Page 9 of Levi

“Three, a leader, a man at the top nobody’s allowed to look at straight on. Haven’t met him. But two out of three keeps a fella curious.” I look back at the last of the white sliding past. “And half the landscaping looked plastic. Fake plants, empty sidewalks, the place staged like nobody’s supposed to actually live there. Where does anybody buy a gallon of milk out here? Is there a store, or does it just turn up when they pray on it?”

“There’s a Publix.”

“A cult with a Publix.” I nod. “That’s the part that’ll slip you up. Nobody suspects the Publix.”

“And there’s no man at the top,” he says.

“Is it you?” I ask. “You look the part.”

“No.”

“Good to know. What is the house selling for?”

“It’s currently listed for twenty million,” he says.

I smile out the window at that piece of information. Damn. This is getting more interesting by the minute. This good-smelling fella needs me to cooperate with him for the next thirty days or he might lose a shit-ton of money.

“Twenty million, huh? Bet that would make you a mighty fine commission, right? If you sell it?”

His fingers tighten on the wheel and he doesn’t answer me.

Oh yeah, he knows.

And he knows now that I know too.

We cross a highway, four lanes of fast traffic, and the landscape changes in the space of a block. All of the fancy things disappear, replaced by little strip malls, and gas stations. This is the real Florida, the version I’ve played shows for, the people who live here year-round, not the ones who fly in to watch the Gulf from behind twenty-million-dollar glass windows.

He pulls into a parking lot in front of a beige apartment building with exterior corridors and a dumpster positioned near the entrance.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask. “Is this a joke?”

He throws me a quick glance without taking his hands off the wheel. “What do you mean?”

“This place doesn’t match up. Are you screwing with me?”

“What doesn’t match?”

“You.” I wave a hand at him, and the interior of the car. “And this apartment building. Look at you. Shirt’s pressed, nails are done, the car’s so clean I could eat off the dash, and you smell like the expensive floor of a department store. You sell mansions for a living.” I tip my head at the building. “And you sleep in a beige box next to a dumpster. One of those two things is a lie, and it’s not the dumpster.”

“My life in Miami matches me,” he says. “This is where I sleep when I’m working the Panhandle market. It’s easier than trying to rent an Airbnb every time I have a showing. Especially in the summer.” He kills the engine and holds out a key. “Second floor. Last door on the right. I don’t have time to give you a grand tour. Make yourself at home. Take a shower, eat whatever’s in the kitchen. Don’t trash the place or smoke inside.”

“That’s a lot of hospitality from somebody who wanted me gone an hour ago,” I say.

He shifts in his seat and turns to look at me. “I wanted you out of my listing. I don’t have a problem with you personally.” His eyes are dark brown and very direct. I force myself to look away. “I’ll be back in a few hours when the showing’s over.”

“Alright. Ground floor, first door on the left. Make myself a stranger. Smoke inside, trash the place, skip the shower, leave the food where it is. Sounds like my kind of place.”

“Second floor. Last door on the right.” He doesn’t bother with the rest of it.

“Hang on a minute. Don’t you dare drive off until I get inside. Don’t even start the car.”

I’m not sure if he’s legit or if he’s dumping me off like a stray dog at a trailer park. I grab my duffel from the back. The guitar is back at the house, shoved under the bed in its case. Hopefully, he won’t be checking there.

He starts the engine anyway as soon as I step out and waits until I turn the lock before leaving. A few hours ago, I was walking into a luxury mansion. Now, I’m standing in a dumpy apartment in a town where I know exactly one person. And that person just drove away.

I don’t even know his name. The thought comes to me and I smile again, for the second time today.

The amazing miracle of this mess is that he obviously doesn’t know my name either. He didn’t recognize me. Neither did Little Blondie.