Neil Knight Private Dick

It's not as bad as it looks

A hotel in Santa Ana, the television on just for the noise. That show about miserable and forlorn medical people drones on in the background. The detective is reminded why he gave up broadcast TV, maybe, what, 10 years ago?

Yes.

That and the evening news.

What happened to the days before cable, when a person could tune in to an unreachable station just for the white noise?

An insistent knock on the hotel door disrupts his musings.

Neil reaches under his pillow for his lucky 38 revolver, slides off the low count cotton sheets and crosses the room like a blind grandmother just off a two-day bender.

Twisting the chrome plated knob on the cheap hollow core door he draws it open until the security chain complains.

Smoke from brush fires whipped up by the Santa Ana winds rush into the stagnant space, prompting him to abruptly recoil.

There, on the landing, is the kind of trouble he has seen before, but this one comes with blue eyes, chestnut hair and ruby red lips - all highlighted by the new December moon.

"Mr. Knight" she says through moistened lips "I need your help...desperately."

He sighs, and against his better judgment he closes the door slightly, slides the worn latch from its hasp, and, checking his 38 into the waistband at the small of his back, beckons the woman inside.

She moves past him like a cool crisp breeze on this hot Santa Ana night, a hint of sorrow tinged with shame filling his nostrils. She wears the perfume of the disenfranchised.

Neil's dogs, constant companions on his unscheduled getaways, record their level of interest by rearranging their positions on the queen size bed, and reconnecting with the kind of heavy sleep restricted to canines.

"Let me take your coat" he offers. "Can I pour you a bourbon?"

She turns her back to him, tilting her head to the left so her hair slides away, arching ever so slightly, like a cat waking from an afternoon nap. Neil reaches out and grasps the waterproof garment as it slides effortlessly from her suntanned limbs, the tiny hairs on her arms rising as her skin reacts to the sudden change in temperature.

She wears a fashionable black pencil skirt topped by a modest sleeveless almond colored blouse. Her choice of attire does nothing to mask a body shaped by hours of daily dedication to physical sculpting. She spins around slowly, providing ample time for Neil to survey the landscape. A faint smile crosses his face, which quickly disappears as dim light diffused through a stained lampshade reveals a come-hither face accented by the deep purple hues of abuse.

Despite his years of experience in the sad twists and turns of human relationships his reaction is palpable.

"It's not as bad as it looks" she says.

He nods and motions toward the lone empty chair in an otherwise nondescript room.

"I'll take that drink now" she says as she lowers herself into the well-worn seat, taking care to preserve what modesty she has left as she crosses her legs, the heel of one shoe releasing from her ankle, dangling from her toes like an athlete from the face of a sheer cliff.

"Ice?" he asked

"Please" she responds.

The clink of the cubes fills the room as they drop into the recently rinsed tumbler. The alcohol from the bourbon making up for his haste in cleaning the glass.

He pours two, offering her one.

Santa Ana is the nations' fourth most densely populated city behind New York, San Francisco and Boston. It is also the nation's fourth safest city.