The Rose Trimmed With Gold

Chapter 4

Ramiro would spend the next few days not looking for the Dimenticato gang but instead looking for a satisfactory apartment. Mr. Moretti would help him find an apartment in the business district, right across the street from a large corporate building by the name of Buchanan Accounting. It was run by the richest man in the Valley of Ashes, Gerald Buchanan. It was a small apartment, miniscule compared to the large building that loomed and caught the light just right, so it blinded Ramiro in the middle hours of the day. Buchanan accounting glinted arrogantly as the sun beamed with excitement for the day ahead of it. Ramiro decided to get a job there, for he didn't want to be seen as lazy, and didn't want to seem suspicious for not having a job. He ended up in the waiting room of Buchanan Accounting, wearing his off-white, almost pinkish, flannel suit, sitting next to 3 other people. They all went and left Ramiro sitting alone, wasting away in the silence that filled his head, leaving nothing but a loud, bellowing ringing noise that filled the vast cave of his head. A petite brunette woman with wide hips walked up to the large bench he had been sitting at.

"Mr. Buchanan will see you now," she called to him, and she led him through a maze of cubicles and hallways until they had reached the end of a hallway that ended in a large oak door, and in a nameplate of glittery copper was the name: Gerald Buchanan. The girl knocked on the door before walking into the large office that somehow put Ramiro's apartment to shame. The office had a large window that took up a whole wall that overlooked the beautiful glinting water of Lake Michigan. Small green houseplants lined the corners of the office and made it look like a small greenhouse. A sweet, spicy, and woody aroma filled the air, and a short man who looked like he was beginning to grow a belly sat at a large desk, in a white button up with white dress pants, and black boots, tie, and vest. He seemed to be in his late 40s, going on 50s, as his thinning brown hair and scraggly brown beard had stains of silver in them. His brown eyes peered arrogantly over a fat, long curled nose, and they told you that you were nothing to him but a means to make even more money than he already had.

"Do you like the scent? It's from my agarwood desk, very expensive and hard to find," he said in an excited murmur, like he wanted to tell you just how successful he was.

"Very nice, Mr. Buchanan," Ramiro replied, and Buchanan swung his boots and laid them leisurely on his desk, one over the other.

"So, you here for our entry-level accounting job?" Buchanan implored, and Ramiro shook his head. Buchanan reached out his hand, and Ramiro handed him a resume, complete with his fake ID with a fake last name and a fake occupation history. His fake ID also came with an extensive criminal history, which may come in handy for getting into the gang, but not for getting a job.

"Well, sir, as you can see, I do have some accounting experience, not much, but it was my former position for 4 months in Chicago before I moved here," Ramiro explained, and Buchanan nodded his head slightly, barely hearing what Ramiro was saying. He listened to Ramiro mumble needlessly for a few minutes about the criminal record before cutting him off finally.

"Ah-hah. Well, unfortunately, this business doesn't hire people with former criminal charges. It's a matter of integrity really, my grandfather built this business from the ground up, with the highest amount of integrity, and I must keep the status quo-" he he had started with a large twinge of pride in his voice, before he was cut off by the door swinging open, and a man stepping in. He was around the same height as Ramiro, with green eyes as green as the grass itself. His eyes reminded Ramiro of a cats eyes, darting around as if surveying the whole room and taking everything in. He had blonde hair that looked like it was trimmed every day, and the small bit left was swept to the side. He wore a gray t-shirt that showed off his muscular arms, and black jeans with holes ripped into them. He moved towards Buchanan's desk, but Buchanan noticed him and jumped up from off his chair and swept the man towards the side of the room. Ramiro noticed the jauntiness of the mans walk, as if he walked in and demanded the room. They whispered angrily, Buchanan scowling and shaking his head in disbelief. "We're not doing this right now!" Buchanan whispered angrily and then remembered that Ramiro was in the room and went back to scowling solemnly again. The man whispered one more thing to him, that seemed to insult Buchanan, before marching out of the office and slamming the door behind him. Buchanan ran his fingers through his disappearing hair, murmuring under his breath as he walked back to his desk.

"So, who was that?" Ramiro asked, and Buchanan looked at him, apoplectic with fury and nervousness at the question.

"That is of my own business," Buchanan snapped, and then sighed, looking at Ramiro with his arrogant eyes and now a large quantity of suspicion. "Now, where were we?"

"You were talking about integrity," Ramiro responded, and Buchanan blinked with uncertainty.

"Ah yes, integrity," Buchanan said, except for this time the word integrity seemed off on his tongue, as if he couldn't say it, his tongue not fully grasping the meaning of it anymore, "Ah, well, you know, actually, I think I've changed my mind. You're hired as long as we don't speak of this little… incident. With paid training, of course."

"Sure," Ramiro responded, and Buchanan stood up, momentarily freezing before sticking out his hand for a handshake, and Ramiro shook it, took the paperwork he needed to fill out, and left the building. He was walking to his apartment building across the street when he ran into Solomon Moretti standing outside. He was wearing an egg blue rag of a suit that made him pop in the dull colors of the city that filled the empty space between buildings.

"Hello there, Ramiro, short time, no see," he laughed at his joke, a sweet sound that filled the air and left Ramiro wanting to hear more.

"Hey, Mr. Moretti, what's up?" Ramiro asked, and Solomon Moretti smiled one of his warm smiles and began fishing in his egg blue suit pants. He grabbed out a small invitation, a piece of paper with large, sweeping letters written on it, like the letters were being washed away off the paper. It had an address written on it, 308 Norton Beach.

"Well, you of course don't know this as you're new, but I've been nominated for Michigan's man of the year, and I was hoping you could come to a small celebration at my house," he responded, and Ramiro smiled, and took the invitation, and he let the invitation go gingerly.

"Why'd you get nominated?"

"Well, I donated a lot of my money to some orphanages around Michigan. The award doesn't matter, but I am honored to be nominated," Solomon Moretti answered, and Ramiro smiled at his nobleness, and Ramiro full heartedly believed that man was and could always be good.

"I'll let you know if I can make it, I sure hope I can," Ramiro told him, and Solomon Moretti smiled and headed off excitedly down the street. Ramiro watched him for a second before going up to his apartment. It was small compared to Buchanan's office, but it was cozy. A small twin sized cot sat in one of the corners of the apartment, and a desk sat in another corner of the room. There was a small bathroom, barely the width for him, and if he stuck out his arms, he could touch both walls and a small kitchen that was an extension of his room. He sat down on his desk and began to work on his paperwork, setting the letter down carefully on top of it. Halfway through, he fell asleep, drifting into the vast waves of his dreams and wants that filled his head and made him feel safe and cozy. He dreamed about coming home to his wife and child, and being able to feel them in his arms again, because calling just wasn't the same as truly being able to hear their voices with his ears. He dreamed of his wife's smile and his child's laugh until all of a sudden, they went silent, and a cold silence filled his head.