“I can’t find my Vespa anywhere,” Mickey yelled. He was sort of shaky on his feet, since he’d had only about four hours of not-very-good sleep. He wandered around his dad’s studio, looking behind sculptures and workstations, but the Vespa seemed to be lost.
“Where’d you see it last?” Caselli asked.
Mickey stared at him. Caselli had been working for Ricardo Pardo since before Mickey was born. He wore the same white jumpsuit that all of Ricardo’s employees wore, but his had a black dot on the chest, which signified that he was the leader, the head guy. He was also kind of Mickey’s godfather.
“Dude,” Mickey said. “I have no idea where it is, and my friends are coming over pretty soon, I think and … it’d be nice to have it.”
“You’re in no condition to drive anything,” Caselli said.
“Dude … I found Patch.”
“What does that mean?”
But Mickey had already turned around and walked back to his room. He had about a thousand in cash stashed in the belly of a blowfish his father had brought back from a fishing trip off the coast of Japan. He went to find the blowfish, which hung by a piece of twine from a pipe above his head. But because he was standing under it, he couldn’t see it. Instead, he found a thick envelope from American Express under several letters from school, which he’d really need to deal with, and soon. The letter had a credit card in it.
“Cool,” Mickey said. He decided to look for the cash later, took the card, and walked out of the house. “Tell my friends to chill here till I get back.”
“Wait,” Caselli said. “Where are you going?”
But Mickey was already out the door. He grabbed a cab and shot over to Crosby Street, where he went into Vespa Global.
“Hi, Mickey,” the manager said. “Come back to pick up your helmet?”
“I’ll take the black one,” Mickey said.
“We have only white helmets.”
“And two gallons of gas.” Mickey was already sitting on his new bike. He drew out his new credit card and flipped it to the manager.
Mickey found his phone in his jumpsuit pocket and called Philippa.
“I found Patch,” Mickey said. “Meet me outside your place.”
It was all the manager could do to get the door open, get Mickey to drag a pen across the signature line on the form, and get out of the way.
Mickey adjusted his goggles and tied a handkerchief over his mouth so he wouldn’t swallow any bugs. He tore down one-way streets the wrong way, popped curbs, and shot between pedestrians. At Philippa’s house, he honked. It sounded like Oooot, Oooot.
She came outside. She was in a flowery dress and her hair brushed against her shoulders. She sat down on her stoop. He loved her.
“I love you,” he said.
“Then get off the bike.”
“No, I need it. I found Patch.”
“Where is he?”
“I think … somewhere in Chinatown.”
“Look, Mickey, I love you, too. But if you don’t get off the bike and walk home, I’m not speaking to you. You’re in no position to have an engine under your ass.”
“Come with me.”
“I don’t think so. Listen, if you don’t straighten up at least a little, we can’t go out. You can’t wind up in the hospital every weekend. It’s too insane.”
Mickey looked closer and Philippa’s beautiful gray eyes seemed to be wet around the edges.
“I’ll change,” Mickey said.
“Give me the bike.”
“After we find Patch and we get that Ooh girl back to Alabama or wherever she’s from, I’ll change. I swear I will.”
“Well, she does need to get out of town. I can’t think of anybody who didn’t get messed up by her and it’s only a matter of time before she comes after you. But wait—”
But Mickey shot off, toward his house. His friends were there and he had responsibilities. He tore around corners, riding almost parallel to the ground. He shot down Seventh Avenue and weaved between the thick Saturday afternoon traffic headed toward the Holland Tunnel and New Jersey. Drivers honked and threw lit cigarettes and newspapers at him. He didn’t notice.
Caselli stood in the doorway to his house, and he clearly was fretting. Mickey got off the bike and Caselli caught it.
“Your friends are here,” Caselli said.
Mickey pulled off the handkerchief and then groped in his pocket for a tissue or something to wipe his nose. Instead, he found a cocktail napkin. Something on it caught his eye before he put it to his face. An IOU written in lipstick, with the imprint of a kiss.
“Oh shit,” Mickey said. “I remember now. I gave my Vespa to this girl last night so she’d stop bugging me for a kiss.”
He started to laugh. Caselli did, too, but his laugh was a bit more concerned.
“Arno’s in your room,” Caselli said.
Mickey made his way upstairs slowly. He knew it would be pretty hard to get that new Vespa away from Caselli.
“Mickey!”
Arno had been going through Mickey’s CDs, looking for something to play.
“Let’s go get Patch!” Arno yelled.
“What about David?” asked Mickey. “Where is he? And where’s Jonathan?”
“I need to apologize to David, too, now that I’m feeling good,” Arno said. He was on one of Mickey’s skateboards and he was tacking around the room, knocking into things.
“I can see that,” Mickey said. “Look, I’ve got a new Vespa downstairs. Why don’t we race around on it and try to get those guys together and then we can go get Patch?”
“Let’s do it!” Arno yelled. He popped Mickey’s board into the air and it shot across the room and smashed a framed Andy Warhol print of Mick Jagger that Ricardo Pardo had given to his son for his thirteenth birthday.
“Sorry, dude,” Arno said.
“Whatever,” Mickey said. “My dad’s being a dick lately anyway. Let’s roll.”