Straw into Gold

‘Round about, round about, Lo and behold! Reel away, reel away, Straw into gold’

The Brothers Grimm

A Trading God Walks into a Pizza Parlor, A Prologue

At the corner of Eighth and State, atop the seventy-fifth floor of a steel skyscraper spiraling toward the clouds, on an island cram-packed with business titans, families, and milling pick-pockets, a conniving band of traders peddled stocks, bonds, and secrets. The financial trade rags praised this management team at Empire Builder with three little letters behind the name, LLC.

The company deserved the title. Founded by the seemingly omnipotent King of the market, Augustin Saints, four short years ago, the empire’s shadow crept over the city. Only the cleverest scoundrels and ambitious traders worked here, creating money from the netherworld with insider knowledge, advanced mathematics, and steely resolve. Some attributed the success to black magic. Others cheating and trickery. And the fringe element? They wondered if an omnipresent devil had set up shop in town, knowing when to buy and when to sell. No matter who you believed, a lead-lined stomach helped in this high-risk game too.

Augustin and his team paid little attention to rumors. To them, only the scoreboard mattered. And they were winning. Their market cap pushed higher each month.

The industry giants–some called them the old guard–began to take notice inside their own glass and steel skyscraper castles that climbed toward the heavens. With a unifying purpose, determined men strove toward great lengths to outdo one another. Plans of sabotage filled board room meetings and lunch hour breaks.

While the empire builders and old guard titans battled in the storm clouds, the blue-collar folks kept running on life’s flywheel below barely noticing the coming storm.

One such soul, a baker of pizza toiled in a quagmire of heat three blocks shy off Fifth. The city sweltered in July. The sun tempered the concrete, baking the sewage and trash near a single-story, downtrodden building. The mortar crumbled, red brick fading. Yet, people showed in droves because his pies were known for the crispiest dough, tangiest sauce, and pepperoni seasoned with garlic and a hint of paprika procured from a butcher across the pond. Surviving two World Wars and The Great Depression, the baker’s world famous Pizza Gin had become a pilgrimage for tourists and twice daily church for some locale.

Slaving in the wee hours with the moon high overhead to make an honest buck, Giorgio Santini (his friends called him Old George) stoked the embers until his 107-year-old oven hit 600 degrees plus.

Taking no reservations, traders, business titans, families, and pick-pockets lined the street long before The Pizza Gin opened its doors at noon sharp, and the master baker only created so many pizza pies. Quality beat quantity. As the day wore on, not everyone got extra pepperoni. Some left with only scraps of fresh mozz and provolone. With only cornmeal and flour dust left and the wood turned to ash, The Pizza Gin staff slammed the doors shut.

The worker bees and sightseers on the outside looking in mourned at the time wasted and vowed to return the next day, far earlier of course.

This tale of heroes, villains, and the grey spaces in-between begins on a blustering Spring Thursday. The sun poked around the skyscrapers, shining a beam of light on the decaying Pizza Gin, and a hungry Augustin Saints came calling. Rushing out of the stretch limousine, men in black suits opened the shiny black door. One laid out an orange shag carpet and rolled it to the front door, pushing the common folk waiting aside. Not a soul intervened. Augustin, with a fierce gaze, emerged from the car; his men flanked him on both sides. He took off his Ray-Bans and reached to the sunlight, a prayer of sorts to the god he wanted to become. “Ahh,” he moaned and grabbed the back of his neck. Creak.

“Helios pokes through the metal trees,” he said and blocked the light reflecting off a nearby window.“Today … feels strange. A trade missed? An omen?”

Either unwilling to engage or missing the allusion, the guards or assistants, never flinched. Those waiting in line quietly shuffled their feet ensuring their toes didn’t touch the shag. Only the squeak of the wheel and chain as a bicyclist blew past broke a careful truce of silence.

Satisfied, Augustin straightened his shirt woven with silk, silver, and gold. The tailor had double-stitched the inseams, and the fabric moved with his body, fit tight and snug. Augustin wiggled his fingers, flashing his rings. Gold. Platinum. Silver. Lithium. Diamond. Black Opal. Bixbite. Rhenium. Palladium. Jade. The minerals came from mines he owned over the river, through the woods, and hiding beneath the mountains up high.

Cracking his knuckles, he stood tall and lean. Unlike some fund managers in his profession, his belly never sagged over his leather belt. He ran marathons. Swam laps in the early hours. Meditated to end the day.

When he thrust open the front door of The Pizza Gin, Augustin inhaled deeply. Instead of using a magical lute, the intoxicating smell of a master’s work wavered from the aged oven into the street.

The jukebox played Johnny Cash’s When the Man Comes Around. A bride and her maids exchanged glances. A column of suits on break stared at the sheen of grease on the scuffed tiled floor. A CrossFit crew stepped aside.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” No stranger to celebrity, George waved the entourage to the counter. His hands appeared swollen and bloated. Years of toil and pounding out dough in extreme heat had deformed his fingers, shaping the cracks in his skin. He asked, “The usual, Mr. Saints?”

“Of course.” He adjusted each ring, making sure the diamond reflected the fluorescent bulb into the baker’s eyes, and said, “If you have any scraps, throw em’ to my guys.”

And so the baker went to work.

He pounded the dough out and tossed it high, shy of the fluorescent lights. Then, he spread his flour concoction into a rough circle on his wooden pizza wheel, pushed the toppings to the corner’s edge, and shoved the unfinished masterpiece into the heat and embers.

Old George never wore gloves.

The clock ticked–four minutes tops. Carefully, the master baker presented a charred pie in a white and red Pizza Gin box.

Augustin Saints breathed in the crust, sauce, oregano, and cheese. “I swear to my god, you’re an artist.” He tapped his own forehead, a slight nod of respect. Before he could turn and return to the armored car, George grabbed him by the shoulder and said, “The honor is all mine. I work hard for my daughter. She’s the reason the pie tastes so good. I want to make gods like you notice.”

Augustin held up a finger, a command for the fast-approaching henchmen in the pinstriped suit to stop. “Please understand, my men have broken bones for far less, and I have a certain reputation. But I’m somewhat intrigued.” The baker had teased the magic word. He had called him a god.

George told his story. The Pizza Gin had been in his family for four generations. His father made pie. His father’s father made pie. The lineage traced to his homeland. But he wanted more for his daughter. He spoke of her beauty. Long black hair. Blue eyes. And smart, graduated at the top of her class. She studied finance and math.

“I don’t want her to have my life,” the baker explained. “She’s my angel, deserving of the heavens, and far smarter than this old fool.”

“At the noon hour, your pie holds my attention. That’s not easy to do,” Augustin answered. He took another whiff. “That being said, you’re wasting my time. I make the GDP of small countries in less than fifteen minutes.”

“I know what you do,” the master baker stated. The Pizza Gin was his domain, his honor and prestige to the regulars mattered. “My daughter can beat your best.”

The guards began to laugh. After cracking his knuckles, one leaned in close to Augustine and reminded his boss about the concrete renovation job underway across the street. The trading god patted his protection on the shoulder and said, “There are far worse ways to punish someone for a slight. What the master baker doesn’t know is that I own all the buildings around this eyesore. One call to the health department, and I can have this place shut down. In a month, I’ll own this relic of a restaurant and convert it into a parking garage. Make more money too.”

George reached down and gripped his pizza wheel. Squeezing harder, he said, “Are you saying she’s only a pizza maker’s daughter?”

“Spoken like a proud and boastful father, a pity to break her. Are you willing to make a wager? Is she smart?”

Without hesitation, George answered, “At university, she solved the Riemann Hypothesis using 472 computers. The answer was in a cloud somewhere. Virtual machines. Brute force. Whatever that means.”

Augustin raised his eyebrows. “Ahh,” he whispered. “I have high expectations and work my patrons to a breaking point. A hard life. Sadly, not everyone survives. Most crack.” A sly grin appeared. “If she can do what you say, there is money to be had.”

“Nobody will work harder. She made millions in her finance class too. Yeah, she played a monopoly-like game but finished better than the rest of the lot. I’m confident she’ll beat your best.”

“We shall see, I’ll give her a tryout.” Augustin sat one of his thick black business cards on top of a metal pizza pan. “But she has to pass the test. And there are consequences for failure.” He pointed at the crumbling brick with his black opal finger, snapped, and his handlers cleared the way. He had places to go. Trades to make. Money to hoard.

The baker let out a relieved sigh as the doors closed and pushed the card inside his front pocket. For the rest of the day, he kept spreading dough until his fingers ached and imagined what August meant by other ways to punish a soul. Bulldozer through the front door? Financial ruin? Concrete shoes and a drop into the nearby river? After cleaning out the stove, kneading more dough, and washing the soot off his face, he locked up his shop and labored home to his one-bedroom apartment.

Leaning back in his recliner, regretting his mistake, he held the black business card to the light. Why couldn’t he keep his prideful tongue? No name or logo. Only numbers.

He stared at the phone. He remembered what Augustin told him. Most crack. His thumb rubbed against his puffy and burnt fingers. A clock in the kitchen ticked.

Before second-guessing, George grasped the receiver, jammed his puffy finger through the plastic hole, and whirled the wheel about. Click. Click. Click. He knew Augustin Saints was ruthless and possessed wealth beyond imagination, floor traders worshiped him like a minor god or deity. But not all gods flowered its subjects with flowers and gold. Some demanded tribute. If they did not receive in kind; well, the fall from the tower’s keep would leave more than a mark.

After the tenth ring, he whispered. “Please … pick up.”

When she finally answered, his tongue tripped and stuttered but recovered. “My love, I know we haven’t spoken since Christmas Day but please don’t hang up. I have the opportunity of a lifetime for you, a dream come true.” Hearing his daughter waver, he leaped out of his chair and confessed, “I’m in trouble.”

He told her the tale.

The Rest is Coming Soon …

Written by,

J. Scott Bradley

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Copyright Wrangling

Text copyright © 2021 by J. Scott Bradley

The Reaper, characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of © J. Scott Bradley

The Reaper © Second Act Fables Cover Art, Book Design and Interior Illustrations are copyright © and trademark of Second Act Fables.

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Library of Congress Control Number: Pending

ISBN-13: 978-0-9824576-5-8
ISBN-10: 0-9824576-5-0

Designed in the U.S.A. First Edition/And Constant Changes, October 2021

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