She liked the mystery that came with figuring out what made him so successful. Her analysis was acute. Start on the surface. Perhaps his defining characteristic was that, year-round, his skin was a nice shade of orange. Steve made no secret of the fact he tanned. Actually, he was open about it in the most intriguing way. He normalized it. Got in a good tan today, he’d brag. He was one hundred percent Aspen. Claudine was unable to imagine him in any other environment, any other town. There was no way he could exist walking down the streets of New York—or any city, for that matter. He could exist only here. She had to admire his singular nature, the mixture of gaudy and charm that kept him universally well-liked, which was tough to do in a place of so many economic disparities. There were the rich who owned and the poor who rented, usually down-valley, with hardly anything in between. But it was hard to find a person who didn’t like Steve.

No one cared if he showed up to important meetings without a pen. In seconds, five people would be tripping over each other, volunteering to take notes, offering up their own pens. She had been one of them. Claudine cherry picked which of his strategies were of use to her. “Strategies.” His word, reflecting his obsession with motivational and self-help books. More like scams. Even more accurate: lies.

Steve was a master of reading a situation and conveniently reciting exactly the right anecdote to seal the deal. Truth played no part in the matter. If you listen very closely, he’d say, you’ll start seeing how through simple conversation people reveal so much personal data. Those details were as valuable as currency—what eventually translated into currency. The equation was simple. A small piece of personal information plus a dash of something magical equals exactly what they want to hear. Think aspirational. Tailor the story to who they want to be rather than who they are.

When a Houston-based oilman with a bemused look on his face showed up wanting to buy a “shack” to do some fly-fishing in the spring, Steve told him it was his lucky day. Jack Nicholson’s old place was on the market. It was right near a sweet spot on the Roaring Fork River. He and Jack pulled nine trout out of the hole one afternoon last July, all over eighteen inches. Cooked them up right there on the riverbank. Jack liked to carry a little satchel of salt in his pocket, which made all the difference. It was the best meal he’d ever had in his life.