Page 53 of Levi

“I don’t want a place in Seaside.”

“The place in Seaside has a wine bar. Live guitar on the patio, small plates, nice crowd. More your speed.”

Live guitar.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’s trying to sell a guitar bar to me and he’ll never know why that’s funny.

“I’ll pass on the fancy pants wine bar. What would possibly make you think that was my speed? A guy half-ass playing cover songs while the room talks over him is my personal idea of hell.”

“It’s a popular place. Tourists love it.”

“It’s a waiting room with wine. For the record, I don’t like wine either, Dante. Have you not been paying attention? Tequila or beer. No wine.”

“Levi.” Just my name, and a sigh after it. “The last time you were at the Roadhouse, I got a call to come get you out of a holding cell. Do you understand that I can’t—” He stops himself. “It’s mostly bikers and locals. It’s not your scene.”

“You don’t know my scene.” I let that go before it becomes a sentence I can’t finish. “And you can say it straight up. I can handle it. You don’t want me at the bar where I got loaded and walked down the middle of a highway. That’s fair. I’d feel the same.” I hold his eyes. “But here’s what you’re not considering. That night I was there alone without a ride home. Tonight you’re dropping me off and picking me up. I’ve already met the people there. They’re good people. I won’t misbehave.”

He’s quiet while he thinks it over.

“One more thing,” I say. “I need you to cover my tab. I’m getting a little low on cash.”

“Low on cash? How is that possible? You haven’t been anywhere. I saw the wad of cash you were carrying in your front pocket. You don’t have a credit card?”

“I have lots of credit cards. They’re tracked too. Every swipe gives a report about what I’m doing or buying, and a bar tab gives the loudest one.”

“The loudest how? What do you mean?”

He’s not letting it go.

“Where I am, how long I sat there, what I drank and how much. A tab’s a diary somebody else gets to read.”

I need to stop talking before I explain the mess to him. “Bottom line is I’m low on cash. That’s the condition. You want me out of here, you’re buying me supper and a few drinks at the Roadhouse at sunset. I’m a cheap date and it’s a good deal for you to take.”

He looks at me a little too long, and I watch him add tracked credit cards to the list he keeps on me.

“You can’t cause trouble there,” he says. “I mean it. One time was—” He doesn’t finish it. Once was enough for him at the county jail before dawn, signing me out.

“Believe it or not, I’m not a trouble guy.” Which is true these days, whatever the paperwork in three states says about it. “I drink, I tip, I keep to myself. Ask the woman behind the bar. Sheila. She cut me off nice that night and called me honey while she did it. That’s more than most.”

“She cut you off because you were headed for trouble. That’s hardly a character reference. That’s a professional keeping a drunk from getting worse.”

“Same thing you’ve been doing all week,” I say. “Maybe I just bring it out in people.”

“Two drinks,” he offers. “And whatever you want to eat.”

I’m surprised he opened negotiations that high. I’ve still got the one muscle in me that never went soft. Somebody opens with a number and everything goes simple and mine. I don’t even want the extra drinks. I want the game.

“Do you mean a two-drink minimum? And does whatever I want to eat include shrimp?” I grin, begging him to play the game with me. He’s not amused.

“Yes, to the all-you-can-eat shrimp,” he says. “You need to eat more than you do anyway and I won’t deny that. I meant a two-drink maximum. I’m not taking any chances with you tonight.”

“All-you-can-eat’s a dangerous thing to promise me when I’ve been living on cookies.”

“Then eat, Levi. Please. That’s the one item for tonight there’s no limit on.”

“Five drinks, all the food I want, including dessert,” I counter.

“That’s the same ask with a bigger number,” he says.