Chapter 13: The Gold Scam Setup
Ben was counting money when Frank appeared.
Not counting money, actually. Counting the absence of it. Three hundred seventeen dollars in his cash box. Marcus wanted a thousand in five days. The math didn't work no matter how many times he recalculated.
"You look like a man contemplating bad decisions," Frank said from the garage doorway.
Ben jumped, nearly dropping the bills. "Jesus, Frank. Knock."
"Door was open. Besides, we're partners now. Partners don't knock." Frank stepped inside, surveying the garage with the assessing eye of a con artist evaluating assets. "How short are you?"
"What?"
"For Marcus. How short?" Frank gestured at the cash box. "I can see you counting from here, and your face says the number's bad."
Ben considered lying. Decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Seven hundred short. Five days to find it."
"Ouch." Frank picked up a wrench, examined it like he was considering buying it. "You know what your problem is?"
"Enlighten me."
"You're charging too little. Helping too much. Being too nice." Frank set down the wrench. "Mrs. Rodriguez's washing machine? Should've charged fifty minimum. Debbie's toys? Two dollars each, easy. Fiona's machine? Hundred bucks, and she'd have paid it."
"I'm not going to price-gouge people who can barely afford food."
"That's exactly your problem. You've got skills, powers apparently, and you're giving them away like charity." Frank's tone shifted, becoming almost professorial. "Which is noble and stupid. Noble doesn't pay Marcus."
Ben's jaw tightened. "What's your point?"
"My point is we need to expand our partnership. The TV thing was small-time. But I know buyers. Real buyers. Suburban pawn shops, estate sale people, folks with money who don't ask questions." Frank leaned against the workbench. "Gold jewelry, specifically. Always in demand, easy to move, good profit margins."
"I don't have gold jewelry to fence."
"No. But you can acquire it." Frank's eyes locked onto his. "Or create it. However your thing works."
The garage suddenly felt smaller. Colder. Ben's Danger Intuition pulsed warnings he couldn't quite interpret.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ben said carefully.
"Please. I'm not stupid. The TV I brought? You examined it like you could see through it. Every repair you do is too fast, too perfect. You know things you shouldn't know." Frank pulled out his flask, took a drink. "Don't care how you do it. Don't care if it's magic, genius, or divine intervention. Just care that you can."
Ben's mouth went dry. "That's a wild theory."
"It's the only theory that makes sense. Regular mechanic doesn't fix a washing machine in twenty minutes. Doesn't diagnose car problems instantly. Doesn't..." Frank gestured vaguely. "Whatever you did to convince Marcus you had Russian mob connections. That wasn't just talking. That was something else."
He knows. Not everything, but enough to be dangerous.
"Let's say you're right," Ben said slowly. "Why would I help you?"
"Because you need seven hundred dollars in five days, and I can show you how to get it. Because Marcus will break more than your hands if you come up short. Because..." Frank's expression became surprisingly earnest. "Because you're good at what you do, and I'm good at what I do, and together we can both survive this shithole."
The proposition hung between them. Ben's mind cataloged objections—moral, practical, legal. But underneath was the cold math: he needed money or Marcus would hurt him. Would hurt people he cared about to make a point.
"Who are these buyers?" Ben asked.
Frank's smile was genuine. "Now we're talking."
For the next hour, Frank delivered a master class in South Side criminal economics.
He knew which pawn shops were police-connected (avoid), which ones asked questions (avoid), which ones operated on don't-ask-don't-tell policies (target). He knew pricing structures—too cheap raised suspicion, too expensive invited scrutiny, the sweet spot was slightly below market value. He knew which suburbs had the right demographics—wealthy enough to afford luxury items, transient enough that strange faces went unnoticed.
Ben's MacGyver Mind processed the information, recognizing the expertise. Frank was a terrible father, a worse husband, and a chronic alcoholic. But he understood crime with the clarity of a professor explaining his field.
"Gold jewelry moves best," Frank explained. "Small, portable, universally valuable. Rings, pendants, bracelets. Nothing too flashy—you want believable estate sale material, not obviously stolen."
"And you have buyers lined up?"
"Three shops that'll take whatever we bring. No questions, cash same day." Frank pulled out a crumpled map, marked with X's. "This one in Evanston, this one in Oak Park, this one in Naperville. We rotate, never hit the same place twice in one month."
"Sixty-forty split?"
"Fair's fair. You provide merchandise, I provide connections and sales expertise." Frank folded the map. "When can you start?"
Ben looked at his cash box. At the inadequate stack of bills. At the calendar marking days until Marcus's deadline.
"Tonight," he said.
After Frank left, Ben locked the garage door and stood at his workbench. His hands trembled slightly—anticipation or fear, he couldn't tell which.
He'd used his illusion power twice before. Once on the twenty-dollar bill that had reverted and nearly exposed him. Once to create documentation for Frank's TV. Both times small, experimental, cautious.
This was different. This was deliberate fraud for profit.
Ben pulled out a plastic bag of rocks he'd collected—smooth river stones from a landscaping pile, roughly the right size and shape. He spread them on the workbench. Twelve rocks. Twelve pieces of jewelry.
He picked up the first stone and focused.
The illusion power responded like a muscle flexing. His vision blurred at the edges. The stone seemed to shimmer, its surface becoming fluid, properties shifting under his concentration. Thirty seconds of sustained focus, and suddenly he was holding a gold ring.
It was perfect. The weight felt right in his palm—heavier than the original stone somehow, his power adjusting perceived mass to match expectations. The color was rich, authentic 14-karat gold. He could see tiny imperfections in the band, the kind that came from age and wear. His illusion hadn't just changed appearance—it had created history.
Ben tested it. Rubbed it against his thumb. Felt the texture of real gold, slightly soft, expensive. His MacGyver Mind confirmed this would pass casual inspection, possibly professional testing.
The nosebleed started a minute later.
Hot blood running over his lip, dripping onto his hand. The pain in his skull intensified—not quite migraine, but close. His power had a cost, and extended use extracted payment in suffering.
Ben tilted his head back, pinching his nostrils. Waited for the bleeding to stop. Five minutes later, he was back at work.
Eleven more stones. Eleven more transformations. Each one draining him further, headache intensifying, vision occasionally doubling. But he pushed through, driven by desperation and the cold knowledge that Marcus wouldn't accept excuses.
Three hours later, he had twelve perfect pieces of jewelry arranged on his workbench. Rings, pendants, a bracelet. Each one beautiful, fake, temporary. He photographed them with his phone, noting the time: 8:47 PM. His earlier experiments suggested small items like this might last forty-eight hours, maybe more. But he'd need to track the reversions carefully.
Ben set alarms on his phone: two days from now, these would turn back to rocks. Whoever owned them then would discover the fraud. Would be confused, angry, would possibly report it to police.
But by then, Ben would have his money. Would have paid Marcus. Would have bought himself time to figure out what came next.
Just until I'm stable, he told himself. Just until I have enough saved. Then I'll stop.
The same lies every criminal told themselves.
Frank picked him up the next morning in a car Ben didn't recognize—a beat-up Toyota that looked like every other vehicle in South Side. Unremarkable. Forgettable.
"Smart," Ben said, climbing in.
"Learned from the best." Frank pulled into traffic. "First rule of selling hot merchandise: look like you belong. Second rule: never look desperate. Third rule: know when to walk away."
They drove to Evanston, a suburb forty minutes north. The contrast to South Side was immediate and depressing—clean streets, well-maintained houses, cars that weren't held together with rust and prayer.
The pawn shop was called "Heritage Estate Sales." Upscale, catering to people looking for antique bargains. Frank coached Ben during the drive.
"You inherited this from your aunt. She died last month, you need cash fast to cover funeral expenses. You don't know anything about jewelry, don't care about sentimental value, just want fair price."
"Why would I bring it here instead of somewhere closer?"
"Because your aunt lived in Evanston. This was her neighborhood. You're just hitting local shops first." Frank pulled into a parking spot two blocks away. "Let me do most of the talking. You're grieving, uncomfortable selling family heirlooms, not really present. Got it?"
Ben nodded, feeling sick.
They entered the shop together. It smelled like old wood and furniture polish. The owner was a man in his fifties, gray-haired, wearing reading glasses on a chain. He looked up from paperwork as they approached.
"Help you gentlemen?"
Frank launched into his story with practiced ease. The dead aunt, the inheritance, the unfortunate necessity of selling. Ben stood slightly behind him, holding the box of jewelry, trying to look uncomfortable and sad.
It wasn't hard. He felt both genuinely.
The owner—Mr. Patterson, according to his name tag—examined each piece with professional care. Pulled out a jeweler's loupe, checking for hallmarks. Used acid to test gold content. Weighed everything on a digital scale.
Ben's heart hammered. His Danger Intuition stayed quiet, which either meant he was safe or the danger was too far away to register. The illusions held perfectly under scrutiny, showing exactly what Patterson expected to see.
"These are nice pieces," Patterson said finally. "Estate quality. I can offer eight hundred for the lot."
"Eight hundred?" Frank sounded offended. "These are worth at least twelve."
"Retail, maybe. But I need to resell them, and the market's soft right now." Patterson shrugged. "Eight fifty, final offer."
They settled on nine hundred. Patterson counted out cash, made Ben sign a receipt with a fake name Frank had prepared. The whole transaction took fifteen minutes.
They walked out with nine hundred dollars. Ben felt like he'd swallowed poison.
In the car, Frank divided the money with surprising precision. Five hundred forty for Ben, three hundred sixty for himself. Sixty-forty, exactly as promised.
"See?" Frank said, pocketing his share. "Easy money. Do this twice more, you'll have your thousand plus extra."
"Plus whatever's left when the jewelry reverts and Patterson realizes he bought rocks."
"Not your problem by then." Frank started the car. "We're not stealing from him. He chose to buy. We're just exploiting the gap between what he wants to believe and what's real."
"That's bullshit justification."
"Maybe. But it's bullshit that pays." Frank pulled into traffic. "Besides, Patterson's insurance will cover the loss. He'll file a claim, get his money back, everyone moves on. Nobody really gets hurt."
Ben wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that fraud was fraud regardless of insurance. But his pocket held five hundred forty dollars, and Marcus's deadline was four days away, and survival didn't care about moral philosophy.
That night, Ben set more alarms on his phone. Forty-three hours until reversion. By then, he'd need to have sold the remaining pieces, collected his money, paid Marcus, and hoped the trail was cold enough that investigations wouldn't reach him.
He lay on his mattress and stared at ceiling. The jewelry gleamed on his workbench under the single bulb—beautiful, fake, temporary. A perfect metaphor for everything he was building here.
Just until I'm stable, he repeated silently. Just until I have enough saved.
But deep down, Ben knew the truth: once you started lying, stopping was the hardest thing in the world.
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