Chapter 39: Housing Options

The Italian guy isn't one of those black-market agents who just want to scam money—he really does have some properties on hand.

After rummaging through his briefcase, he pulled out several sheets of documents and laid them flat on the table. "These are houses near Hollywood, but renting them alone isn't cheap—most people rent them jointly."

"A bit farther out, at the edge of Los Angeles city, there are still some decent units. Like this one in Santa Monica—close to the beach, with a view of the ocean right outside the window. The scenery is excellent."

Looking at the documents clearly divided into two piles, Henry asked: "What's the difference between these two?"

The Italian guy explained: "One type is property managed by us. The owner entrusts the house to us—you deal directly with us. Any future issues are handled by us."

"The other type is just the owner listing the rental. We help the owner find suitable tenants, and once the contract is signed, any future problems—you deal directly with the owner. Of course, you can still come to us, but there's an extra fee."

Henry now understood. He also realized why the pile of managed properties was placed in front—they probably earned not just the initial commission but also monthly cuts afterward.

But for owner-listed rentals, they only get the first commission. That's why you have to pay extra if you want them to intervene later. In short, they make less.

Still, presenting both types of documents upfront—is that shrewd business sense, or poor business sense?

But the man's open and honest attitude still earned him considerable respect from Henry.

As Henry glanced over the documents, plates of spaghetti and macaroni were brought to the table. Pizza had to be baked fresh, rice balls had to be fried—both were still being prepared.

After placing the dishes on the table, the old woman stood beside them, beaming, not in a hurry to leave.

Henry rolled up a bite of pasta and shoved it into his mouth. The briny freshness of the clams paired with the pesto was intensely aromatic—almost the moment it touched his tongue, his eyes widened.

"Buono!" he exclaimed, while making a hand gesture as if his mouth were exploding. It was a gesture Henry remembered from American TV shows and movies, where Italians praised food.

Sure enough, as soon as Henry spoke and made the gesture, the old woman's face lit up. She chattered rapidly, then happily turned and went back to the kitchen.

Henry had to ask the Italian guy: "What did she just say?"

"Sallya just said she's glad you like it. Eat more—she'll go prepare the other dishes you ordered."

As both are Indo-European languages, their grammatical structures aren't vastly different. That means you won't hear a long speech in one language and get a translation of only a few words.

So even if the Italian guy's translation isn't perfect, it's probably close enough to the original meaning.

Without further ado, Henry devoured an entire plate of spaghetti—so fast, it looked like a starving ghost had possessed him. No one would doubt now whether he could finish the rest of the meal.

The wine paired with the meal was extraordinary—its initial astringency had gained new layers of flavor. Clearly, the restaurant's chef didn't just pick ingredients for profit—he truly put heart into his cooking.

The pizza and fried rice balls were the same. Especially the fried rice balls: as a transplant who once lived on rice as a staple, Henry had never even imagined such a dish before.

But once he tasted it, he understood why Italians had this recipe.

The main reason was the type of rice used—when filled with mozzarella cheese and coated in breadcrumbs, the rice was perfectly suited for frying. The outside was crisp, the inside soft and fragrant, with layered textures.

And when Henry finished the entire large pizza meant for several people, the other diners in the restaurant stared at him in stunned silence.

Overall, this meal left Henry thoroughly satisfied. The trauma from yesterday's delivery pizza seemed completely healed.

Of course, he wasn't just eating. He was still scanning the housing documents in his hands.

Besides handwritten descriptions, some houses had interior photos and views from the windows—letting you see the general condition without visiting in person. It naturally sparked curiosity.

Looking at the photography skills in the pictures—on par with magazine-level photographers—Henry asked curiously: "Did you take these photos yourself?"

"No, I asked Giovanni to take them. I gather a few houses, wait until I've got enough for a roll of film, then send Giovanni on a round, and get them developed. These photos make negotiations much easier."

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

Especially the parts with sunlight—dark areas weren't too dark, bright areas weren't too bright, both were clearly visible, with a touch of beauty. In an era without photo editing, this mastery of detail could outclass many photographers.

But Henry had no intention of complimenting that old white guy's photography skills. Thinking of his near-harassment sales tactics, he wanted to yell: "Bullshit! Taste my Kryptonian iron fist!"

From the housing documents provided by the Italian guy Fabio, Henry picked out a few he liked. "If I want to see these places, when can you arrange it?"

Among the candidates Henry selected was the Santa Monica beach apartment. Fabio flipped open his notebook and said: "A few of these are managed by us—we can go anytime. The others require contacting the owners; the earliest we can arrange is tomorrow or later."

"Then let's see the ones we can visit first," Henry said without hesitation.

After a quick discussion, they decided Fabio would drive, and they'd circle around the available properties in order.

The first house—Henry took one look inside and immediately gave up. Located in the city center, on a low floor, the main problem was noise.

Cars constantly passed on the major road, and this wasn't a purely residential area—there were no restrictions on honking. Sometimes passersby shouting loudly could be heard upstairs.

Also, since it was an old building, the window insulation was clearly poor—and the reality confirmed it.

Even if Henry paid out of pocket to improve the windows, during his brief time inside, strange noises from the drainage pipes had already occurred several times.

Henry didn't want to torture his super-sensitive hearing, so he let it go.

Santa Monica, strictly speaking, is an affluent area by the coast, and the scenery is indeed excellent. But the apartment on Fabio's list was on the top floor of an old building.

And top floors—anyone who's lived in one knows: scorching hot in summer, freezing cold in winter. Add to that the coastal humidity and salt-laden air.

Don't ask how the physics works—just know that on the coast, if iron objects aren't regularly repainted, they'll begin to rust after exposure.

This Santa Monica top-floor apartment was exactly that. 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 give it up.

New book seeking follows, collections, and recommendations—thank you~~

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(End of Chapter)