“It’s impossible,” Porter agrees, and he starts asking me the same questions all over again—when did I get there, where did I park, did I lock it? I snap at him a little and then apologize. I’m on edge and trying not to bawl my eyes out like a two-year-old kid in front of everyone, because—of course—now there are several other employees out here. And everyone’s looking around the lots, making sure they don’t see it abandoned in the regular parking area.
Just when I’m about to give up and call my dad, Pangborn says to Porter, “By the way, did your friend catch up with you?”
“Who?”
“?e one with the bum leg.”
Porter stills. “Davy?”
“?at’s the one. He was looking for you.”
“Here?” Porter’s confused.
Pangborn nods. “He was skulking around by the employee entrance when I was coming back from my … uh, afternoon medicine break.” Pangborn’s eyes dart to some nearby employees. “Anyway, he didn’t recognize me at rst, but I remembered him from when he worked here last summer for a few days. I asked him if he wanted me to page you, but he said he’d just text you.”
“No, he didn’t,” Porter says. “What time was this?”
“Couple of hours ago?”
Porter’s face goes as dark as the overcast sky. “Listen to me, Bailey. Does Davy know what your scooter looks like?”
“I …” It takes me a second to remember. “Yeah, at the posole truck. He saw me with it when I was with my dad and Wanda. Asked me if it had been restored.”
Porter’s head drops back. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I think I know who stole your bike. Get in my van. He’s a couple of hours ahead of us, but I know where we can start looking.”
• • •
I’m too stunned to talk until we’re speeding away from the museum and headed south on Gold Avenue. I’ve never been this far on this side of town, and everything looks strange. ?at’s when it hits me that I should probably ask where we’re going.
“Is this the way to Davy’s house?”
“No.” Porter’s angry. Really angry. ?e muscles in his arms are
exing as he holds the steering wheel in a death grip. “He’ll try to
sell it. He wants cash for drugs.”
“Oh my God. Why me? Why my scooter?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Because he’s pissed at me. Because he’s mad about the party going to shit last night. Because he knows it was his fault. Because deep down he knows he’s a screwup, but he hasn’t hit rock bottom yet, so he’s going to keep going until he’s either dead or in jail.”
I wait for several seconds, trying to gure exactly how to ask this, and then I just give up and come right out and say it. “What does any of that have to do with me and my bike?”
“Aghhh,” Porter says, almost a sigh, somewhere between exasperated and guilty. “Because I went over to see him before work today, and we got into a huge ght. Somehow he’s gotten it into his thick, stupid skull that you are …” He sighs now—a real sigh, low and long. “Okay, think of it like this. He’s got the mind of a toddler, and because he thinks that I have a shiny new toy, you being that toy—not that you are a toy! God, I knew this was a bad analogy.”
“Whoa, you are digging yourself in real deep, buddy.”
“Look, he thinks I like you, therefore he wants you. And today I told him if he harasses you again or brings a gun anywhere near you, I will burn his goddamn house down.”
Well. ?at’s not something you hear every day. A foreign, uneasy feeling ping-pongs inside my gut.
“And because he’s a brat, what he’s doing right now is retaliation. If he can’t have you, he’s going to do dumbass, destructive things—like steal your shit and sell it for money, so he can get wasted and forget he’s a total screwup. Because he’s a maniac, and that’s what he does.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah,” he says in a softer voice, one that’s suddenly all out of rage. “So, basically, this is my fault, and I’m sorry, Bailey.”
I glance down at my feet and line up the toes of my ats with the oor mat. “Davy thinks you like me, or you really do like me?” Last night in the yard seems like a million years ago.
