Neil Knight Private Dick

The Guys a Fucking Genius

There wasn't anyone who hadn't followed he plight of the Mayor of Santa Ana more closely than Peggy Moran, after all she'd started the investigatory ball rolling. Morning and evening she'd be glued to the television set as reporters, legal experts, scholars, politicians and men-on-the-street offered opinions and expertise on the future of Miguel Turedo.

""Turedo's fucked" passersby on the street could hear her parrot call out.

Cha-ching. Another one-dollar discount.

Then the macaw and the myna bird would begin to argue.

"Hank Williams"

"Ink Spots"

"Hank Williams"

"Ink Spots"

Back and forth, back and forth. Less educated strollers walking past the open apartment windows would shake their heads as they passed. But the musically savvy would realize the birds were simply referencing the tune 'It's all over but the crying'; the song title reflecting the plight of the mayor, while the birds argued over which crooner sang the better version.

Turedo had been released on his own recognizance, and even though he'd been charged with a felony, the state constitution affirmed that he could not be denied his due right to process, and so, he remained in office. His every move watched. His every initiative questioned. He was, for all intents and purposes, simply waiting for the hangman.

Vinnie Fuentes lived a life in stark contrast to that of the Mayor.

He supplied product to a few influential people, and so they made sure that U.S. District Judge Franklin Pierce Sherman would be assigned the Mayor's pending court case. Sherman was a mentor to Tony Riganti, the DA who would be prosecuting the case.

Riganti was prepared to take early retirement after the Mayor was convicted, and Carlos Santino Campana was ready to assume the duties of the Mayor of Santa Ana, where he would lead a hands-off approach to local drug enforcement, allowing Vinnie's empire to comfortably expand into neighboring counties.

Carmine was meeting the letter of the 1.35 million city contract, by purchasing auto parts with drug money, thereby making the city a party to his money laundering, and had expanded his business into the parking lot he had swapped with the Mayor, storing used cars purchased at auction with – yes – drug money. Cars which he subsequently turned around and sold to unsuspecting citizens, making them unwitting partners to money laundering as well.

The hillbilly programmer continued to provide updates to the police tracker software, while his wife, the stripper, was managing and investing the proceeds of Vinnie's empire, and that of his brother-in-law.

Frankie had recovered Maria Santana's debit card from the fatass private dick from his home in Fountain City, and Carlos had somehow convinced the Manager at the Bank of the West to put a hold on Maria's account, ensuring no further transactions could be processed.

"It's all in place Carlos" said Vinnie as they hovered over tampiqueña, tacos sagrados and consome at El Borrego Sagrado Barbacoa on South Main Street.

"Our friend, the honorable District Attorney, has told me the prosecution will rest its case early next week, and the defense doesn't have a chance in Hell. But even if he did we own two of the jurors, so we could always present a hung jury. We have covered our bases, and our asses, my friend."

"Before the end of this month you will be Mayor of our fine city and I will own the streets of Santa Ana."

"Let's drink a toast Carlos" he said as he raised his glass of Albarolo 2007, from the Shimul vineyards in the Valle de Guadalupe, where the Nebbiolo grape is revered. The Mexican red wine presented a dense body, a scent of vanilla, red fruits, plum, coffee and chocolate, and left a hint of wood and fruit as it completed. "To success. To family."

Their glasses clinked.

The restaurant erupted in cheers as Cruz Azul scored a goal over Santos on televisions all over the dining area.

Vinnie Fuentes smiled.

A forty-five minute drive away, in the short hills of Yorba Linda, at 20510 Regal Oaks Drive, a stone's throw from the Inspiration Christian Fellowship non-denominational church, Neil Knight was welcomed into the residence and directed to the basement.

Already in attendance were Cotton and Sue Ellen Spradley, Sally Malafronte, Dee Dee Shams, Leilani Perez, Jose Juarez, Harry Love and, to Neil's surprise, Cotton's new employee, Winnie Saratoga.

"Mr. Knight" she said, nodding at him from her station in front of about 24 very large computer monitors, all sequencing through video scenes, providing an atmosphere not unlike a nineteen-seventies disco hall.

"Shall we get started?" suggested Salvadore Malafronte as everyone took seats on the kind of folding chairs that were built for business, not comfort.

Neil looked to his left as Sally began to speak.

He didn't recognize this last attendee. An older white woman who presented well and asked questions during the presentation like a prosecutor; only more balanced, more practiced, more experienced.

A high-pitched sound drew his attention back to the presenter, now Cotton Spradley.

"The guys a fucking genius" said Juarez, seated to Neil's right.

"Almost as intelligent as his wife" noted the mystery woman.