Chapter 12 Dante #2
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.”
“He called you from jail. He’s sleeping on your floor. This is insane and you’ve only known him a few days. Not even a week.”
“It’s a business arrangement. The call was an emergency. Calling me was the last thing he wanted to do.”
Benji sets the phone down. “Dante.” He swivels around on his stool to face me, so I get the full production. “You drove to a county jail at two in the morning. You brought him to your apartment.”
“It bothers me that he was here last night,” I say, moving off it. “Around all of you. I don’t want him near this place. He’s trouble. He doesn’t take care of himself. He drinks too much. I’m not bringing that in here.”
“You didn’t bring him, he brought himself,” Benji says. “Sheila,” he calls down the bar, switching gears. “Dante says his problem tenant was in here last night? Did you serve him?”
Sheila looks up. “What does he look like?”
“Mid-twenties, dark hair, jeans, t-shirt,” I say. “Maybe a bandana too.”
“Was he wearing dark sunglasses inside the bar? The one who tipped sixty on a forty-dollar tab?”
“Could be,” I say. “Sounds about right.”
“What about him?” she asks.
“How did he seem?”
Sheila puts down her knife, comes over and leans on the bar.
“He drank eight tequilas in three hours. Wasn’t eating until I put fries in front of him, then he ate like he hadn’t seen food in a week.
Alone. No phone. Cash only. I asked if he had a ride and he said he was good.
” She pauses. “I take it he wasn’t good with the ride? ”
“No, the party bus didn’t come back to get him.”
“Did he cause any trouble?” Benji asks.
“No trouble,” Sheila replies. “Soft-spoken. Polite. Called me ma’am. The polite ones worry me more than the loud ones. I’ve poured drinks thirty years and that boy is scared of something. The tequila’s the only thing standing between him and whatever it is.”
“I don’t want him here,” I say. “Around my people. My family. I don’t like it.”
“That’s not how this place works, Dante,” Sheila says. “This bar is for people who don’t have anywhere else. If he walks through the door again, I’ll pour his drink and feed him fries and ask if he’s got a ride home. That’s the job.”
“Sheila—”
“No, Dante. You don’t get to decide who belongs here. That’s not your call. That’s Tex’s, and Tex’s call has always been the same. The doors are open. For everyone until they cause trouble. Then he’ll take care of it. Only Tex can make that call.”
Sheila pours me a coffee and I drink it, strong and black and nothing like mine. I don’t dare argue, because arguing with Sheila doesn’t change the outcome.
“I’d better go back and check the humidity at the house,” I say.
“Eat something first.” She’s already heading for the kitchen. “I’ll make you some eggs. Have you had breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry and it’s almost lunch.”
“Then you’ve got two meals to catch up on,” she says before disappearing into the kitchen.
“What are you not telling me?” Benji says.
He’s been my best friend for seven years. He knows I’m holding something back, and he’ll wait as long as it takes to hear it.
“I think he’s in a bad place. He was dead drunk walking down the middle of the road when the cop saw him.
When I bring him to my apartment, instead of sleeping on the couch, he sleeps on the floor in the second bedroom.
And the thing with the doors seems to be getting worse.
Last night, he tried to insist that I leave the front door open all night.
Can you imagine sleeping with the front door wide open? ”
“No fucking way,” Benji says. “Does he not watch the news?”
“Whatever is in his head is scarier than someone coming in the doors,” I say. “I agreed to leave the balcony door open for him.”
Benji raises his eyebrows at me. “He’s getting to you. Don’t deny it.”
I don’t try to.