You may recall Eric Roberts whining to Mickey Rourke about his severed thumb in, "The Pope of Greenwich Village." Well, I recently lost a digit. Three actually: "1-0-1." The unit number on my condo. I'd still be none the wiser, had I not received a frantic, and nigh unto incomprehensible phone call from a pizza delivery man.

"I think I'm outside your building." Said the delivery man, in an accent I couldn't quite distinguish, "But there's no number!"

I'd been waiting nearly two hours for the pizza; stomach shriveled to the size of a desiccated prune, and in no mood for such malarkey. Half mad from hunger, my Italian blood simmering like my Aunt Katie's Sunday gravy, I stormed over to the front door, flung it open, and lambasted my tormentor.

"No number!!! What the hell is this then???" I snapped, thrusting my finger at what I suddenly realized was a blank spot on the stucco wall.

Cell phone still pressed to his ear, the delivery man eyed me as if he were an orthodox moyle, confronting a methamphetamine-crazed, face painted Mel Gibson with the prospect of circumcision. It took several minutes for me to convince the guy I wasn't dangerous. Finally, I was able to coax him from his car with the promise of a sizeable tip. It wasn't until I'd devoured six slices of the "Little Italy Special" (meatballs; anchovies; extra cheese), and my blood sugar level returned to normal, that I was able to focus on the mystery of the missing digits.

Who the hell would swipe the number from someone's condo? Was I being pranked by the neighbor's kids? Perhaps the digits were lifted by a bizarre cult of numerologists, and used in some unholy mathematical sex ritual involving single-digit devisors? Vegas was crawling with freaks. Anything was possible. Only one thing to do: contact the Home Owners Association. For those of you blissfully unaware, HOAs are a lot like al-Qaeda: they operate under a cover of secrecy, and are merciless, unyielding and fanatical in enforcing their rules. Not something I looked forward to. The following afternoon, before leaving the complex, I stopped by the office and laid it on them . . .

"I've got one you've probably never heard before . . ." I said, attempting levity.

Resembling an exhibit at Madame Tussaud's, a woman, rigid and and stone-faced, regarded me unblinkingly from behind her pc monitor.

"I've heard it all. Take your best shot."

"Someone swiped the unit number off my condo."

Apparently she hadn't heard it all.

"Someone stole your unit number? Are you certain?"

"Yes. I have a witness. A pizza delivery man."

The woman shook her head, "I've never heard that before."

"I did warn you."

"Well . . . since the incident involves a theft, I'm going to have to fill out a report."

"Are you joking?"

She wasn't joking.

"Look, this is serious. We can't have residents running around stealing other residents unit numbers. What if word got out? Who'd want to live here?"

"Can't you just put up some new numbers?"

This will only take a minute . . . now, can you describe these numbers?"

"Yes. A one. Followed by a zero. Followed by another one."

"No, no . . . I mean what style were they -- the pre-renovation Roman Gothic, or the new Urban Classic?"

"I'm not sure. They just looked like numbers."

There was that head shake again, "We're probably going to have to order something. Might take a few weeks. Maybe longer."

"I'm sorry. I really don't mean to put you to all this trouble. Look, I have a friend who's a graffiti artist. Why don't I have him stop by and throw something up -- some gigantic, flaming numerals that'll be easy for the pizza guy to spot. Maybe even a Chairman Mao-style mural of Puffy Combs. Have a nice day . . ."

Well, I'm pleased to report that two days later, my missing unit number was back; just as mysteriously as it had vanished. Too bad though. Another day or so and I would've had the coolest lookin' condo in Vegas.