‘They told me he went on a trip. I know that ain’t true. He didn’t take his bike. Not on his own he don’t go nowhere!’

‘What did he do, Pete?’ I said. ‘What did he pull?’

‘Nothin’! I swear.’

He was nervous. He had something more on his mind.

‘Come on,’ I said.

He was a thin kid, tall, and he had the hard muscles all the kids have around the docks. But he was lean and scrawny. I guessed he had never eaten too well or had much of anything. His Adam’s apple did a dance in his throat.

‘That cop,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘The fuzz got beat? He got it the day before Jo-Jo faded.’

‘Stettin?’ I said. ‘So what?’

‘The bull got it right down the block from Schmidt’s.’

‘The garage on Water Street?’

‘Yeh.’

He seemed to think he had painted a picture of great clarity. Maybe he had.

‘You mean that you and Jo-Jo were doing your work on the motorbike at Schmidt’s Garage?’

‘Yeh. Jo-Jo he works by Schmidt’s. I mean, he works there regular, ‘n the last couple months we been workin’ on the new bike there.’

What Pete Vitanza was trying to tell me, in the inarticulate manner of Chelsea, was this: Jo-Jo Olsen was missing when he had no reason to be missing that Pete knew, and every reason to not be missing; Patrolman Stettin had been mugged near where Jo-Jo Olsen worked; and Jo-Jo did his fade-out the morning after Stettin had been attacked. It could be something. It could be nothing.

‘Did Jo-Jo need money? The cycle must have cost,’ I said.

‘Jo-Jo stashed his loot. He’s a good mechanic. Schmidt pays him good, ‘n he don’t got to give money home.’

‘Did he need a pistol? Maybe he was going into business.’

‘Hell, no!’ Petey said quickly. ‘Anyway, his old man got guns. He could of got a gun.’

‘Did he ever have any trouble upstairs? Psycho? Any time on the funny farm?’