Rental Choice

The Italian guy wasn't the kind of shady middleman out to rip people off—he actually had some listings on hand.

After rummaging through his briefcase for a bit, he pulled out a few sheets of paper and spread them flat on the table. "These are some places near Hollywood, but renting one alone isn't cheap—usually people go for shared rentals."

"A bit farther out, on the edge of downtown Los Angeles, there are some decent options. Like this one in Santa Monica, near the beach—You can see the ocean right out the window. Great view."

Looking at the papers clearly split into two piles, Henry asked, "What's the difference between these two?"

The Italian guy explained, "One type is property management. The owner entrusts the place to us—if you want it, you deal directly with us. Any issues down the line, we handle them."

"The other type is just owner-rented. We help the owner find suitable tenants, and once the contract's signed, any future problems go straight to the owner. Of course, you can still come through us, but there'd be an extra fee."

Henry got it now. He also understood why the property management stack was placed more prominently. These agents probably got a cut every month on top of the initial commission.

But with the owner-rented type, they only took the first commission. That's why going through them later would cost extra. In short, less profit for them.

Still, laying out both types from the start—was that good business sense or bad?

But the guy's upfront attitude still earned him some points in Henry's book.

Glancing over the papers in his hand, the spaghetti and macaroni were served first. The pizza needed to be baked fresh, and the rice balls had to be fried on the spot—they were still being prepped.

After setting the dishes on the table, the older woman stood there beaming, not in a hurry to leave.

Henry twirled a forkful of pasta and stuffed it into his mouth. The briny clams paired with the pesto hit him with a rich, aromatic punch. Almost as soon as it touched his tongue, his eyes went wide.

"Buono!" He made an explosion gesture near his mouth at the same time. This was Henry's memory of how Italians praised food in European and American TV shows or movies.

Sure enough, as soon as Henry spoke and made the gesture, the older woman's face lit up with joy. She rattled off a string of words, then happily bustled back to the kitchen.

Henry had to turn to the Italian guy for help. "What did she just say?"

"Salia said she's glad you like it. Eat up—she's going to prepare the rest of your order."

Since they're both Indo-European languages, the sentence structures wouldn't differ much. That meant no hearing a long-winded speech that boiled down to just a few words after translation.

So, comparing it roughly, even if the Italian guy's translation wasn't spot-on, it should be close enough.

Without another word, Henry polished off the entire plate of spaghetti in no time. His speed made him look like a starving ghost reincarnated. No one would doubt he could finish the rest of the meal now.

What was interesting was the pairing wine—it had gained a few extra notes beyond its original astringency. Clearly, the restaurant's chef wasn't just picking high-margin ingredients but had put real thought into it.

The pizza and fried rice balls were the same. Especially the fried rice balls—as a transmigrator whose staple food used to be rice, Henry had never actually tried fried rice balls before, so he couldn't imagine what they'd be like.

But after tasting them, he realized there was a reason Italy had this recipe.

The main thing was the different type of rice, which made the filling—mozzarella cheese wrapped in breadcrumbs—perfect for frying. Crispy on the outside, soft and fragrant on the inside, with layers of texture.

And that big pizza meant for sharing? Henry polished it off solo, leaving the other diners in the restaurant staring in disbelief.

All in all, this meal left Henry thoroughly satisfied. The trauma from last night's delivery pizza felt like it had been healed.

Of course, he wasn't just focused on eating. He still had to look through the housing papers in his hand.

Besides the handwritten descriptions, some places had indoor photos and shots of the view from the windows. It let you get a rough idea of the place without visiting in person, which definitely sparked curiosity.

Noticing the photography skill rivaling magazine-level photographers, Henry asked curiously, "Did you take these photos yourself?"

"No, I had Giovanni do it. I save up a few places, and when I've got about a roll's worth, I get Giovanni to make a run and develop them. These photos make business a lot easier to handle."

Giovanni was the owner of the photo studio where Henry had his ID photo taken. To be fair, his indoor shots were really good.

Especially the parts with sunlight—the shadows weren't too dark, the highlights weren't too bright, both sides were clear, and there was even a touch of artistry. In this era without Photoshop, that level of detail adjustment could outclass many photographers.

But Henry had no intention of praising that old white man's photography skills. Remembering his almost pushy sales pitch, he wanted to say: Bullshit—take my Kryptonian iron fist!

Picking out a few promising options from the housing info provided by the Italian guy, Fabio, Henry said, "If I want to see these places, when can we arrange it?"

Among Henry's shortlist was that Santa Monica beach apartment. Fabio flipped open his notebook and said, "A few of these are under our management—we can see them anytime. The others need me to contact the owners, so the earliest would be tomorrow or later."

"Then let's check out the ones we can see first." Henry didn't overthink it.

The two agreed that Fabio would drive, and they'd loop by the available places along the way.

The first place—Henry took one look inside and immediately gave up. It was in the city center, low floor, and the downside was the noise.

Cars came and went on the main road, and since it wasn't a purely residential area, there were no restrictions on honking. Sometimes pedestrians passing by would shout loudly enough for people upstairs to hear.

And since it was an old building, it was easy to imagine the windows didn't have great soundproofing—which turned out to be true.

Even if he shelled out to improve the windows, in the short time Henry had been inside, strange noises from the drainage pipes had already cropped up several times.

Henry wasn't about to torture his Super Hearing like that, so he passed.

Santa Monica was technically an upscale area, and being by the coast, the view was indeed nice. But the place Fabio had was on the top floor of an old apartment building.

And anyone who's lived on a top floor knows—hot in summer, cold in winter. Plus, by the sea, the humidity was high, and the air carried salt.

Don't ask about the physics of that—the fact was, in these coastal houses, if iron fixtures weren't painted regularly, they'd start rusting after a while.

That's how it was with this Santa Monica apartment's top floor. Great location, great view, but the natural living conditions were a major problem.

Considering he'd be using electronic devices, Henry had no choice but to reluctantly pass.

New book requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations—thank you~