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Ramsey adjusted his tie for the eighth time, adding a diagonal golden stripe. Was that too on the nose? Did it clash with the suit? He considered for a moment before deciding it would do. Looking in the mirror, now, he barely recognized himself. He was used to the suit now, after pulling this scam half a dozen times, but he never got used to the disguises. Last time he’d had a full fake beard. This time, he’d shaved, dyed his hair black, and spent hours getting the makeup over his scar right. The fake eye was the hardest part. He’d paid through the nose for something that looked realistic that would fit over his gold eye and spent the better part of a day learning to move the iris around with his epithet. It had paid off, though. A golden contact lens in his good eye completed the look, making the irises match, and he was a new man.
Satisfied with his look, he grabbed his briefcase and left the bathroom. He didn’t usually make last-minute adjustments, but he was nervous. Patience was normally a virtue, but in this case his patience had backfired. Time ran out on his first batch of gold last night, and it was only a matter of time before the company reported the crime to the SJPD. He was confident he’d covered his tracks, so SJPD weren’t an immediate danger. The corporate rumor mill, though? That was a different matter. Stories about his con would be circulating soon, and a suspicious mark was much harder to con. He’d need to be especially careful not to seem suspicious himself.
The building’s lobby was nearly empty as he strolled back in. The receptionist was on the phone, so he elected to wait, sitting down in the closest chair. The only other man in the lobby was a gruff, older gentleman wearing a long beige coat and a faded brown hat. Something was off about him, but Ramsey avoided looking for too long. Instead, he checked his watch. Ten past three. Five minutes until it was showtime. The moment the receptionist hung the phone up, he stood.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, parking his suitcase in front of the receptionist’s desk. “I’m Daniel Smelt from Midas Investments, here to see Mr. Page.”
“Ah, yes…” She looked through her calendar for a moment, then paused. She glanced behind him, and he turned to see the older man stand up.
“Mr. Smelt,” he said, walking up to Ramsey and stretching his hand out. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Clyte, Mr. Page’s personal appraiser.”
“Here to check out the goods?” Ramsey asked, motioning toward the suitcase.
“In a manner of speaking. I’ll explain on the way.” The man headed for the elevator, beckoning for Ramsey to follow him.
“I’ve never had a client hire an independent appraiser before.” Ramsey grabbed his suitcase and joined the man. “Do you want to see the gold before I speak with him, or after?”
“I’m not here to look at the gold, I’m here to look at you. With the number of Inscribed in this city increasing every year, he’s taken some precautions against any… Unorthodox business methods.”
“I see.” Ramsey nodded. The elevator opened, and they stepped in.
“So what does yours do?” Clyte asked, pressing the button for the sixteenth floor.
“Hm?”
“Your epithet. You are Inscribed, right?”
“You could tell? I’m impressed.”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time, Mr. Smelt.”
“It changes my appearance.” Ramsey touched his tie and began removing the golden stripe. He made sure to keep the gold on his fingers as small as possible while he did, so Clyte didn’t see what else it could do.
“That would explain a lot of things,” Clyte said, nodding. “I appreciate you being so forthcoming.”
Technically, Ramsey hadn’t lied. He could use his epithet to change his appearance. If this guy was here to evaluate him, then he’d stick to telling the truth as much as possible.
“We’re going to need to get some formalities out of the way before we meet with Mr. Page,” Clyte continued. “State your name and occupation.”
“Daniel Smelt,” Ramsey said. “I’m a sales representative for Midas Investments.”
Technically true as well. He was friends with a notary public who’d helped him arrange a false identity. Legally, his name was Daniel Smelt, and legally he did work for Midas Investments. But he’d already told these people as much over the phone and left enough of a paper trail to make the fake identity look convincing at a glance. Why was this guy asking him stuff he should already know?
It clicked when he noticed the faint, green glow around the man’s irises. He was Inscribed, and his epithet had something to do with these questions. Worst case scenario, he was a human lie detector, and Ramsey was sunk. Still, he hadn’t technically lied so far. The real test would be—
“And I assume you have a seller’s license for the gold?” Clyte asked.
The license. He’d gotten a notary public to verify his new identity, but he couldn’t do the same for a gold seller’s license. Those took months to approve, and he’d need a new one for each identity. And besides, applying for six different licenses in the same city was a great way to get caught. So instead, he’d forged it himself.
“Of course,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “It’s in here somewhere.” He patted down his coat for a moment, buying himself some time while he thought. He couldn’t come up with a good excuse, though. After a moment, he reached into his coat and withdrew a piece of paper. He handed it over to Clyte.
The man frowned as he studied it, and a pit began to form in Ramsey’s stomach. He was confident in his work, but this guy was Inscribed. His epithet could blow the whole thing. He didn’t say anything until the elevator doors opened.
“Everything alright?” Ramsey asked.
“Yeah,” the man said, handing Ramsey the license. He was still frowning, though. “The license checks out. I’ll take you to see Mr. Page.”
“Excellent,” Ramsey said, stepping off the elevator. Clyte led him down a hallway, passing several expensive-looking offices before arriving at their destination. The wall plaque read Robert Page, Chief Financial Officer.
“You must be Mr. Smelt,” Mr. Page said, standing up from his desk as Ramsey entered. He was a sharply dressed man in his late thirties, with short red hair and a pair of mechanical implants in his forehead. He had a fractal pattern down the left side of his suit, and Ramsey found himself distracted for a moment as he studied it.
“I am he,” Ramsey said. He shook the man’s hand, firm grip but not overbearing. “Shall we get to business?”
“He’s clear?” Mr. Page asked, glancing at Clyte. After a moment, the man nodded, and Mr. Page motioned to a chair in front of his desk. Ramsey sat down and laid his suitcase flat next to him.
“Mr. Page,” Ramsey started.
“Please,” Mr. Page said. “Call me Bob.”
“Bob, we at Midas Investments offer secure investments. The stock market is volatile, and you can’t rely on it to give you good long-term returns. But gold prices have been rising steadily for the past quarter, and we expect the trend to continue for the foreseeable future. If you buy gold from us, you could make substantial returns.”
“For example?”
“The closing price for gold has risen by two hundred dollars per ounce over the last year. That’s more than seven thousand dollars per kilogram. If you purchased, say, ten million dollars’ worth of gold from us last year, that investment would have grown by fifteen percent by now. That’s nearly twice the stock market’s average annual return. That kind of surplus would give you ample capital to institute, say, a stock buyback?”
“You have me intrigued,” Mr. Page said, leaning forward. “We’ve been looking for a new investment opportunity, and this sounds like something worth looking into. How much would you be able to sell us?”
“I’ve brought a sample with me,” Ramsey said, opening his suitcase and taking out one of the gold bars. These had been dirt a week ago, but he’d spent time shaping and stamping each bar until they were indistinguishable from the real thing. He laid the bar on Mr. Page’s desk.
“I brought eighty kilograms,” Ramsey continued. “Market price for this would be just above four point five million. Adding a half-percent commission fee, to cover the costs on my end, that will round out to…” Ramsey took a piece of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the desk. “Four million, five hundred and thirty-one thousand, one hundred and eighty-four dollars. Midas Investments is willing to offer you this sample for that price as a show of our good faith. In the future, if you wanted to invest in larger amounts, we’d be charging a larger fee to cover our procurement costs, but it wouldn’t be large enough to infringe on your margins.”
“Hmm…” Mr. Page picked up the bar of gold and weighed it in his hand for a moment. “It’s got a certain draw to it, don’t you think Clyte?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes still fixed on Ramsey. “Real classy.”
“I can’t say no to such a generous offer, Mr. Smelt.”
“Call me Daniel,” Ramsey said. Mr. Page smiled.
“I like you, Daniel. But it does make me wonder. You stand to gain very little profit in this venture.”
“I want to build trust, first,” Ramsey said. “We’ve got a reputation for investor satisfaction.”
“That’s a lie,” Clyte said. Damnit. He’d embellished too much. He needed to think fast.
“Is that his first lie?” Mr. Page asked.
“Pretty sure,” Clyte nodded.
“I need you to be honest with me, Daniel.”
“Sorry,” Ramsey said, the words coming to him as he said them. “We do strive for excellence, but there have been a few misunderstandings along the way. A few years ago, one customer approached me looking to make a very expensive purchase, all in cash. I prepared everything for him, got all my ducks in a row, but when it came time to make the payment, he tried to lowball me. He wouldn’t even pay half the market rate, let along cover the labor costs. I told him in no uncertain terms that, if he was going to hire a professional, he should pay professional rates. He didn’t take that well.”
After a moment, Mr. Page burst out laughing. Clyte grumbled something inaudible.
“It’s true,” Clyte said. His frown deepened.
It had been true, though it was a story from his other job. Doing online art commissions meant Ramsey had interacted with all manner of weirdos. More than a few had tried to lowball him. He was surprised that story passed whatever test Clyte was putting him through, though. Being vague seemed to be the key.
“Well, Daniel, you’re an interesting sort,” Mr. Page said, wiping a tear from his eyes. “And I’m interested in your offer. Would you take payment in stocks?”
“Gladly,” Ramsey said. Mr. Page fished out a document from his desk and took a moment to write some numbers in. It took him a moment to do some calculation.
“That comes out to forty-five thousand, one hundred and fifty-five shares,” he said, passing the paper to Ramsey. “Give us your information, and we’ll transfer the ownership to your company.”
“Right.” Ramsey wrote down as much as he could get away with, including the number for the dummy account and the company’s contact information. The address was an empty lot, and the number routed to an automatic voicemail system, but it would work until he was in the clear. There was also a place for him to endorse the transfer, and he scrawled out his signature as Daniel Smelt. He’d spent a few hours practicing, so it flowed relatively naturally.
Mr. Page took a moment to enter the information in his computer, and then he waited. He smiled at Ramsey, his fingers strumming on the desk. After about a minute, Ramsey’s phone buzzed. It was an email confirming the transfer.
“Looks like it’s gone through,” Ramsey said, picking the gold up and zipping up back up in the suitcase. He stood the suitcase up on end and extended the handle. “I will leave this with you. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Bob.” He stood up and stretched out his hand.
“I like you, Daniel,” Mr. Page said, standing up. “This industry could use more people with your attitude.”
“Thank you.” They shook hands again.
“Clyte will see you out.”
“This way,” Clyte said, opening the door.
They walked back to the elevator in silence. Clyte was frowning the whole time, to the point where Ramsey was concerned he might be onto him. But they made it to the lobby without any issue.
“You’re a shifty individual,” Clyte said, opening the door to the building. “You talk in circles so much I can’t tell what you’re trying to say half the time. But the gold’s real, and the license is real. Not much I can complain about.”
“I appreciate the honesty,” Ramsey said. He offered his hand. After a moment, Clyte shook it. It took everything Ramsey had to keep himself from smirking.
He dragged out the handshake a moment longer than appropriate and took the time to use his epithet. He snaked a line of gold up the man’s arm and down his back until it reached his lower regions. After a moment, the man’s ass was solid gold. He didn’t know if the man would notice right away, but he couldn’t resist leaving a little parting gift. Clyte was clearly uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything.
“I’ll be seeing you,” Ramsey said, stepping out into the street.
“No you won’t,” Clyte said. He glared at Ramsey and closed the door. Ramsey pretended to walk off, but he glanced back through the window into the building’s lobby. After a moment, Clyte noticed something was wrong. He began patting himself down and swearing. Ramsey stuck around just long enough to see the look on his face before disappearing into the crowd.
Operation Midass, he thought as he walked down the street. It was a good name for the job. But it wasn’t over yet. He pulled out his phone and began dialing numbers. He needed to sell those stocks before someone put two and two together and called the police.