Page 17 of Levi

“All because one guy smoked some weed.”

“If it were just the weed, I’d be home asleep. He opened everything in that house and let the Gulf pour in all night, and the AC never had a chance. The humidity is working on it from the inside.”

“Why did he open everything up?”

“He didn’t say. I shut the terrace door once and he told me to open it back up. No explanation and no negotiation. Turned out to be a good idea, since sealing the house only marinated the smell.”

Sheila arrives with a plate of shrimp, blackened at the edges on a bed of rice with lemon wedges and cocktail sauce from a bottle. She sets it down without being asked.

“Eat, Dante,” she says.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“You didn’t need to. You walked in looking like you haven’t eaten since Thursday. Eat the shrimp.”

“How do you know I haven’t eaten since—”

“Don’t mess with me, Dante. Hush and eat.”

I eat the shrimp, and it’s perfect. The Roadhouse kitchen doesn’t know how to do it wrong.

Benji comes in off the deck. He’s changed shirts and fixed his hair. He takes the stool next to me. “Did you finally calm down enough to eat?” he asks.

“Sheila made me.”

“She’s good at that.” He reaches over and takes a sip of my bourbon. “Did you return him to the house?”

“Yeah, he’s back.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He told me the terrace door stays open while he lives there and I should plan my life around it.”

“Oh, did he now?” Benji grins. “I’m warming up a little to this guy.”

“Why? I’m not.”

“I like anyone who tells you to plan your life around their terms. It’s good for you. Nobody pushes back on you.”

“That’s not true. You push back on me constantly.”

“I push back because you’re my best friend. He pushes back because he honestly doesn’t care what happens to you. You’ve spent your life making sure everyone cares. It has to be a relief, running into one person you don’t have to manage.”

“The word is obstruction.”

“Obstruction and indifference are very different things, Dante. Obstruction takes effort. It means he’s thought about you long enough to want you out of the way. He hasn’t. He’s not trying to block you. He just doesn’t care.”

“That’s worse.”

Mickey comes through the door from the deck in his wheelchair, a faint flush on his face from the heat, his arms tanned from the elbows down. He rolls up to the bar and Benji’s hand goes to his shoulder automatically.

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Benji told me about your morning.”

“Apparently Benji told everyone about my morning.”

“You put a stranger in your apartment. That’s not like you.”

“I temporarily relocated a—”