Chapter 29: Marcus Discovers the Truth
Marcus arrived at 10 AM with four men and a plastic bag that made Ben's stomach drop before he even saw the contents.
Ray was there, baseball bat resting on his shoulder. Three others Ben didn't recognize—all muscle, all threat, all positioning themselves to block exits. The garage door rolled down behind them with metallic finality.
"We need to talk about magic tricks," Marcus said, his voice carrying the particular calm that preceded violence.
He dumped the plastic bag on Ben's workbench.
Singles. Dozens of one-dollar bills that had, weeks ago, appeared to be hundreds. The illusion had reverted, and now Marcus held evidence of impossible fraud.
Ben's Danger Intuition screamed warnings so loud his vision blurred. His MacGyver Mind cataloged the situation automatically: four against one, armed opponents, no escape routes, violence imminent unless he talked his way out.
"Interesting," Marcus continued, picking up a single and holding it to the light. "Remember when you paid me five thousand? All hundreds? Counted them myself, felt right, looked right. But a friend suggested I check old payments. See if anything seemed off."
Steve. That bastard actually did it.
"Found these in my safe," Marcus continued. "Where hundreds used to be. Along with some very curious patterns."
He produced a folder—documentation that made Ben's blood run cold. Photographs of jewelry that had become rocks. Names of people who'd been paid with money that transformed. Notes connecting dozens of reversions to Ben's timeline.
"Mrs. Rodriguez," Marcus read. "Remembers you paying her with a hundred that later became a five. Tommy's mom—twenty became a single. The pawn shop in Gary—quarter million in jewelry became garbage. All connected to you."
Ben's mouth was dry. His Danger Intuition pulsed specific warnings: if he lied, they'd know. If he ran, they'd catch him. His only chance was something so audacious it bordered on insane.
"I don't understand how you did it," Marcus admitted. "Some kind of counterfeiting that degrades? Chemical treatment? I've asked around—nobody's heard of anything like this. But I understand the pattern: you con people with temporary fake money, and by the time it reverts, you're gone."
"It's not—"
"I don't care about the how." Marcus's voice hardened. "I care about the disrespect. You conned me. Made me look stupid. Paid me with trash disguised as cash. That kind of disrespect? It demands consequences."
Ray stepped forward, bat ready. The other three moved closer, cutting off any possibility of escape.
Ben's Silver Tongue activated at maximum capacity, showing him a path through the minefield. It was desperate, absurd, but it was all he had.
"You're right," Ben said, forcing his voice steady. "I conned you. But not the way you think."
"Explain."
"I'm a cleaner. For bigger operations." Ben let his Silver Tongue guide each word, reading Marcus's micro-expressions through Danger Intuition, adjusting in real-time. "Dirty money comes in, I make it look legitimate temporarily, it gets moved through networks, then reverts before anyone can trace it. The temporary nature isn't a flaw—it's a security feature."
Marcus's expression showed skepticism mixed with interest. "Security feature."
"Think about it. If I create perfect hundreds that never change, anyone who gets them can be traced back to me. But if they revert to singles after the money's been moved? The trail goes cold. Original singles are legitimate, untraceable. The hundred-dollar phase is just temporary cover for moving them through systems."
It was the most audacious lie Ben had ever told. Turning his power's fundamental weakness into a deliberate strategy. But his Silver Tongue sold it with supernatural conviction, making the absurd sound logical.
"So you work for someone bigger," Marcus said slowly.
"Worked. Past tense. Trying to go independent, which is why I needed your protection." Ben was improvising desperately, building a story that explained everything while revealing nothing true. "The Russian mob story? Half true. I did work for them. As a cleaner. Making dirty money look legitimate long enough to move it."
"And the payment you gave me?"
"Was legitimate singles that I temporarily made look like hundreds. They reverted because they were always singles underneath. I cleaned your money by temporarily upgrading it, moving it through my network, then letting it settle back."
Ray growled, "That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard."
"Is it?" Ben looked at Marcus directly. "How else would I make hundreds turn into singles? Magic? There's no counterfeiting technique that works like that. But there is a money laundering technique that uses temporary presentation to move cash through multiple systems before returning to its original state."
Marcus was thinking, calculating. Ben could see him weighing the absurdity against the lack of alternative explanations.
"If this is true," Marcus said carefully, "you could clean money for my operation."
"I could." Ben's Danger Intuition showed him the trap he was about to walk into, but refusal meant immediate violence. "Turn your dirty cash into temporary clean cash, move it through legitimate channels, let it settle back to untraceable originals."
"Ray thinks we should just kill you and take whatever equipment you use."
"Equipment's in my head," Ben said, tapping his temple. "Kill me, you lose the only person in Chicago who can do this."
The silence stretched. Marcus weighed options while Ben's heart hammered against his ribs. This was the moment—accept the lie or call it bullshit and start breaking bones.
"I want a demonstration," Marcus said finally. "Fifty thousand. You clean it, show me the process, prove this works. One week."
Ben's Danger Intuition screamed warnings. Fifty thousand dollars, maintain illusions for a week minimum, create documentation that withstood scrutiny—it was impossible. His power couldn't sustain that much, that long.
But agreeing was the only alternative to dying right now.
"Deal," Ben said. "But I need—"
Before he could set conditions, the garage door rolled up.
Frank stumbled in with Kevin and four Alibi regulars, all of them positioning themselves between Ben and Marcus's crew. The numbers shifted instantly—still tilted toward Marcus, but no longer overwhelming.
"Ben!" Kevin called out, genuine concern in his voice. "You okay?"
"We're having a business discussion," Marcus said, irritation replacing some of the menace.
"Discussions don't usually require four guys and a baseball bat," Frank observed. He was drunk but sharp-eyed, reading the situation instantly. "Ben's under community protection. Neighborhood looks out for its own."
Marcus studied the new arrivals, recalculating. He could still win a fight, but the cost had increased substantially. And Ben had just offered him a valuable service.
"We've reached an agreement," Marcus said. "Ben's going to demonstrate his cleaning services. Fifty thousand, one week. If it works, we're partners. If it doesn't—"
"It'll work," Frank interrupted. "Kid's the best cleaner on the South Side. I've been facilitating his operations for months."
Ben looked at Frank with surprise. The old drunk was vouching for him, selling the lie without even knowing the details.
"Then you'll help facilitate this demonstration," Marcus said. "Both of you are responsible. If Ben fails, you both pay the price."
Kevin stepped forward. "And if Ben succeeds, we're clear? No more threats, no more harassment? Clean slate?"
"If he proves he can clean fifty thousand dollars with documentation that holds up, I'll consider us business partners." Marcus looked at Ben directly. "But understand this—if you're conning me again, if this is another layer of bullshit, I won't come back with words. I'll come back with fire."
He left with his crew, tension dissipating like released pressure. The Alibi regulars filtered out gradually, muttering about drinks and near-misses.
Kevin remained, concern etched on his friendly face. "Man, what the hell was that about?"
"Marcus discovered some... inconsistencies in how I've been operating." Ben's legs felt weak suddenly, adrenaline crash hitting hard.
"Can you actually do what you promised?" Frank asked. "Clean fifty grand?"
"I don't know," Ben admitted. "But I had to say yes or die."
After they left, Ben collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the concrete floor. His hands shook uncontrollably. His Danger Intuition still pulsed warnings about the impossible task he'd just agreed to.
"I bought time by promising something I can't deliver. Fifty thousand dollars cleaned within a week using illusions that will inevitably revert. I'm not solving problems anymore—I'm delaying consequences until they become catastrophic."
But he was alive. That counted for something.
Even if the reprieve was measured in days before everything collapsed.
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