Chapter 2 Dante #3
Benji starts arranging the new hydrangeas. Fresh water, stems trimmed at an angle, eucalyptus placed loose around the base.
“What do you know about him?” Benji asks while we work.
“Almost nothing. He has a code from a property management company. Someone booked this place for him and he won’t say who. He showed up last night, got wasted, destroyed the staging, passed out, and won’t leave. And he thinks I’m the concierge.”
Benji’s eyes go wide. “Seriously? He looked at you — at you, in the Italian shoes — and decided you were the help?”
“Yes, and he told me to go unpack a bag for him.”
Benji’s mouth twitches but he has the good sense not to smile. “Can you make him leave?”
“Not if his booking is legitimate, and it looks legitimate. Property management doesn’t open until nine and the seller isn’t picking up.”
“So, he might have a legal right to be here?”
“Possibly.”
Benji stops arranging and looks at me. “For a month? While you’re selling the house? What the hell, Dante?”
“That is exactly the scenario I might be looking at.”
“And the seller didn’t mention the property was also on a rental calendar?”
“No, he did not. It’s not unusual for houses up for sale to also be on a rental program. But he should’ve told me and blocked out today for the showing. I can’t sell this place if renters are in here.”
Benji shakes his head and goes back to the flowers, faster now.
He finishes the arrangement, steps back, checks it from the foyer angle, adjusts one stem.
“There you are,” he says to the flowers.
Benji always praises arrangements when they come together.
He puts his hand on my arm and squeezes once.
“Don’t worry. We’ll save the showing. I’ll take care of the runner and the rug. You work on getting the smell out of the ducts. We’ve got time.”
“What should I do about him?”
“He can’t be here when the brokers walk in, Dante. That’s a deal killer right there. Can you convince him to leave? Does he have a car?”
“No, there’s not one in the driveway,” I say.
“Can you pay him to leave for a while?” Benji asks. “Long enough for the showing?”
“I doubt he would go for that. Someone is paying two thousand a night for him to be here. Why would he take money to go somewhere else? Where would he even go? He’s barely conscious.”
“Offer to take him to your apartment and let him sleep there,” Benji suggests.
My apartment is a two-bedroom fifteen minutes from here. I only use it for sleep when I’m in town. It’s basically a storage shed for my real estate materials with a bed.
“Why would he go there when he can be in this house?” I ask.
“Dante, I’ve seen you talk people into doing things they never would’ve imagined. Go work your charm. Maybe he just wants to sleep in peace for a while. It can’t hurt to ask him. Better hurry up though because we’re losing time.”
I go back to the living room and stand over him. He’s not asleep. His breathing is too shallow, too controlled. He’s lying there, pretending to be asleep while listening to us talk.
“I need you out of here for a few hours,” I tell him. “You can come back this afternoon. I’ll straighten things out about the rental and the listing during that time.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Listen, I have an apartment a few miles from here. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean and it’s quiet. No one will bother you there. You can sleep as long as you want. I’ll drive you and pick you up when the brokers leave.”
He opens his eyes. He looks deeply exhausted beyond one bad night. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“You need sleep,” I say. “Regardless of what happened with the rental agency, I have a signed agreement with the owner to do this showing today. Several people will be here and they’ll be loud. Very loud. I’m offering a solution for both of us.”
Five seconds go by. Ten. Thirty.
I give up and start to move away.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’ll go, but I’m taking this blanket with me.”
“No—” Benji yells out. “That’s not a blanket, it’s cashmere and it’s not leaving this house.”
“That doesn’t mean one damn thing to me, Blondie,” he says. “All I know is this blanket is the only warm thing in this house. Go get my duffel bag and let’s go. It’s upstairs.”
He pushes himself to sitting and his boots go to the floor.
Standing takes visible effort, with a hangover built on tequila and chemicals.
He sways for a moment and I step toward him.
To what? Catch him if he starts to fall?
My hands are already half up for it. He’s a big man, warm and creased with sleep, and catching him would mean an armful of exactly that.
I put my hands back down. He doesn’t ask where the apartment is or how long the drive will take. He shuffles slowly toward the door.
“Go grab his duffel bag in the upstairs bedroom while I’ve got him moving,” I whisper to Benji who takes off flying up the stairs.
“Can you move any faster?” I ask. “Do you need help?”
“No, to both,” he says.
I blow out a deep, calming breath. Three hours and counting down.
We can do this. We’ve handled much worse.
I’m not even breaking a sweat yet.