Page 20 of Levi

“The staging cheese in the refrigerator.”

“Before that?”

“The bread.”

“All you’ve eaten is bread and cheese since you arrived?” he asks.

“I haven’t been hungry.”

“Because you’ve been drunk,” he says. “You still need to eat.”

“You always this concerned about tenants, or am I special?”

“You’re the first one who ate my staging.”

I don’t argue, because he isn’t wrong. He pulls onto the road heading back the way I came. Past the closed shops, past the gate without turning in.

“Where are we going?” I ask. “I thought you were taking me back to the house.”

“To get you food. Then we’re going to talk.”

“What if I don’t want to talk?”

“I don’t care what you want,” he says. “I want my listing to survive the month. You want food and a ride. We both need things from each other, and right now we’re pretending we don’t.”

“You practice that speech in the mirror?”

“Here’s what I see,” he continues as if he didn’t hear me. “You have no car and no food. You have no one to call, or you’d have called them instead of walking your feet bloody in cowboy boots. You’re stuck in a house with no provisions and no way to get any.”

That’s not exactly true.

What he doesn’t see is that I’ve been waiting for this conversation since the staging cheese ran out.

“Bold read for a man who met me yesterday.”

“I have the receipts,” he says. “Here’s what I need. The crew comes tomorrow at eight and gets in without a fight. Nothing gets smoked inside that house, this week or any week. The terrace is yours, we agreed on that, but the inside stays shut enough that my compressor survives, because that repair runs twenty thousand dollars. Maybe the terrace door can stay open a foot instead of all the way. And next Saturday, when the client walks through, you’re elsewhere.”

“And in exchange for all that?”

“I make sure you eat this week. Rides, groceries. Starting now.”

“I behave and you feed me? You’re describing a dog.”

“A dog would be cheaper and a lot less trouble.”

“Don’t forget the liquor store,” I say, trying to see how far I can push him. “That’s the most important point. Regular liquor store runs or no deal.”

His hands tighten on the wheel, and ten seconds of highway go by before he answers.

“Fine.”

“Not as a favor either. One that you’ll try to hold over my head. As part of the deal. You get cooperation on your listing. I get rides and supplies, and the supplies include tequila. It’s all transactional. No strings. No lectures from you about the drinking.”

“I understand what transactional means.”

“Do you? You keep drifting toward favor. Favors carry interest and I’ve paid enough of it.”

“It’s a business arrangement. There’s no interest.”