Rental Choices

The Italian wasn't the kind of shady agent who only wanted to scam people out of money. He really did have some listings on hand.

After rummaging through his briefcase for a while, he took out several documents, flattened them, and laid them on the table. "There are houses near Hollywood here, but renting alone isn't cheap. Most people share them.

"A little farther out, around the edges of Los Angeles, there are still some decent options. Like this place in Santa Monica—it's close to the beach, and you can see the ocean right from the window. The view is excellent."

Looking at the documents, which had clearly been divided into two stacks, Henry asked, "What's the difference between these?"

The Italian explained, "One type is managed by us. The owner entrusts the property to us, so if you want it, you deal with us directly. If there are any problems in the future, we handle them too.

"The other type is simply rented out by the owner. We help the owner find suitable tenants, and once the lease is negotiated and signed, you can contact the owner directly if anything comes up. Of course, you can still go through us, but there'll be an additional fee."

Henry understood now. He also understood why the stack of managed properties had been placed closer to the front. Besides the initial commission, these agents probably got a cut every month afterward as well.

For owner-listed rentals, however, they only collected the initial commission. That was why they charged extra if tenants wanted them to step in later. Put bluntly, there was less money to be made.

Still, putting out both types of listings right from the start—was that good business sense, or bad business sense?

Either way, the man's forthright attitude made Henry think more highly of him.

Henry had only glanced through the documents in his hand when the pasta and macaroni were brought to the table. The pizza had to be baked fresh, and the rice balls had to be fried fresh, so they were still being prepared.

After setting down the food, the older woman stood happily nearby, in no hurry to leave.

Henry rolled up a forkful of pasta and stuffed it into his mouth. The fresh flavor of clams paired with pesto was rich and fragrant. The instant it touched his tongue, his eyes widened.

"Buono!" At the same time, he made a gesture as if something had exploded out of his mouth. It was the motion Italian people used in European and American TV shows and movies to praise food, at least as Henry remembered it.

Sure enough, the moment Henry spoke and made the gesture, the older woman beamed. She rattled off a string of words, then happily headed back into the kitchen.

Henry had no choice but to ask the Italian, "What was she saying just now?"

"Salia said she was happy you liked the food. She told you to eat more while she went to prepare the other dishes you ordered."

Since they were both Indo-European languages, their sentence structures couldn't be all that different. In other words, it wouldn't be a case of hearing someone speak at length in one language, only for the translation to be a few short words.

So after comparing them a little, even if the Italian's translation wasn't exact, it should have been close to the original meaning.

Without another word, Henry demolished an entire plate of pasta. He moved so fast that he looked like a starving ghost reborn. No one would doubt anymore that he could finish the rest of the meal.

What was wonderful was that the accompanying wine had gained a different flavor beyond its original astringency. Clearly, the restaurant's chef hadn't simply chosen ingredients with the highest profit margins. He had truly put thought into the food.

The pizza and fried rice balls were the same. Especially the fried rice balls—Henry, a transmigrator whose staple food had once been rice, had never eaten anything like them before, so he couldn't imagine what they would taste like.

But after actually trying them, he realized there was a reason Italy had such a recipe.

The main reason was the different variety of rice. With mozzarella filling and breadcrumbs coating the outside, it was perfectly suited for frying. The exterior was crisp while the inside was soft and fragrant, creating layers of texture.

As for the huge pizza meant to be shared by several people, watching Henry finish it all by himself left the other diners staring in astonishment.

All in all, Henry was extremely satisfied with the meal. It felt as though the grievous wound inflicted by last night's delivery pizza had finally healed.

Of course, he hadn't only been eating. He still had to look through the housing documents in his hand.

Besides handwritten descriptions, some properties included interior photographs and views taken from the windows. Without even visiting in person, people could get a general idea of what the places looked like. It undoubtedly stirred their curiosity.

Seeing that the photographs displayed skills no worse than those of a magazine photographer, Henry asked curiously, "Did you take these pictures yourself?"

"No, I asked Giovanni to take them. I gather a few properties together, and when there's about a roll of film's worth, I have Giovanni make the rounds and develop them. These photos make business much easier to negotiate."

Giovanni was the owner of the photo studio where Henry had taken his ID pictures. To be fair, his interior photographs were genuinely good.

Especially the parts lit by sunlight—the dark areas weren't too dark, the bright areas weren't too bright, and both sides remained clear while retaining a sense of beauty. In this era without photo editing, that kind of fine adjustment could crush plenty of photographers.

But Henry had no desire whatsoever to praise that old white man's photography skills. Thinking of his near-compulsive sales pitch, Henry wanted to tell him, "Bullshit~ Eat my Kryptonian Iron Fist!"

From the property listings provided by Fabio, the Italian, Henry picked out several places he liked. "If I want to see these houses, when can that be arranged?"

Among Henry's shortlisted options was the beach apartment in Santa Monica. Fabio pulled out his notebook and said, "A few of these properties are managed by us, so we can view them anytime. For the others, we need to contact the owners. The earliest would be tomorrow or later."

"Then let's see the ones we can view first." Henry didn't hesitate.

After discussing it, they decided Fabio would drive them around to the viewable properties along the way.

Henry took one look around the first property after entering and immediately gave up on it. It was located downtown on a lower floor, and its biggest drawback was the noise.

Cars came and went along the main road, and this wasn't a purely residential district, so there were no restrictions on using car horns. Sometimes, if pedestrians shouted a little loudly while passing by, people upstairs could hear them.

And since it was an old building, it was easy to imagine that the windows had poor soundproofing. In fact, that was exactly the case.

Even if Henry paid out of pocket to improve the windows, during the short time he had been inside, strange noises from the drainage pipes had already bothered him several times.

Henry had no intention of tormenting his Super Hearing like that, so he passed.

Strictly speaking, Santa Monica was a wealthy district. It was also by the coast, and the scenery really was nice. But the property Fabio had was on the top floor of an old apartment building.

Anyone who had lived on the top floor knew what it was like—hot in summer, cold in winter. Add in the seaside location, with its heavy moisture and salt in the air.

Don't ask how the physics of the latter worked. The fact was that for these coastal houses, metal items would start rusting after being exposed for a while if they weren't repainted regularly.

That was exactly the problem with this top-floor Santa Monica apartment. The location was great, and the view was great, but the natural living environment was a major issue.

Considering that he would be using electronic equipment, Henry could only give it up reluctantly.