Read Online Obstruction of Justice by Perri O'Shaughnessy - Free Book Online Page B

bedrooms would do you. How big is your family?"
    Looking out the window at the quiet neighborhood they were driving through, Nina said, "There are two of us, me and my son Bob. He’s eleven."
    "No one else?"
    "I’m divorced." Don’t be so prickly, Nina, she told herself. Half the world’s divorced—maybe not as recently as you, but—
    "You’re one of those working mothers, then?"
    "My office is just a few blocks down Highway Fifty, in the Starlake Building. You’ve probably seen my sign. I’m an attorney."
    "Ah, yes," Mr. Muntz said, but he looked alarmed instead of reassured. Nina thought, He hates lawyers, just my luck.
    "I remember seeing some articles about you in the paper. The Patterson trial and the Scott thing. You do criminal defense work, right?"
    "I’m a general practitioner. Wills, contracts, family law ... and criminal law."
    "You haven’t been in town long?"
    Who has, she thought. "Almost two years now."
    "And ... you’re self-employed?"
    "I can handle a reasonable down payment," Nina said. She had inherited a small cottage in Pacific Grove, which she rented out, and had a nest egg from her divorce settlement. "I can make the payments."
    "I see." Mr. Muntz sounded disappointed. Dollar signs no longer shone in his eyes. The Caddy shimmied a little, as if preparing to eject her. "You haven’t talked to your bank. Firmed up the, ah, loan situation?"
    "You don’t think I could get a mortgage? I’m making good money. I’ve been a lawyer for six years. My credit cards are paid up. What’s the problem, Mr. Muntz?"
    The realtor had all the sensitivity of a signpost. He piloted around another turn, the sun highlighting his carefully moussed hair and the lines in his infuriatingly smug face. "A single mother. Not long in the area. No employer."
    "But I’m a lawyer!"
    "This may surprise you, but being a lawyer isn’t an advantage anymore. It’s not a gentleman’s profession since ..." He paused delicately. "Plenty of ’em come up for the gambling or the skiing, like it, and rent a hole-in-the-wall office for a few months, after which they’re gone and forgotten except for their bum accounts payable. Please don’t take offense. It’s the harsh reality of the business world. Those damn bankers, obsessed with stability, you know?" He looked at his watch. "I’m so sorry, I’ve got an appointment. Clients." Actual clients, his expression said, nuclear families headed by husbands with steady jobs.
    "Clients, eh? You can’t have too many of those," Nina said. "Not with your attitude."
    "Now see here, honey—"
    "I’m not your honey. And you just aced yourself out of a commission, pal."
    "Well. Perhaps we should head back."
    "You’ve got that right."
    Head high, Nina jumped out of the Caddy and into her own dusty Ford Bronco at the realty office. An impromptu flea market had sprung up near the Y. Dusty cars and pickups clogged the factory outlet parking lots, turning Highway 50 into a ten-mile crawl toward the casinos. She opened the windows and resigned herself. High clouds drifted overhead, and the air felt mellow and warm. She was regretting her rudeness in spite of Mr. Muntz’s provocations. Half the town would soon hear his version of their run-in. She lectured herself again about discretion, prudence, all those virtuous qualities she would probably never acquire.
    Finally wending her way across the state line into Nevada, she parked in the lot behind Prize’s and entered the casino, hoping to shake off the losses of the day.
    Weekenders and locals alike smoked and drank and gambled and flirted on the blackjack stools and around the craps tables, their up-front greed for money looking like good clean fun after Mr. Muntz’s tawdry business. As mindful of movement as hungry buzzards, black-suited pit bosses swiveled their eyes from table to table. Around the rooms that stretched from one perennial neon-lit night to another, bells rang and lights flashed, and the unlucky gathered to watch the