Parallelities Read Online Free Page B

menu, was happy to subsist on tofu and sushi.
    Satisfied with the preliminary draft of the story, he made sure it was saved to the laptop’s hard drive before packing up, paying, leaving the absolute minimal tip that would not have the waitress chasing after him with a butcher knife, and returning to his car. It had been quite a while since he’d driven to Malibu the back way. Since he might be arriving at Boles’s address in the dark, he wanted to be sure not to miss any of the right turnoffs.
    Malibu Canyon Road wound its way through dry mountains spotted with pockets of chaparral forest and million-dollar homes, the latter expensive retreats from the insanity of the city. The venerable road connected the San Fernando Valley with the Pacific Coast Highway. Once there, he turned north, grateful for the lack of traffic, the Pacific on his left and an unblinking diadem of lights pointing the way to points north.
    Boles’s place lay atop a ridge well back of Trancas Beach, at the very end of a convoluted, unhappy stretch of one-lane road. Max had no trouble with the guard at the gatehouse where the road met the highway. He’d been dealing with such people for several years and had learned that where bullshit failed, folding currency usually succeeded. Besides, he carried legitimate press credentials that were easily checked and his demeanor was clearly different from that of the average Southern California maniacal fan or mad bomber.
    The house was big (there were no small houses in this part of Southern California, unless one made allowance for separateservants’ quarters) but by no means overbearing. A two-story contemporary Mediterranean, it faced the Pacific and looked down upon the more extravagant homes below. Its stuccoed turrets and red tile roof were subdued compared with the grandiose architectural fantasies that marched in million-dollar rows down the hillside toward the coastline. Soft light from within illuminated several windows. He pulled into the circular drive that fronted the main entrance and, without any directives to the contrary, parked.
    A small, clean Toyota stood between him and the main house. Its engine idled uncertainly, stressed by the burden of the air-conditioner. The short, stout woman loading something into the trunk looked up as he walked over. She was Hispanic but not Mexican, he saw. Probably an economic refugee from Nicaragua or Honduras. L.A. had seen a jump in the number of immigrating Hondurans recently. Her English was surprisingly lightly accented.
    “May I help you, sir? I am Azulita, Señor Boles’s housekeeper. I was just leaving for the night.” Wary and protective, dark black eyes sized him up.
    Max looked past her, at the house. “Mr. Boles doesn’t have a live-in?”
    “No, sir.” She walked around from the back of the car and opened the driver’s-side door. “I asked him that myself, when I started to work for him. He says he likes to be alone at night.” She glanced up at the house. “Myself, I am glad. I would not want to stay here at night.”
    “Really? Why not?” Max’s mental recorder was already humming.
    “Too many funny noises.” She crossed herself.
    “You don’t say? What kind of funny noises?”
    She slipped behind the wheel. “If you stay, maybe you will hear them for yourself. I have to go.” She closed the door and reached for the key.
    “Wait a minute!” He leaned close. “Do you think Mr. Boles will see me? I don’t have an appointment.”
    She studied him silently for a moment, then smiled. “I don’t see why not. He is a very friendly man, Señor Boles. He likes people. But people treat him badly, I think. I have heard him talking, and sometimes his visitors laugh at him.” Her expression turned earnest. “You are not here to laugh at him, are you?”
    “Hey, not me. I promise.”
At least, I won’t laugh at him in person
, he added silently.
Print’s another matter.
    The old compact coughed a couple of times before settling