Howtown by Michael Nava Read Free Book Online Page B

of some regulatory agency somewhere. It’s the cost of doing business.”
    “I see.”
    “I doubt it,” he said, sharply. “Anyway, the Sentinel is antigrowth. They got this proposition on the ballot that was going nowhere. Then Gordon Wachs came up with the bright notion that it’s easier to run against a person than an idea.”
    “Wachs?”
    “The new publisher. He bought out the Storey family about ten years ago. He’s not a native.” Not a native, the ultimate Los Roblean insult. “When Paul was arrested, they dredged up the molestation case as well as every infraction of every code that Mark was ever fined on and turned the election into a referendum on the Windsors.”
    “I’d like to see those stories.”
    “Sure,” he said, “but why?”
    I tapped the file. “I’m beginning to have my doubts about the quality of justice in Los Robles. Maybe the best thing I can do for Paul is get the case moved out of here.”
    “A motion to change venue?” he asked skeptically. “Good luck.” He jotted a note and asked, “When do you want it?”
    “I’m flying to LA after I see Paul and I won’t be back until next week. Could you have it for me tonight?”
    He lifted an eyebrow. “My people aren’t used to big-city hours.” He thought. “I’ll give it to Peter. He’s a hot dog.”
    Rising, I said, “Thanks.”
    “Henry,” he said, stopping me at the door. “A word of advice.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Don’t push old friendships too hard.”
    “Does that come from Mark?”
    “I think I can speak for him.”
    Too many years of living in temperate climates had cost me my tolerance for the heat. I took off my tie and jacket and rolled up my sleeves as I walked to my car. The Parkway had once been lined by trees. These had apparently been uprooted to widen the street. As a result, the grim blocks stretched shadelessly into town. I got into my rented car and the vinyl rose up to meet me, grabbing at the seat of my pants and the back of my shirt. I drove to my next stop, lunch with Sara Windsor.
    The address she’d given me was in River Park, but wasn’t the white wedding cake house that Herb Windsor had built for his family. Instead, these lesser Windsors lived in a rambling structure that looked like a Norman farmhouse on steroids. I pulled up to the curb, got out and crossed a wide lawn, past flower beds, low hedges and the three oaks that shaded the front of the L-shaped mansion. Where the two wings broke was a kind of turret where a heavy, paneled door, sporting a lion’s-head knocker, provided entrance. I dropped the lion against the door. A moment later, a brown-skinned woman with plaited hair, wearing a servant’s frock, eyed me suspiciously.
    Without thinking, I addressed her in Spanish. “ Quiero ver la Señora Windsor , por favor .”
    Her expression grew sharper and I pictured myself in her eyes, a tall, sweaty Mexican in a not-too-clean white shirt and wrinkled trousers, demanding in Spanish to see “ la señora .”
    “I’m Mr. Windsor’s attorney, Henry Rios,” I said, in English.
    “Who’s there?” I heard Sara ask. “Carrie?” She came up behind the maid. “Oh, Henry. Come in. It’s all right, Carrie.”
    The maid let me pass. Carrie? I thought, looking into that broad, dark face.
    “Carrie?” I asked Sara as she led me to an opulent living room.
    “Caridad,” Sara said, moving toward an antique credenza crowned by rows of bright glasses. “Do you want a drink before lunch?”
    “No, thank you.”
    She poured bourbon into a tumbler and directed me to sit. “Lunch will be ready in a minute. Have you seen Paul yet?”
    “No, I got tied up at Clayton’s office.” I sank into a large white chair. Sara sat across from me on a sofa about the length of an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Between us was a lacquered table on which I could have napped. It was a lot of house for two people but then again, based on what I knew about these two people, maybe not.
    “Was