Chapter 5: THE LANDLORD CON
Victor Paulson drove a Mercedes S-Class that cost more than most of his tenants earned in a year.
I watched him park it outside a bar on Delancey Street, hand the keys to a valet who looked terrified to touch it, and swagger inside like a man who'd never been told no. Mid-fifties, expensive suit, wedding ring that caught the streetlight.
[MARK ANALYSIS ACTIVE]
[SUBJECT: VICTOR PAULSON]
[OCCUPATION: PROPERTY DEVELOPER / SLUMLORD]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: ARROGANT | SATISFIED]
[PRIMARY WEAKNESS: GREED (92%)]
[SECONDARY WEAKNESS: VANITY | FEAR OF EXPOSURE]
Three days of research had led me here. Paulson owned six buildings in the Lower East Side, all rent-controlled, all mysteriously emptying of long-term tenants. His methods were textbook: neglected repairs, harassment by proxy, strategically failed inspections. Push out the protected renters, gut the buildings, flip for luxury condos.
Illegal? Technically gray. Immoral? Absolutely.
The Housing Authority complaints filled three folders. Tenant testimonials described black mold, broken heating, threatening letters from anonymous sources. Paulson's inspectors—bought and paid for—found nothing actionable.
I found something else.
Three weeks of hotel receipts. A woman's name on restaurant bills. Photos from a private investigator Paulson's wife had hired before apparently deciding she didn't want to know.
The PI had gotten cold feet. I'd found his discarded case file in a dumpster behind his office. Amazing what people threw away.
[OPERATION: PAULSON EXTRACTION]
[CONFIDENCE LEVEL: 78%]
[POTENTIAL YIELD: $3,000-$10,000]
I crossed the street and entered the bar.
Dark wood paneling, leather booths, the smell of cigars from a back room that officially didn't exist. Old money pretending to be older money. Paulson sat alone at the bar, whiskey in hand, watching a basketball game on the television.
I took the stool next to him.
"Mr. Paulson."
He turned. Annoyed at the interruption, assessing whether I was worth his time.
"Do I know you?"
"Not yet." I signaled the bartender. "But you're about to."
His expression flickered—curiosity winning over irritation.
"I'm a private investigator." I pulled a business card from my pocket. Fake, printed that afternoon at a copy shop. Clean enough to pass casual inspection. "Recently finished a job that... well, let's say it concerns you."
Paulson's hand tightened on his glass.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your wife hired me." The lie flowed smooth. "Then she decided she didn't want the evidence after all. Changed her mind, said she wanted to work things out."
[SILVER TONGUE: ACTIVE]
[DECEPTION QUALITY: HIGH]
"That's none of my—"
"The problem is, I still have the file." I kept my voice low. Sympathetic. One professional to another. "Photographs. Receipts. Enough to make your divorce very expensive."
Paulson's face went pale.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing unreasonable." I sipped the whiskey the bartender set in front of me. "My services aren't cheap. Your wife's check bounced. I figure the least you can do is cover my expenses."
"How much?"
"Five thousand."
His laugh came out strangled. "That's extortion."
"That's business." I met his eyes. "Your wife gets the house, the kids, and about sixty percent of your property portfolio if this goes to court. My fee is a rounding error compared to that."
The silence stretched. On the television, someone scored a three-pointer.
[TARGET ASSESSMENT: CALCULATING]
[PROBABILITY OF COMPLIANCE: 71%]
"I need to see the evidence first."
I pulled a manila envelope from inside my jacket. Three photographs—fabricated that morning using stock images and careful cropping. Good enough to sell the story, not good enough for a court. Not that it mattered. Paulson wouldn't be taking this anywhere official.
He studied the photos. His jaw worked.
"These could be anyone."
"Could be." I took the envelope back. "Want to explain that to your wife? Or your business partners? The Rosenberg deal closes next week. How do you think they'd react to headlines about your personal life?"
Paulson's hand shook slightly as he raised his glass.
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Seven PM. Same place. Cash. I'll bring the only copies."
He finished his whiskey in one swallow.
"How do I know you won't just make more?"
"Because I'm a professional." I stood, leaving cash for my drink. "One transaction, clean break. This time tomorrow, I'm on a plane to somewhere warm. You never see me again."
[NEGOTIATION COMPLETE]
[MEETING SCHEDULED: MARCH 20, 7:00 PM]
The handoff went smooth.
Paulson arrived fifteen minutes early, nervous energy radiating off him like heat. I watched from across the street until exactly seven, then crossed to meet him.
"You have it?"
He thrust a envelope at me. Thick. I counted without pulling the bills all the way out. Fifty hundreds. Five thousand dollars, exactly as agreed.
I handed over the manila folder.
"We're done here."
"If I ever see you again—"
"You won't."
I walked away without looking back. Turned two corners, cut through an alley, emerged on a different street. Basic counter-surveillance. Probably unnecessary—Paulson wasn't the type to follow—but habits saved lives.
[CON COMPLETE: PAULSON EXTRACTION]
[REWARD: +1000 GC | +250 EXP]
[CRIMINAL REPUTATION: +50]
[CURRENT STATUS: LEVEL 1 | EXP: 600/1000]
The notification pulsed and faded. System currency I couldn't spend yet, experience points climbing toward something I didn't fully understand.
What I understood was the weight in my pocket. Five thousand dollars. Real money.
My apartment felt different with cash in my hands.
I sat in Byron's leather chair and counted the bills again. Fifty portraits of Benjamin Franklin, crisp and unmarked. Enough to pay June six months ahead. Enough to buy real clothes, stock the refrigerator, start living like a person instead of a fugitive.
[FINANCIAL STATUS: STABLE]
[RECOMMENDATION: ESTABLISH RESERVE FUND]
The system wanted me to save. Probably smart. I set aside half—twenty-five hundred for emergencies—and considered what to do with the rest.
The guilt hit somewhere around the third count.
Paulson was a predator. Families had lost their homes because of his methods. Children had grown up in apartments with black mold and broken heating because he'd rather pay off inspectors than fix problems.
The money I held had been stolen from vulnerable people long before I took it.
Redirecting it wasn't justice. Not really. But it was something.
[MORAL ASSESSMENT: CONFLICT DETECTED]
[HOST VALUES: PRAGMATISM 73% | ETHICS 27%]
I dismissed the notification. The system's moral calculus wasn't mine.
Tomorrow, I'd start building something cleaner. The FBI consulting opportunity waited. Peter Burke's business card sat on my dresser like an invitation to a different path.
Tonight, I'd let myself have the victory. Small and compromised as it was.
I found an empty lockbox in the apartment's closet—probably Byron's, left behind in the furnishing. The floorboards near the bay window lifted with a little pressure. I tucked the cash underneath, replaced the boards, covered them with a small rug.
Old habits from a life I'd never lived. Skills I didn't remember learning.
The city hummed beyond my window. Somewhere out there, Paulson was explaining to his wife why he'd left the house with five thousand dollars in cash. Somewhere else, Housing Authority inspectors were preparing for a surprise visit to six Lower East Side buildings.
I hadn't arranged the inspection. Just an anonymous tip, submitted three days ago, finally working through bureaucracy.
Karma didn't need my help. But sometimes karma needed a push.
The leather chair creaked as I settled deeper into it. Byron's records waited on the table—more patterns to decode, more contacts to identify.
Tomorrow, I'd become a consultant. Tonight, I'd study.
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