The ticket incident had been the last straw. I had tried to be nice. I had tried to ignore her. I had tried to just build a deck and live my life, but she had come for my contractor. She had cost a working man money based on a lie. This wasn’t a neighbor dispute anymore. This was a crusade. I went inside and opened my laptop. I didn’t search for HOA lawyers or mediation services. I remembered a guy my cousin had used during a nasty divorce. A guy who didn’t have a LinkedIn profile. A guy whose office was rumored to be behind a vape shop in the sketchy part of town. I typed in the name I remembered. Sal Moretti, private investigations. The website was a single page,
black background, white text. It said, “Need to know, I find out.” I dialed the number. “Moretti.” A voice answered. It sounded like whiskey and cigarette smoke filtered through a rusty screen door. “Mr. Moretti,” I said, watching Brenda through my blinds. “My name is Jason Bennett. I have a neighbor problem.” “Kid,” Sal sighed. “I don’t do cat rescues.” “She’s not a cat,” I said. “She’s a tyrant. She’s filing false police reports. She’s fining me for existing. And my contractor thinks she’s hiding something big.” There was a pause on the line. Then the sound of a lighter flicking and a long inhale. “A suburban tyrant, huh?” Sal asked. “HOA type?” “The president of the board.” “I hate those people,” Sal said. The tone of his voice changed.
He sounded interested. “They act like they’re running the world from a folding table in a community center.”
I hired him. A few days later the deck was finished. It was a temple to leisure. The thick beams casting long, geometric shadows. But the pièce de résistance was the privacy screen. On the side facing Brenda’s house, Mike had installed a slat wall. Horizontal boards angled slightly downward like louvers. From the inside, sitting down, I could see out through the gaps. I could see the street, the trees. And yes, Brenda’s house. But from the street it was a wall of wood. A beautiful, impenetrable barrier. She wouldn’t be able to tell if I was there or not. She wouldn’t know if I was reading, drinking, or building a nuclear reactor. I walked up the new steps, the wood solid under my feet. I sat in my rocking chair behind the screen. It was perfect. I felt like a sniper in a blind. My phone buzzed, a text from Big Mike. “How’s the view?” “Incredible. I feel invisible.” “Good. I’m coming by tomorrow to install the lighting package, also known as the caught-you-red-handed package.” The next day, Saturday, Mike arrived without the big crew. He came in a regular pickup truck carrying a toolbox and several boxes marked with the logo of a high-end security company.
