Chapter 17: The Gold Scam Expands
Ben's illusion power had evolved.
Three weeks of practice, dozens of transformations, and his ability had grown from crude parlor trick to refined instrument. He could maintain illusions on small items for six days now, sometimes seven. The headaches that once debilitated him had dulled to manageable background noise. His control was precise enough to add hallmark stamps, create realistic wear patterns, adjust perceived weight.
He was getting good at fraud. The realization sat heavy in his chest.
Frank noticed the improvement immediately.
"We need to talk expansion," Frank announced, appearing at the garage at 9 AM with coffee and a folder full of papers. "Your amateur hour phase is over. Time to go professional."
Ben was working on a transmission, hands deep in machinery. "I thought we were being professional."
"We're being small-time. Retail when we should be wholesale." Frank spread papers across the workbench—handwritten notes, addresses, crude maps. "I've done research. Real research, not just asking around bars."
Despite himself, Ben was intrigued. Frank's criminal expertise had proven surprisingly deep. "What kind of research?"
"Wholesale jewelry dealers. Indiana, Wisconsin, Illinois suburbs. People who buy in bulk, move merchandise fast, don't ask questions because volume matters more than provenance." Frank pointed at an address in Gary, Indiana. "This guy handles estate sales. Buys entire collections, sells to retailers. We hit him with a convincing story and quality product, we're talking ten, maybe fifteen thousand in one transaction."
Ben's hands stilled. "Fifteen thousand?"
"Your cut would be nine. More than enough to pay Marcus with money left over. Plus we establish a relationship with serious buyers. One sale a month, you'd be pulling five figures yearly."
The temptation was crushing. Nine thousand dollars. Financial stability. Marcus paid off permanently. Resources to actually help people instead of scraping by on goodwill.
All for the low price of massive fraud that would devastate some wholesale dealer when everything reverted to trash.
"Bigger sales mean bigger risk," Ben said.
"Actually, opposite. Fewer transactions, longer illusion durations, less pattern recognition." Frank's logic was sound. "Pawn shops talk to each other, compare notes. But wholesale dealers? They're competing. Don't share information. By the time reversions happen, the trail's ice cold."
Ben's MacGyver Mind processed the strategy, finding flaws and confirming Frank was right about most of it. Wholesale was actually safer than retail if executed correctly.
"When?" Ben asked.
Frank's smile was genuine. "Three days. Gives you time to build inventory, me time to set up the meeting. We're talking serious product here—emeralds, diamonds, high-end gold. The kind of collection that looks like an inheritance from wealthy relatives."
"I'll need materials."
"Already handled." Frank produced a bag of rocks, bolts, and metal scraps. "Picked these from a construction site. Nobody'll miss them."
They were really doing this. Escalating from small cons to major fraud. Ben felt like he was standing at a cliff edge, toes over the drop, knowing he was about to jump.
"Three days," he agreed.
Ben spent seventy-two hours in hell.
Not the physical space—his garage was as familiar as breathing. But the mental state of extended illusion creation was its own special torture.
He started with rings. Simple gold bands, then more elaborate pieces with settings designed for stones. His power responded with increasing sophistication, creating not just appearance but history. Each ring showed realistic wear patterns, internal scratches suggesting age, hallmark stamps that would pass professional inspection.
The first nosebleed came at hour two.
By hour six, his head throbbed with rhythmic pain that made his vision blur. He took breaks, drank water, pushed through anyway because Frank's deadline loomed and Marcus's threat was never far from his mind.
Day two, he moved to more complex pieces. Emerald rings—the rocks transformed into deep green stones with realistic inclusions, set in white gold bands. Diamond earrings—glass shards becoming brilliant cuts with fire and clarity. Gold chains—lengths of wire becoming intricate links with weight and texture.
The work was exhausting. Required intense concentration, precise control, constant awareness of reversion timers. Ben discovered he could reinforce illusions by layering them, making items more durable. Could create microscopic imperfections that suggested authenticity rather than perfection.
He was becoming a virtuoso. The thought made him want to vomit.
By day three, Ben had created a collection worth—if real—roughly two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Thirty-seven pieces of high-end jewelry, each one photographed with timestamps marking when illusions would fail.
The cost was visible in his mirror: sunken eyes, bloody nose that wouldn't fully stop, tremor in his hands from neural fatigue. His Danger Intuition pulsed soft warnings about the dangers of overuse, but he'd learned to tune it out like background noise.
Frank arrived at noon, examined the collection, and whistled appreciatively. "This is art. Actual art."
"It's trash that looks expensive temporarily."
"Best kind." Frank carefully packed each piece in jewelry boxes he'd acquired somewhere. "Gary tomorrow. Ten AM meeting. Wear something nice—not suit nice, but respectable. We're grieving relatives selling Grandma's estate."
Kevin appeared two hours after Frank left.
Ben had the jewelry spread across his workbench, organizing pieces for transport, when Kevin's shadow fell across the workspace. Ben looked up to find his friend staring at the collection with unreadable expression.
Silence stretched. The obvious question hung unasked: Where did you get this?
"That's a lot of jewelry," Kevin said finally.
"Yeah."
"Like, a suspicious amount."
"Probably."
Kevin picked up an emerald ring, held it to the light. The illusion held perfectly, showing color and clarity that suggested five-figure value. He set it down carefully.
"You fencing for someone big?" Kevin asked.
Ben's Danger Intuition pulsed, but not urgent. Kevin wasn't threatening—he was curious, maybe impressed. Ben realized Kevin had assumed he was working for a larger criminal operation, which was both safer and more dangerous than the truth.
"Something like that," Ben said.
"Makes sense. You and Frank, the partnership, the connections you mentioned." Kevin nodded like pieces were falling into place. "Who you working for? Chicago outfit? Independents?"
"Can't say."
"Right, course not. I'm just..." Kevin gestured at the jewelry. "Be careful, man. This level of merchandise brings heat. Real heat, not Marcus's small-time protection racket."
"I know."
"Do you? Because this—" Kevin picked up a diamond necklace, "—this is the kind of thing that gets people disappeared when it goes wrong. If your buyers figure out they're being played, or if cops trace this back..."
"I'm being careful."
Kevin studied him with unusual seriousness. "You're in deep, aren't you? Like, way deeper than I thought."
Yes. So deep I can't see surface anymore. So deep I'm not sure there's a way back.
"I'm managing," Ben said.
Kevin sighed, set down the necklace. "Alright. Your business. But for what it's worth—neighborhood's got your back on small stuff. This? This you're on your own. Nobody can protect you from whoever moves product at this level."
They shared a beer in silence. Kevin didn't ask more questions, didn't push for details. Just offered quiet support and advice about avoiding police attention: vary routes, use different vehicles, never move merchandise in patterns.
After Kevin left, Ben sat alone with his collection of beautiful lies and felt the neighborhood's implicit approval settling over him like a warm, toxic blanket. Nobody here judged criminality—they judged competence. And Ben was proving very competent at being a criminal.
He photographed each piece again, noted reversion times in his phone. Seven days for most items. Nine for a few pieces where he'd layered illusions extra thick. After the sale, these would return to rocks and trash in strangers' hands, and some wholesale dealer would discover he'd paid fifteen thousand dollars for garbage.
But by then, Ben would have paid Marcus. Would have stability. Would have money to actually help people instead of constantly scraping by.
At what point does knowing you're wrong stop mattering if everyone around you calls it survival?
Ben didn't have an answer. Just the collection of fake jewelry, the scheduled meeting in Gary, and the knowledge that he was crossing a line he couldn't uncross.
Tomorrow, he'd be a serious criminal. Not small-time fraud, but major cons that could land him in federal prison if caught.
Tomorrow, he'd see if he could live with himself afterward.
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