The Decent Proposal Read Free Page A

bend from the waist that reminded her of those Gumby-ish air funnels that twist and dip from the roofs of used car dealerships and secondhand furniture stores. He hurried toward her.
    â€œMocha chip or yogurt honey peanut? Or both?” she asked him brightly, holding out two Balance Bars retrieved from her glove compartment.
    He blinked. “Both, I guess.”
    â€œHere you go!” She handed them over. The window rose between them; he had to yank his hand back to avoid beingnipped. As he stumbled toward the sidewalk, Elizabeth watched his lips working furiously in what was probably a torrent of abuse leveled at her (surely he would have preferred money), but barely a minute later, he’d ripped open one of the bars and begun devouring it.
    The light was still red. Elizabeth used the extra downtime to close her eyes for five seconds, counting on her left hand with “Mississippis” in between, her way of ensuring she took enough time to acknowledge something good in her life, no matter how small. In fact, the smaller the better, and especially when it was a blessing in an otherwise unfortunate situation. A new friend of hers ( yes , she thought, with the tiniest thrill of pride, La Máquina can make new friends ) had inspired her recently not to ignore these destitute men and women she saw from time to time on the road, as long as she didn’t compromise her safety. For almost six months now, she’d kept her glove compartment stocked with Balance Bars for this exact purpose, and this was only the second time she’d been able to use them.
    The light turned green.
    RICHARD FOLLOWED THE car ahead of him through the intersection and then left onto Avenue of the Stars. But instead of proceeding to the address he’d been given, he turned off at the Century City Mall, where parking was only a dollar an hour for up to three hours. (He’d forgotten to ask if parking at the lawyer’s building would be validated, and he couldn’t afford to leave it to chance.) By the time he extricated himself from the mall’s labyrinth of a garage, jaywalked across the street, snagged an elevator, tracked down the correct suite, and supplied his name to the modelesque receptionist at the front desk, it was 2:38. He was ushered immediately into a conference room where a man and woman sat waiting in silence.
    WHEN ELIZABETH HAD been shown into the room exactly eight minutes earlier, the old man she assumed was Jonathan Hertzfeld had told her they were waiting for one more, and he hadn’t said another word. He was wearing suspenders, and she couldn’t help thinking of him as an age-progressed version of Jake/Jack/Jock. When the second guest arrived, Elizabeth felt a jolt of something akin to surprise. She hardly knew what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this: a boyish-looking man sweating visibly through his T-shirt, a sizable rip in one knee of his undeniably grimy jeans. What was he, twelve? Who wore jeans to a meeting anyway? He was attractive, admittedly, but this was nothing special. So were a lot of people in L.A.
    RICHARD TOOK A chair opposite the woman, who looked straight out of Working Girl with her high heels and tailored business suit. Obviously she was another lawyer. Maybe she was the one who’d written the script? On the side? Doubtful.
    But she did have the best breasts he’d seen in a while.
    â€œI’M SURE YOU’RE both wondering why you’re here.”
    Richard Baumbach and Elizabeth Santiago eyed each other across the Formica vista of the conference room table.
    â€œAt this point you’re probably aware I’m an estates attorney.”
    Huh? thought Richard, while the woman nodded owlishly. Like wills and stuff? His heart began to race. Someone had died and was leaving him a boatload of cash. He knew it! He was saved!
    â€œNo one has died,” said the lawyer. “I represent my clients when they die, but I represent them while