if you pay me, I can’t do it. I have no good car.”

“Oh, I’ll pay you,” I said. “And why do you say you have no good car? We can use this car. I don’t mind the stink.”

“No,” he said, “I think you should call a professional chauffeur business. If you need a chauffeur, they can give you a good car. Maybe I would do it if I had a good car. But you see, this old car I’ve had for thirty years. It is old, like me. It will break down someday soon. It might break down while I’m driving you someplace important. You see? I have no good car, so I can’t be reliable as a chauffeur.”

The inside of the car was dirty, smelly and littered with old papers and food packages. Sal’s clothing and old shoes were on the floor and the vinyl seats had holes in them, with seat-stuffing coming out of the holes. Sal was often blowing his nose as he drove, and many used tissue papers were on his lap. A photo of a car was on the dashboard.

“That photo,” I said. “It’s a photo of a 1942 Lincoln Continental Cabriolet.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “How do you know?”

“I memorized the model car catalog I had when I was eleven years old,” I said. “It had 215 types of cars in it. Is this a photo of your other car? This car looks good. Can you use this Lincoln car to be my chauffeur? Or is it also unreliable?”

“No, no. I don’t own this Lincoln car,” he said. “I wish I did! I keep this photo here because it is like the car my father had in Italy. A 1942 Cabriolet! That is what my father drove. I always loved that car. This car is for sale. I went to see it, but I didn’t have enough money to buy it. I took a photo of the car and I keep it here with me. At least, I can look at it every day. It gives me good memories of my father.”

“How much does the car cost?” I asked.

“This car?” he asked. “It’s 60,000 dollars! Too much! I looked under the hood and noticed the engine has some problems. A car with engine problems should not cost so much! But, you see, my father was a car mechanic in Italy. I learned the trade from him. So, if I bought it, I could fix it. But, like I said, I am only a poor old man. I don’t have 60,000 dollars.”

I pulled the rolls of money from out of my pockets and threw them onto the front passenger seat, beside Sal.

“I don’t have 60,000 dollars, either,” I said. “I can only give you 21,000 dollars. I have 3,000 dollars more, but that is my personal expense money. I need it.”

Our car turned violently to the left and then to the right.

“What’s happening?” I shouted.

The car was swerving left and right in quick, jerky movements. These unexpected jolts made me panic. I covered my ears, closed my eyes and thought about path integrals.

“Sorry!” he said. “I lost control of the car, but I have control now. It’s okay, now, Mr. Bradley! Are you okay?”

I opened my eyes and looked out the window. We were parked in front of a massive building. It had a neon sign that read “Sentinel Hotel” and, looking up, I counted forty floors. Sal was breathing heavily. He was holding one of my rolls of cash, staring at it. His eyes were wide open, like a fish.

“Don’t throw a lot of money at me while I’m driving!” he said. “You almost made me crash, throwing this stuff around!”

“Why?” I asked. “You don’t like money?”

“No!” he said. “I like the money! I like it a lot! But it surprised me, that’s all! No one carries so much money around in cash. You’re giving this to me, you said?”

“Yes,” I said.

“But, why?” he asked. “Why are you so nice to me?”

“Because you said you can’t be my chauffeur because your car will break down,” I said. “If you buy this Lincoln car and fix it, then you can be my chauffeur. So I gave you money to buy the car. I only have 21,000 dollars with me in cash, but I can give you a personal check for the remaining 39,000 dollars.”

“And I get paid a regular salary, too?” he asked.

“For being my chauffeur?” I said. “Yes.”

Sal stared at the cash and smiled. I had never seen such a big smile. I assumed this meant he was even happier than a person with a normal smile. I imagined he was so happy because he could now be my chauffeur.

“I’m also glad you’re my chauffeur,” I said.

“Your chauffeur?” he asked. “Listen! If you give me this money and a salary too, then for sure I will be your chauffeur! But, no need to give me the check right now. I will use this cash to make a down payment on the Lincoln car. I will go buy it while you are in the hotel. I’ll be back with the car before you are done with your convention.”

“Down payment?” I asked.

“Ah, never you mind, Mr. Bradley!” he said. “You just leave it to me. You go and enjoy your detective convention.”

Sal opened his door and jumped out of the car. With great energy, he opened my door and bowed. I stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, in front of the hotel. I put on my special sunglasses and put my earphones into my ears. I played Mozart’s Symphony #40 in G minor on my portable music player.

I felt like I was in a little “bubble,” just like I did when I did math in my room at Reade Street. I felt safe and insulated from the world around me, as if I were wearing armor. I could see pedestrians walking in front of me, but I turned to avoid them and walked to the entrance of the Sentinel Hotel.

I was almost at the hotel entrance when I realized that Sal might smoke his pipe in the new Lincoln car. I didn’t want my chauffeur car to smell like pipe-smoke. I turned around to go back and tell him not to smoke in it. I could see him in the driver’s seat of his old car, throwing my rolls of cash into the air and laughing spasmodically. I was shocked to see him having so much fun with my money.

“He’s very happy to be my chauffeur,” I said to myself.

I suddenly remembered the 1942 Lincoln Continental Cabriolet was an open-topped car. So even if he smoked his pipe in the driver’s seat, the open top would ventilate the car and prevent it from becoming too smelly. I was glad, because I thought it might be impolite to interrupt his money-throwing activities, which he was clearly enjoying so much.

I walked towards the hotel and entered the massive lobby. I could smell floor polish and could see moving water. There was a fountain in the lobby. The lobby’s marble floor was shiny and polished; it was a huge and luxurious room. I saw a lot of people walking around, but my special sunglasses stopped me from being distracted. I found a sign that said “Professional Detective’s Convention” and I followed the directional arrow beneath it, which pointed to the right.

I was proud of myself, knowing how thoroughly my various inventions were working. I was finding my way through the crowds with no problems whatsoever. I felt confident that I would go through this entire day without anything going wrong. I took out my notebook and checked off “enter Sentinel Hotel” and “find Professional Detective’s Convention” from my checklist of today’s activities. Next on my list was “meet Dr. Nora Lucca.”

I walked to the right and soon was in a room that smelled like wine and cheese. The many different perfumes and colognes mingling in the air made me aware the room was full of hundreds of people, before I even entered the room. Looking around, I counted 221 people in the room. Some of them were standing in groups and talking and some were sitting in high-back chairs.

I didn’t see anyone coming to meet me, so I sat in a nearby chair. Mrs. Levi had told me Nora Lucca would meet me here. I was alarmed that Nora hadn’t met me immediately. Mrs. Levi hadn’t informed me that I needed to wait for Nora. I began to get nervous that things weren’t going according to my plan.

I was soon distracted from my worries by a very welcome sight. I took off my sunglasses to see better.

“Are you Slam and Shorty?” I asked.

A tall man with a square jaw sat in the seat next to me. Beside him sat a short, fat man with a big nose. They both turned to look at me, but said nothing.

“You look like Slam Bradley,” I said to the tall man. “And you! You look like Slam’s assistant, ‘Shorty’ Morgan! Shorty was short, fat and bald, with a big nose. Just like you!”

The two men looked at each other and then at me. I could recognize by the look on their faces that they were annoyed.

“Sorry,” I said. “Did I annoy you?”

The short, bald man got up from his chair, put on a hat and walked away.

“Where is Shorty going?” I asked.

“Don’t call him that!” said the tall man. “Don’t you know who he is?”

“I thought he was Shorty,” I said.

“He’s the chief of the NYPD!” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “Then he’s not Shorty. Does that mean you aren’t Slam Bradley?”

“I’m Malcolm Vrie,” he said. “I’m a private investigator. I have no idea who Slam Bradley is. You’ve made a mistake.”

He stared at me in a way that made me uncomfortable, but I could not interpret what it meant or what he was feeling.

“Slam Bradley,” I said. “He was a comic book detective whose adventures were published by the ‘Detective Comics’ company. He was created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster…”

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t care, okay.”

“You don’t care?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Now, would you please go away? That seat you’re sitting in belongs to someone else.”

“Doesn’t it belong to the hotel?” I asked.

Malcolm laughed loudly. “What are you, some kind of moron?” he asked.

I could now recognize the emotions on his face. His eyes expressed hatred and aggression. I tried to think of what I might have done to offend him, but I couldn’t think of a reason.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked. “I said get lost!”

His eyes expressed even greater hatred and they were starting to scare me. I thought about running from the hotel.

“Are you Trueman Bradley?” asked a female voice.

A tall, young woman with long black hair and wearing a violet suit had come towards us and extended her hand to me. My granddad taught me people do this when they want to shake my hand. I grabbed her hand and shook it.