Page 14 of Levi

I know what happens next. Ignore Freddie for a day and you get texts. Ignore him for two and Janice starts pricing flights, and then some polite man in a golf shirt is standing in this driveway, sent down to lay eyes on the asset.

A visit is the one thing I can’t afford. A visit means somebody from Nashville talks to the rental agency. The agency mentions the listing. After that, the crack I’m standing in closes up like it was never here.

I’ll call him. But not until I’m prepared.

I empty the fold of cash from my front pocket onto the kitchen island, then dig the rest out of the zip pocket in the duffel. I lay the bills out on marble that has never once been asked to hold money this small.

Six hundred and seventeen dollars.

I count it twice and it comes up the same both times. Two weeks left before the country music bash and six hundred and seventeen dollars of cash to run on. The bag of weed in my duffel is lighter than I’d like, and weed in a strange town is a cash business with a stranger’s markup.

The credit cards upstairs are no help. They’re the label’s cards with my name embossed on them, and every swipe files a report telling where I was and what I was doing.

Cash is the only currency that keeps its mouth shut.

I sit down with the phone and build the man Freddie needs me to be. Sober enough to be boring, parked right where the app says. It’s not a hard part to play. I’ve performed worse material. I hit Freddie’s number.

He picks up half a ring later. “There you are.” No hello. Hello costs seconds, and Freddie bills by the minute.

“Yep, here I am.”

“Tracker said you landed last night. A text would’ve been courteous.”

“Phone died. I slept in this morning.” Half of that is true, which is a strong average for a phone call with Freddie.

“Talk to me about the set list.”

“Starting it tonight,” I say.

“Tonight? The label calls me Tuesday morning, Levi. I’d like that conversation to be dull.”

“Tell them I’m dull as a church mouse. Tell them not to worry.”

“How’s the house?”

“Big. Cold.”

“For sixty grand a month it can be any temperature it wants. You staying put? Staying out of sight?”

“You bet. I’m looking at the water right now.”

Which is true. I’m standing at the glass with the Gulf laid out in front of me, and the dashboard on Freddie’s desk agrees with every word I’m saying. The trick to lying to Freddie is to never actually do it.

“Anyone down there know who you are?” he asks.

“Not a living soul.”

True again. I’m two for two. The only people on this coast who’ve seen me up close looked straight at my face and saw nothing worth googling.

“While I’ve got you on the phone,” I say, like it just wandered into my head, “I need some walking-around cash down here. I’m about out.”

“You don’t need cash. You’re not leaving the house. That’s the agreement.”

“What about tips for food deliveries?”

“Tips are in the app. Use the credit cards if something comes up.”

Well, there you go. The next two weeks, settled in two sentences, and Freddie believes he just solved my problem for me. I let it go. Pushing turns a question into a tell.