Harold opened his computer and searched the chat site, leaving a comment that fit with the topic but meant something entirely different to another visitor who acknowledged with an emoji. He closed the laptop, took a swig of his beer and nodded with satisfaction. His offshore account just grew by fifteen thousand dollars.

He took the plate of leftover lasagne from the microwave and carried it and a beer into the living room, remotely switching to the news channel on the TV as he settled down to eat. It seemed to be the same old stuff night after night, regrettably just like his social life . . . repetitive and dull. He switched to an old series rerun and ate.

Della Walker popped into his mind and the woman in the aerobics commercial took on her features as he sat and fantasized, allowing his pasta to grow cold. The commercial ended and the story returned but he had lost interest in it and the food. He took his plate back to the kitchen and just left it on the counter, getting another beer instead.

He thought about the Parkhurst Hotel, about joining his colleagues after work some time but Harold didn't want questions about his personal life. Besides he really only wanted to see Della and he knew, without a doubt, that would never happen at the Parkhurst.

There was a certain satisfaction in just having the fantasy, he felt, it avoided any obligations or potentially messy confrontations. He could enjoy his dream in his fashion, supplementing it each day when doing the mail rounds. Harold lay on the sofa and smiled at the ceiling. Della would sure get one hell of a surprise if she knew the real Harold Pope.

********

Another day and the routine continued. Della thanked Harold and directed her attention to sorting the mail for the different managers. He loitered a bit taking in the imagined image under the taught skirt and scoop-necked sweater then slowly pushed his cart back down the hall.

There was an envelope for Peter and she wet her lips as she gathered the mail and dropped it into the various offices. Peter looked up and paled slightly when she dropped an envelope in front of him and leaned on the desk, the neck of the sweater drooping and revealing her ample cleavage.

"Did your wife scold you, Peter?" She grinned mischievously.

"She wasn't happy."

"But you were, weren't you, Peter?"

"Della . . . look, we have to stop playing these games at work." He picked up the envelope and tried to look busy.

"Just at work?"

"Della . . ."

"Don't worry, Mr. Braxton. Our little secret's safe with me." She tapped her nails on the desk and left.

Peter sagged in his chair; how could he be such a fool?

Back at her desk, Della looked at the small envelope with surprise. It was sealed and simply had her first name scribbled on the front. She stood and looked around the office; she hadn't been that long, she thought. Who could have left it? Certainly not the mail guy.

She slipped a nail under the flap and slit it open, removing the contents and sitting with a thud on her chair. Poorly lit, she could still clearly make out she and Peter Braxton kissing on the street in front of the hotel. The print out trembled in her fingers, this was not good . . . not good at all.

********

Tony Renesto sat in his office tapping a letter opener against the desk top wishing he could see Della's face. He thought he might walk by but he was afraid it would look suspicious and he didn't want her looking at him as the perpetrator. It was driving him crazy though not to see her reaction.

He sat wondering what she might do. Would she tell Peter? He wouldn't if he was her, then again maybe she could use it against him for her own purposes. He sat up suddenly and chewed a hangnail. What if she did do that? Della wouldn't care if Peter's wife found out . . . had he made an error?

He checked his watch and then grabbed his jacket and left the office.

********

Harold nodded to Tony as he waited for the elevator, moving his cart to one side. He thought the salesman looked frightened for some reason; he sure would be if he knew about the real Harold. He grinned to himself then ventured a comment.

"You ah- you really think she's above my pay grade?"

"Huh? What? What are you talking about?"

"The other day, you know, when I was looking at Miss Walker?"

Tony looked irritated. "What are you- oh- yeah. I remember." He paused and stared at Harold then the elevator door opened and Harold shoved his cart inside.

The thought hit him like a hammer and he joined Harold, pressing ground floor, and basement where the mail room was housed.

"I was pulling your leg, Pope. You should give her a try. Nothing ventured." He gave a broad wink.

"Yeah, you really think I'd have a chance?"

"Sure, why not? You a good lookin' guy. Might be a little expensive for a mail room salary but hey, gotta spend it on something, right?"

The elevator stopped at the ground floor and Tony stepped out, giving Harold a thumbs up, then as he left the building slowed to a stroll while he ran his idea through his head again in more detail.

********

The end of another routine day and Harold punched out, heading home for another routine evening. The post card had been slipped under the door and he stooped to gather it up, pushing the door shut and switching on the light. He slipped off his jacket and went to the kitchen for a beer, leaning on the sink counter as he read his latest assignment.

A disgruntled wife, fed up with her philandering husband and wasn't going to take it anymore. Shades of Peter Finch in Network, he thought. Not having a committed relationship might be safer after all, Mr. . . . Oliver; he tilted the card to read the tiny writing. Well, first we have dinner.

Harold rode the subway to the nearest intersection then walked the balance of the way to the building housing, Creemore Investments. He made his way to the second floor office and walked in without knocking.

"Excuse me, we're closed."

"We?"

"What do you want? My business hours are-"

"What about your pleasure hours, Mr. Oliver?"

"Listen, you can just take yourself right out of here before I call the police." Oliver started to get up from his desk.

"Sit." The gun came out and pointed directly at his face.

"What- what do want? I don't keep money here . . ."

"Good thing. You never know who might just drop in looking for some."

Oliver sat back down, his fingers creeping toward the telephone.

"Don't. That would be a big mistake and it would also spoil Margie's plans."

"Wha- Margie? What are you talking about?"

"I like to explain to my subjects the reason for my visit. I find it clarifies things, removes all annoying confusion as to why I do what I do."

"I still don't-"

"Your wife, Mr. Oliver, has contracted for your demise. I know, you don't understand yet. Well, does Cynthia mean anything to you?"

Oliver's mouth fell open.

"How about Joyce? Elma?"

The blood drained from Oliver's face and he started to get up again.

"Uh, uh. You just sit right there." Harold came around the desk and removed another gun from his pocket. "Give me your hand, sir." He forced the gun into Oliver's hand then up to his head and squeezed the man's finger on the trigger before he could resist.

Harold stood back and let him go. His head crashed onto the desk and the hand with the gun dangled limply down at his side.

"Margie must have really cared for you, Mr. Oliver, she certainly invested a considerable sum in this separation." Harold said, as he closed the office door and left.

Spatters of rain had started as he headed for the subway entrance and just as he turned to go down the steps he bumped into a man coming up.

"Aah, geez. Sorry fella . . . hey, aren't you the mail guy from Kirkland Manufacturing? Pip? Pipe?"

"Pope." Harold cursed his luck as he forced a smile of remembrance. "Bill Stains, procurement, right?"

"Right! So, you live around here?"

"No. No I uh- I was just visiting a friend." He deliberately moved down the steps to get away.

"I live just up the block, want to come and have a drink? Trade company secrets?" Staines laughed, turning his collar up against the spatter.

"Sorry, I have to get home . . . expecting company." Harold shrugged and started down the steps again.

"Another time? I can catch you at work?"

"Yeah . . . another time. Thanks."

3695 Word Total (Microsoft word count)