Page 38 of Levi

My fingers are still feeling the heat of his neck against them. I had him pinned with my body and deep down there was a piece of me that didn’t want to stop — and that, more than the yelling, is why I put the island between us.

I notice the staging lemons are getting moldy. I grab the silver bowl and dump them in the trash to give my hands a job that isn’t him.

“You stay away from Tex’s place,” I tell him again. “You don’t go back there. Ever.”

He gives me a curious look. Then he reaches into the carton and goes back to eating. Rib by rib, meat off the bone, sauce on his fingers, not looking at me. He knows I’m standing here daring him to a fight and he won’t give me one. He finishes, sets the empty carton on the counter and wipes his hands on his jeans.

“Tex makes really good ribs,” he says. “I like it there. It’s a nice place. Good people.”

There’s sauce on his chin. Dark circles under his eyes and stubble thicker than yesterday. I had him against a refrigerator two minutes ago, now he’s standing in my listing eating cold ribs and telling me he likes Tex’s bar.

I grab my keys and walk out without another word.

If I don’t leave now, I might kill him.

The coast is empty this early. 30A belongs to the delivery trucks and the sprinklers. I drive it with no place to be, past a house in Seaside I closed in the spring and a teardown in Grayton someone overpaid for, because driving is the only thing my hands will do calmly right now.

My hands can still feel him. I flex them on the wheel and it doesn’t help.

The words I yelled at him are still in my mouth. I said them in Spanish and I knew why even as they came. Not because the anger grabbed the nearest language. Because some things are only safe to say to a man who can’t understand them.

Are you crazy? You got on a bus with a stranger and drank yourself stupid and walked a highway alone at two in the morning, and I don’t even know who the hell you are. And you went to my people. To their bar. Why won’t you talk to me? Who are you? You’re driving me crazy.

What I didn’t say, in English or Spanish, is the part that put my hand on his collar.

When he told me the bus didn’t come back because he wasn’t worth coming back for and then reached for another rib like it was nothing.

My anger wasn’t about the listing, the thousands in damage or the showing on Saturday.

It was the floor going out from under all of it.

I drive until the anger’s worn down. By the time I turn into the Roadhouse lot it’s going on eleven. Benji’s at the bar with his laptop. Sheila’s restocking the garnish station. The deck doors are open to the water and the place smells like last night’s smoker and this morning’s coffee.

Benji looks up and sees my face. “What happened?”

“He was here at the Roadhouse last night.”

“Who was here?”

“The tenant. Levi. He was at this bar last night.”

Benji’s hand stops over the laptop. “Here?” Benji’s body turns toward me. “In this bar last night?”

“He told me this morning. He was eating Tex’s ribs, the ones I put in the fridge for him, and said he was here. Hired a private party bus to get out here, and the bus didn’t come back, so he walked Front Beach Road after midnight. A cop picked him up for public intoxication. He called me from county lockup at two in the morning to come get him.”

“He called you? I thought I was the only one allowed to do that in the middle of the night. How did he get your number?”

I shrug. “From my business card or flyer, if I had to guess. Only number he had because he didn’t have his phone with him.”

Benji’s already reaching for his phone. “Mickey’s at his desk at the sheriff’s office right now. One text and he’ll have the full record by lunch. Name, priors, where he’s from, who’s been looking for him. You want me to ask him?”

“No. Don’t text Mickey.”

“Why the hell not? You got a stranger out of the drunk tank and you can’t even put a last name to him. Let Mickey put one on him. Give me one good reason not to tell Mickey about this.”

Because someone who thinks they own him already tracks every move he makes.

“Because it’s not right,” I say. “He hasn’t done anything criminal to me. Whatever his situation is, it’s his, and I’m not digging into it behind his back.”