Neil Knight Private Dick

Jackson Pollo Pollock

Neil headed Southwest on Warner Avenue, passing the WaBa Grill at 11045 Warner Ave, an Asian Fusion restaurant with sketchy reviews on Yelp. It seemed to the detective the combination of 'multiple culinary styles to create one-of-a-kind dishes' experiment had failed miserably at this location, although, he had to admit in the words of an online reviewer 'they are always playing Bachata when I come here, & the girls are super nice'.

At the corner he turned right on Euclid passing his local El Pollo Loco, the scent of Mexican grilled chicken filling his car through the open windows, his dogs' attention fixated on the concrete and glass building, a 'Now Hiring' sign in the window.

"No" said Neil.

The dogs lay back down.

Next in succession was Pho Kim Quy, a Vietnamese beef and noodle restaurant, a culinary nod to the influx of Vietnamese refugees that settled in Fountain Valley after the fall of Saigon in 1975. Neil would introduce uninitiated clients to the robust Vietnamese soup, made from beef stock and spices, with noodles and thinly sliced beef as an alternative to his go to eatery, El Pollo.

He would always encourage his guests to order a side of beef ribs as well, taking home the bones to his boys so they could taste a little bit of Heaven.

One hundred yards later he turned right onto Tilton Circle, making a second immediate right into the driveway at 11016. His home. The dog's heads snapped to attention.

Three rolled up, sun baked newspapers lie on the patterned cement in various stages of yellowing. He pressed the remote clipped to his sun visor and the twin bay door began to roll up, inviting him to enter.

He did.

Neil slid out of the driver's seat like an oyster off a half shell, back sweat leaving a sheen on the vinyl seats, landing on his feet on the poured concrete floor with a degree of grace that belied his heft. He walked to the rear of his car, popped open the hatchback and the dogs dove out, clearing the rapidly descending garage door, with Neil yelling fuck as they dug in their paws and bolted right, making a beeline for the neighbor's backyard. He pressed the remote next to the door and it reversed, ascending once again. Precious seconds passed. He ducked out, clipping his hat from his head, and did his best impression of running to try to intercept his hounds.

To no avail.

They were already returning at a trot, after having treed the neighbor's cat, peed in the neighbor's pool and painted the white cement patio with chunks and streaks of fermented Mexican chicken. He could swear those dogs were smiling as they passed by. No one was home, so he grabbed the outside garden hose and did his best to erase the evidence of the Jackson Pollo Pollock from the painted concrete.

He returned the hose and found his dogs waiting by the door to the house. He retrieved his hat from floor and closed the garage door.

All three entered his home, two having re-established the natural pecking order, one too tired and distracted to care.

The light on his office phone was blinking red, indicating the presence of messages. He pressed the play button.

The first message was from Jacob Hirschfeld, from the law offices of Birnbaum, Cohn & Hirschfeld, requesting a meeting the following week to discuss an investigative matter concerning a client. Neil wondered how many work hours remained until that reduced rate debt was paid off.

The second was from Discount Gun Mart in San Diego informing Neil of the upcoming two-hour gun permit refresher course that he was required to take before completing his bi-annual firearms range re-qualification to maintain his PI license.

Neil noted the date and time of the appointment on his kitchen calendar, as well as the one-hundred-and-ten-dollar fee. This reminded him to check in with his insurer about his policy renewal date as well. Being a PI wasn't just about the glamour.

Sitting down at his office desk, with computer and landline phone within reach, Neil spent the next six hours informing himself about the owners of 4070 Cassia Lane, 206 West 20th, Breakout Records, the World Environmental Initiative, the Orange County District Attorney's Office and the Orange County Sheriff's Office.

By the end of the session he'd killed another bottle of whiskey, burnt out a few thousand brain cells, and become more educated in the art of puppeteering.

There were still massive holes in the tale and missing motivations, but he had a better sense of the players of which he was so far aware.

If nothing else, at least he would sleep better that evening.

He called his dogs to him and took them out for an evening walk.