NEWPORT - Gomez is a dead end, or so it appears.  The man in the velour suit wants money.  Lots of money.  Money that I just don't have, not after my recent botox procedures.  I leave the Westend Tavern, telling him I will keep in touch.

My mind reels with unanswered questions. Where is Blaine?  What or who is he hiding from?   Though my efforts to raise funds through a collection at the Dealer office nets only 3 jellybeans and a filthy penny, I am heartened by the number of kind people who contact me throughout the week, expressing concern for their favorite media personality, letting me know that I am not alone in my despair.

Louella Parsons, a 70-year-old lady with lungs of iron, calls to let me know that she played Bingo last Thursday with a man fitting Blaine's description.

"He's tall, isn't he?"

No, not really.

"Smells nice?"

No, not really.

"Well, that picture of him with the pig really meant a lot to me.  My granddaddy used to raise pigs."

I thank her for getting in touch with me, and then ask her to spread the word among her network of bingo-playing friends.  These women hold the pulse of Northern Kentucky in their gnarled fingers.

It occurs to me to visit the headquarters of Cincinnati Advance, to find out how the planned vigil is coming along.  This is not a task that is as easy as it would seem.  Indeed, penetrating the inner sanctum of this secretive organization is as difficult as getting Deborah Combs to pay taxes. 

I stop by a City Council meeting and find a gang of CinAdders in attendence.  I spy Brian the Blogger, Merissa the Student, Jay the Theatre Guy, and Eric the Stoner listening intently to a disquisition on the possible merits of a monorail linking Paul Brown Stadium to DeGuido's Pawn Shop on Main.

Noticing a chick drinking a Heinekin 40 ouncer, deep in conversation with another chick blatantly sipping a Cosmopolitan martini in the heart of our city's seat of government, I pull out my notepad and sit down beside them. 

"Well, like, how long has he been missing, Pam?"

"Oh, 'bout 10 days, according to Barry, Jan."

"And Merissa and Brian are going to perform some sort of ceremony for him, Pam."

"Wow, Jan, like when Nick Spencer disappeared after losing his 10th bid for council?"

"Umm, no.  More like when Bush finally gets his ass moved out of office, Pam."

"Well Jan, you mean like a celebratory sort of thing, don't you?"

"Yeah.  With booze and everything, Pam."

"Cool.  When is it?"

Fealing nauseous, I get up from my chair.  The council meeting is over.  Sad and confused, I have my eyes downcast when I notice a scrap of paper falling to the floor.  As the CinAdders leave the room, I go over to where they had been standing.  I pick up the piece of paper and slip it into my purse.

Outside Council chambers I wait for the large crowd to clear, and then remove the paper from my coppermouth-skin handbag.  With shaking hands I read the following: Gomez deMalodororo  859-555-5555.  Will get the job done.  Call after 2 am.

I must let Fred know what I have discovered!  Wasting no time, I run to my lavender Prius and put the pedal to the metal.