Neil Knight Private Dick

We're all Puppets

Neil navigated the RAV4 back to Pepper Avenue, taking a right-hand turn, handling the sloping curves, left and right in a calm, disassociated way as his brain worked on the events of the morning, attempting to create some sense of what had transpired, based on the limited information on hand. He passed Manzanita on his left, the required turn barely registering in his conscious mind, until he came to the bulbous end of the cul-de-sac. Nowhere to go but pull a u-ey.

Coming out of the 360 Neil noticed a cruiser coming down the lane in his direction, at a slow methodical pace, splitting the difference between the left and right hand borders of the road, leaving no space for Neil to pass by. The police car stopped. The lights began to flash.

Red and blue.

Red and blue.

Red and blue.

"Turn off your engine and place your hands on your steering wheel." The instructions over the loudspeaker were clear, yet unexpected.

"Crap" Neil muttered to himself, shutting down the engine, disconnecting the seat belt and shoulder harness with a quick flip. He placed both palms on the wheel before him as instructed and waited.

The driver's side door of the cruiser opened quickly. The occupant exiting, not so much so.

The ponderous figure in a field of dark blue hoisted himself out of the vehicle, one hand on the door frame straining to help him achieve verticality. A bald pate with several strips of hair fused to it in a left to right direction was exposed first, followed by a ghostly white, sweat shiny face framed in ROKA Phantom TI titanium aviators with arctic mirror lenses which retailed for $250.00.

As the officer approached Neil's car his body swelled as he inhaled, putting unneeded pressure on his already strained utility belt, then, pressing a thumb against his left nostril, exhaled a mucus projectile toward the side of the road. Neil could swear he saw it bounce.

Grasping and adjusting his package with his left hand, his right cradling his Gen4 .45-caliber Glock 21, the policeman sidled up to the Toyota's window, which had been previously rolled down to vacate fermented dog fumes from the cars cabin.

"Smells like Mexico, hombre" said the officer. Perhaps the open window hadn't done a complete job. "You don't look Mexican."

"One of my dog's is a Xoloitzcuintli ('show-low-eats-QUEENT-lee'). You know, the ancient Aztec dog of the gods. Hairless. Loving companion. Vigilant watchdog. He just enjoyed himself some El Pollo Loco about an hour ago."

"Alright smartass, license and registration. Pronto."

Neil retrieved both and handed them over to the officer.

"Manos atrás en el volante, son" said Goldstone, making a hashwork of two languages, yet alone disregarding the fact that Neil must have been 15 years his senior.

"I'm not Mexican" answered the detective.

"Ya lo veremos, we will see" was Rip's reply.

The officer retreated to his vehicle, the car tilting as he entered, the springs attempting to compensate for the load.

In what seemed like forever Neil waited in his car, hands planted firmly on the wheel, the dogs occasionally voicing their displeasure at being corralled at the rear of the auto.

Motion once again at the police car, the door opening and the officer extracting himself from its confines with the same degree of effort as before, but this time with a shit eating grin gracing his face.

"Well, well" he said as he came close, "Private Dick. What brings you to our neighborhood all the way from Fountain Valley?"

"I thought I'd come see how the other half lives. You know. Just take a drive and smell the air. No law against that, is there?"

"No law as of yet" smirked the officer, suddenly turning serious. "But harassment of our homeowners isn't something we tolerate. You know, suspicious activities called in by our residents. Trolling neighborhoods. That kind of thing. Or driving without your seat belt fastened. Here's a ticket for the latter."

"Wait a minute, I removed the seatbelt when you stopped me."

"Well. There's no proof of that amigo. And my bodycam registered no seat belt fastened when I first approached your vehicle. Now why don't you just buckle up, move along and pay the fine?"

Neil knew better than to argue with an officer. A no-win situation.

He pulled the RAV4 past the cruiser as it shifted out of the way, the policeman flashing him a bleached white smile, his teeth barely contrasting with his phosphorous white skin.

This time the Toyota turned right on Manzanita and was soon headed south on the 55 toward 11016 Tilton Circle off Euclid Street in Fountain City. His home. It was time to sleep a little bit. Drop off the dogs. And do a little research.

He didn't like feeling like a vegan at a backyard barbecue.

His mind wandered to a quote by Alan Moore, writer of the Watchmen. "We're all puppets, Laurie. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings."

It was time for him to find out where the strings were hidden.