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Blythe
Prison, he’s been there for five years.”
    I take out a pen and scribble the prison
note next to his name.   She looks me up
and down and says, “Maybe you’d like to come in sweetheart?”
    “Umm, no, thank you,” I tell her, trying
to get out of there as quickly as humanly possible.
    She slams the door.  
    I shove the list back in my pocket and
speed off to a house three streets away.   This particular house has freshly cut grass, a wooden windmill out front
and all of the trimmings of a properly kept yard.   I look back at the list.   Ronald Payton was imprisoned for check
fraud.  
    After parking my bike out front, I walk up
to the porch and ring the doorbell.   I am
curious how such different houses can exists within a short radius of one
another, but I focus when a man in a suit answers the door.
    “Yes, may I help you?” he asks.
    “Yeah, I need to speak to Ronald Payton,”
I say.
    “I’m Ronald Payton,” he says,
straightening his long silver tie.
    He steps onto the porch and shuts the door
behind him, seemingly fearful that someone inside will overhear our
conversation.
    “Rodney Vinton,” I tell him.   “I’m canvassing the area looking for a
missing twelve-year-old girl.   Her name
is Sasha Fitzgerald.”
    Seemingly relieved, he says, “Do you have
a picture of her?”
    I fish my cell phone from my pocket and
pull up the picture of Sasha that Ronan shared with me earlier at the club.
    I show my phone to Ronald and he says,
“I’ve actually seen this girl around here.   My son has a paper route and we do the rounds early each morning.   I’ve seen her walking to the junior high, I
believe.”
    “Did you see her earlier today?”
    “No, I’m afraid not.”
    A presence appears at the door and it
opens to reveal a woman.   She’s probably
in her early forties and wears a blue dress with smaller white polka dots.  
    “A friend of yours, Ron?” she asks him,
nudging him.  
    “Actually, he’s looking for a missing
twelve-year-old girl in the area.”
    “People these days will snatch up our
children and do horrible things,” she rambles.
    I show her my cell phone picture of Sasha
and she shakes her head.
    “Well, thanks anyways guys,” I tell them
before walking back out to my bike.   I
make a note on the list that the man has seen Sasha, but not today.
    After an hour passes, my list is
complete.   I tuck the paper inside my
pocket and pull my helmet onto my head.   I start up my hog and ride my way back to the school with hopes that the
others had better luck.
    We all meet up at the school and discuss
our findings.   Jason tells of the
fascinating but creepy people he asked about Sasha.   We turn our attention to Ken who says that
he’s found nothing of interest.   He hands
me back his paper and I can see that he’s gotten lazy and was scratching out
names one by one.
    Alexandra has also come up short.   She tells us, “These are some pretty fucking
creepy ass people.”
    I shrug.   Arnold says, “A lot of these folks are in Blythe Prison, so I guess
that’s a dead end.”
    “Alright, let’s head back to the club,” I
say, defeated and at a loss.
    Helmets adorn all of our heads as we speed
off to the club for a quick recap of our efforts.
    We arrive and another pink bike is out
front.   It’s like Trish’s bike, but more
elaborate and has intricate detailing in the paint job.   I walk inside, taking notice that Trish’s
bike is absent.
    Inside the bar is a frenzy of people
working out any possible leads.   A
gorgeous woman of about thirty-five is at the bar, trying to reassure
Ronan.   She’s clad in an unbuttoned cleavage-baring
white blouse with a pair of tight blue jeans.   Her stilettos make her look ten feet tall.  
    I wonder who she is, but a kiss over the
bar engages Ronan’s lips and I know.   It’s Veronica, his wife.   Trish’s
mother.   Holy shit, Veronica must’ve been
like fourteen when she hooked up with Ronan.
    “What do