I knock on the door of the office of one of the most expensive real estate agents in San Francisco. I’m wearing a suit. It’s a custom-made suit that only cost me $500 (thanks, Indochino). I’m frugal, but deadly, and I’m about to attempt my very first con.

The Setup

Con artistry has a rich history and based on my scientific estimate turns a solid profit of, well, a crap-load-of money annually.

Think about it … those guys offering to pave your driveway, that man you met at an airport bar now calling you about junk bonds, the housekeeper who sold you fake drugs in Panama, that Nigerian prince having trouble moving funds, etc.

All of these people are con artists. And you got to imagine they have around a 3-5% success rate, right? It’s a burgeoning industry!

Why did I suddenly decide to be a con artist? Because the deck was stacked against me. Trying to find an apartment in San Francisco is a Herculean … no! … a Sisyphean task.

How’s the real estate market in San Francisco? Glad you asked. There appears to be a grand total of NOTHING in your price range that you want. It makes fun of you and your mumbled requirements. It positions you as a dreary cog in a faceless machine. It pushes you beyond any limits you may have set.

“I think we can find a place for $2500,” I naively told my wife when I first started looking. Later? “I think if we pay $5000 we can make it work. We’ll cut out extraneous expenses! I’ll make my own sandwiches … my own bread!”

That wasn’t really an option. Therefore, I was left with a rental situation that was good for nothing but taunting me. I had to take a step back. I had to observe. I had to learn the system in order to defeat it.

I had to find an angle.

But, first … research! I got online and did a deep dive for anyone who was a known player in the high-end San Francisco residential real estate market. I narrowed it down to five agents. I eliminated the two older-looking guys because we all know not to play poker with our dad.

And so, I was left with three.

1. Gabriel “Cobra” Vasquez — a 35-year-old family man. He’s a local gangster and the leading conduit between the Mexican jet-set and San Francisco. His Facebook cover page is him mugging with his kids … ominously.
2. Randolf J. Whitmarsh — A young blue blood (to the extent that such things exist on the West Coast) who’s lost his fortune. A blue blood black sheep, you might say. He’s a man of privilege, a gentleman of leisure, but not so much of a humanitarian. Everything he’s had has been handed to him and he blew it all. He’s understandably bitter about the entire situation. Therefore, he’s potentially foolish.
3. Ivanka Patel — This woman threw me for a loop. Was she 25? 42? All I knew was she was the best possible genetic outcome of half-Russian and half-Indian. She was slinky and intelligent, and a hypnotic conversationalist. Did that mean she was she too smart to con? Perhaps. She was cocky, and maybe … just maybe, I could use that against her.

These were my potential choices for a high-end real estate agent. These were my own personal cat-stroking Bond villains. One of these three would be my “mark.” I chose Ivanka, because I work in advertising and I know that sex sells.

The Meet

So there I was, knocking on the door of the office of one of the most expensive real estate agents in San Francisco, looking good in that custom-made suit that only cost me $500 …

Ivanka opened the door and glared at me. She was wearing something between a neglige and a cocktail dress, and it was struggling to break up a fight.

I gave her my standard spiel, something I’d written and memorized long before this moment.

“Hello, Miss Patel. My name is Ross Morrison. I’ve recently purchased a concern that finds me living in the Bay Area. I need lodging, and only the single best apartment in all of San Francisco will do. My price range is entirely inconsequential. The only limit is this: there is no limit. I’ll be here for a year, perhaps two.”

(At this point, it’s very important that you’ve turned your back to the agent and are staring pensively out of her office window.)

“So, Miss Patel, now you know what I desire. However, we have a far more pressing matter that we must attend to. We must find a home for Winterbourne.”

Your agent (in my case, the exotic and sensual Miss Ivanka Patel) will say something like … “Winter-what?”

(Now it’s important that you turn dramatically to the sultry yet impeccably professional Miss Patel — and with fervor.)

“Winterbourne, Miss Patel, is my emissary, my consigliere, and my most trusted chauffeur. Before you begin the exhaustive search for my extravagant — and no doubt obscenely expensive — San Francisco dwelling, you must first take care of Winterbourne!”

(At this point, the agent will scoff — perhaps roll her eyes. Do not cave. Ignore the glamorous yet world-wise Ivanka Patel and continue…)

“Winterbourne is looking for a one bedroom apartment with one and one-half bathrooms, 700 square feet or greater, preferably in the Mission District and definitely within six blocks of the (you should look confused here, perhaps adjust your reading glasses) ‘BART’ train. He also requires private outdoor space, for barbecues and the like.”

Say it like you’re reading it straight off a teleprompter, or a ransom note. That’s how rich people say things.

(And now you drive it home.)

The Kill

“Listen to me closely, Miss Patel. It’s of the utmost importance that you find this apartment. Winterbourne’s anxiety is starting to disrupt my affairs — which cannot happen. He informs me … fearfully … that he cannot afford any apartment he actually wants (although I pay him what I believe to be a thoroughly commensurate wage).”

You continue staring directly into her soul for a the better part of one full minute — until she caves, and averts her eyes. Her Weltanschauung will have collapsed.

Then you shift gears, put your head in your hands, and begin weeping, softly. You turn away from Miss Patel, back to the window, never more quietly stoic than now. You quiver—visibly.

“As I stated, Miss Patel, I need you to find an apartment for Winterbourne, one that will ease his fragile mind. After that?” (You sigh even more deeply…)

“We’ll start looking for my place.”

You reacquire your countenance and continue, “Please keep me alert to any developments in ‘the Winterbourne search’ as he is currently handling my affairs on the Eastern Seaboard and depends on my instincts regarding such matters. Here’s my mobile telephone number…”

Now? You have the best real estate agent in the Greater Bay Area looking for an apartment with your price, your favorite neighborhood, and your requirements regarding number of bathrooms and outdoor space. This agent (the incomparable Miss Patel, in my case) will come back to you, and quickly, with exactly what you requested.

You see, dear reader, Winterbourne’s apartment was yours all along.

When your version of the effortlessly lovely Miss Patel sends you the listings and the contact info? You simply take it from there, acting as someone else under the employ of Ross Morrison (or, in your case … you). You sign the lease and block whoever is your version of the stunning, now-humbled Ivanka Patel from ever contacting you again.

The con—and the apartment hunt—is complete.

That, dear reader, is how you find an apartment in San Francisco. You must become a ruthless yet charismatic individual of means, yet you must BE Winterbourne.

You must become a master con artist, because that is who you’re dealing with when you’re looking for an apartment in San Francisco.

Special thanks to my frequent collaborators Bjorn Larsen and my wife, Becks, for their editing mastery.