Gemstone Butterfly

Those were the days before the Federal Trade Commission, the Pure Food and Drug Act, and income tax. Uncle Benedick owned a horse-drawn wagon, where he lived during the day, conducting his experiments, and at night, it transformed into a stage where he performed his magical tricks with his enchanting fingers and drew in money with his magical tongue, all without paying taxes or accounting to anyone. No one knew how much money Uncle Benedick had made. He went where he wanted, did what he pleased, spending money freely. After the patent medicine business waned, other, more lucrative opportunities arose. It was the era of mining stocks and wildcat oil speculation. Gradually, Uncle Benedick found himself among a crowd of sharp operators, where he was known as “the sleeper.” No one could feign sleep as convincingly as he, while his mind worked like a ball bearing, plotting how to outwit the bloodsuckers. In the dining cars of cross-country trains, Uncle Benedick was at his best. He’d sit down, drink a beer, then nod off, making clear snoring sounds. People nearby would discuss their business deals, giving Uncle Benedick enough information to devise the perfect scheme.
Then Uncle Benedict would nod his head vigorously, letting out a loud snore, wake up with an embarrassed look, and glance around with a sense of guilt from having snored, causing everyone in the carriage to burst into spontaneous laughter. After that, Uncle Benedict began to stay at home, rarely going out. About ten years ago, he started experiencing joint pain; he had developed arthritis. Once, he could dazzle with his long fingers shuffling cards, and with unparalleled skill, he would pull out his wallet from his pocket, examine it carefully, and then put it back without the “observed” vampire noticing a thing. Gradually, his finger joints began to swell. Now, Uncle Benedict is confined to a wheelchair, dozing away his later years. His mind remains sharp, and even Martha, his wife, can’t tell whether he’s genuinely asleep or just repeating old habits. Those who knew Uncle Benedict remember him fondly; his old friends revered the life he had led. According to police records, there were three occasions when the vampires he had blackmailed refused to press charges, openly stating that compared to the money he had taken from them, they cherished their brief interactions with him more. One of his victims went so far as to place an advertisement in a private column, saying, “Dear Benedict, come back, all is forgiven. Even if we lost some money, we still love you…” Even Martha was unaware of Uncle Benedict’s network of relationships. Thanks to his photographic memory for names, faces, and phone numbers, Uncle Benedict never kept any written records. Sometimes he seemed to wake from slumber, wheeling himself to the phone, dialing a number, and giving mysterious instructions. Occasionally, some people would visit their home, treating Uncle Benedict’s soft-spoken words as law, shaking hands very gently to avoid hurting his swollen joints, and leaving behind envelopes stuffed with green bills. The envelopes would be tossed into the wastebasket, but the money would find its way into Uncle Benedict’s pocket.