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Chapter 39: The Apartment Hunt
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 09:55:45 +0000 UTC
Fabio—the not-so-slimy Italian “real estate liaison” Henry had picked up via a photo studio detour—was, in fairness, not entirely out to fleece him. The guy actually had legit listings.
After digging around in his leather briefcase, Fabio laid out several sheets on the table, spreading them out like tarot cards for a future yet to be determined.
“These ones here,” he said, tapping a stack, “are near Hollywood, but renting solo isn’t cheap. Most people co-rent or sublet to save on costs. If you’re open to roommates, there are more options.”
He motioned to the second stack. “Now, these are a little farther out. Near the edge of the city. There’s one in Santa Monica—top floor unit, right near the beach. You look out the window and boom, the Pacific. Gorgeous view.”
Henry noticed that the listings were clearly divided into two piles. “What’s the difference between these groups?” he asked.
“Ah,” Fabio leaned in like he was letting Henry in on some big industry secret, “One stack is property management. We handle everything—rent, maintenance, complaints. You deal with us. The other stack? That’s direct landlord rentals. We just connect you. After the lease, you talk to the owner. Or pay us extra to mediate, if you really want.”
Ah. So that’s why one pile was placed more prominently. It was all about recurring commission. With managed properties, the agency probably took a cut every month. The landlord listings? One-time commission, and that’s it. Less money in the long run.
Still, the fact that Fabio laid it all out so transparently earned him a few points in Henry’s book. No sleight of hand. No sales-speak. Just facts.
As Henry skimmed through the printouts, their food arrived—first the pasta and baked penne, piping hot and drenched in the kind of aroma that made a man believe in God. The pizza and arancini were still in the works, but the smell already filled the room.
The older Italian woman who had taken their order lingered beside the table, practically glowing with anticipation.
Henry twirled a forkful of pasta and took a bite.
Bam.
The burst of garlic, olive oil, clam, and fresh basil hit him like a tidal wave. Rich, savory, and borderline illegal levels of delicious. His eyes went wide, and before he could stop himself, he made that classic Italian gesture—fingertips pressed together, hand exploding from his mouth.
“Buono!” he exclaimed, half for show, half from the depths of his Kryptonian soul.
The woman beamed, chattered excitedly in Italian, and waddled off to the kitchen with the kind of satisfaction only true culinary praise could bring.
Henry blinked and turned to Fabio. “Uh… what did she say?”
“She said she’s thrilled you liked it. She’s starting on your other dishes right away.”
Made sense. Italian wasn’t too far removed from other Indo-European languages—structure and vocabulary could be guessed with a little mental acrobatics. Fabio’s translation might not be word-for-word, but it was close enough.
Henry didn’t waste more time. He devoured the plate like he hadn’t eaten in days, pausing only to sip the white wine and breathe. The wine itself seemed to change flavor with the food—less sharp, more full. Either the cook was a genius or the wine knew how to perform under pressure.
Then came the pizza—thin, charred edges, molten cheese, proper sauce—and the arancini: golden, crisp-fried rice balls stuffed with gooey mozzarella.
Henry had never tried fried rice balls before, but one bite convinced him it was a crime against cuisine that this wasn’t globally mandatory.
The rice was short-grain, firm, and perfect for frying. The outer crust? Crisp perfection. The inside? Melty, cheesy heaven.
He crushed the entire pizza by himself—an enormous one, too. By the time he was done, other patrons were staring. One guy dropped his fork. Another whispered to a friend.
Kryptonian metabolism, Henry thought, unapologetically licking a bit of sauce from his finger. Don’t hate me because I’m superhuman.
Between bites, he was still scanning the rental listings. Some had photos—interior shots, exterior views, even angles out the windows that showed sunlight falling in just right.
“Who took these pictures?” Henry asked, impressed. “You?”
Fabio chuckled. “Nah, I get Giovanni to do them. He waits till I have a few listings, then goes out with a full roll of film and knocks it out. Guy’s got an eye. Photos help a lot when we’re showing places.”
Giovanni… Of course. The pushy photo studio guy. Henry had to admit—his camera work was damn good. The pictures balanced light and shadow with a surprising level of care. In this pre-Photoshop era, that took real skill.
But that didn’t mean Henry was ready to forgive the man’s hard-sell antics. Just remembering it made him want to laser-eye a hole through the guy’s neon sign.
Still, back to the task at hand.
He picked out a few listings. “If I want to check these out, when could we go?”
Fabio flipped open a well-worn notebook. “Some are managed properties—those we can see today. The others, I gotta call the owners. Earliest would be tomorrow.”
“Then let’s hit the ones we can see now.”
They settled on a plan: Fabio would drive them around, knocking out the viewable properties in one loop.
The first place? Total bust. City center, low floor, right on a major road. Traffic noise bled in like the windows were made of paper. Horns. Yelling. Sirens. And don’t even start on the building itself—old pipes, mystery gurgles, and questionable plumbing that made Henry’s Kryptonian hearing twitch like a nervous tic.
Hard pass.
The Santa Monica unit looked better on paper. A top-floor unit near the beach, technically in a well-off neighborhood. Great view of the ocean, sure—but that also meant high humidity, salty air, and relentless sun exposure.
Top floors in older buildings? They got hot in summer, cold in winter. And salt in the air meant metal corroded fast. Any iron or exposed steel left untreated would rust in weeks. He didn’t need a physics lecture to know it; he could already smell the oxidation.
Plus, Henry planned to use electronics. Lots of them. Computers, likely. This wasn’t going to cut it.
The view was nice. The vibes were wrong.
Pass.
