The Messenger's Invoice

THE MESSENGER’S

INVOICE

Short fiction by

SCOTT C. MARTIN

The Messenger’s Invoice – 2010 - Written by Scott C. Martin

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Location: New Bedford, Massachusetts” by Lewis Wickes Hine is in

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1

harles poked one of the ceiling tiles with his finger,

lifting the square out of its frame. The edges gleamed

white, while the center of the square showed the ef-

fect of at least thirty years of smoke, humidity, and the breath

of drunkards. The basement bar reeked, and the cool hints of

air crawling down the stairs from the propped-open door did

little to help. Charles retracted his hand and wiped his leather

work glove against his jeans.

The Second Thought bar was, like so many basement bars

had been in the city, tucked beneath a more respectable

restaurant. For decades, patrons had taken their dinners with

something nice on the wine list, then stumbled downstairs to

the Second Thought to wreck their palates with bottom-shelf

booze and cigarettes.

Charles considered the décor; if the Second Thought

made any profits during its decades of operation, they weren't

C

SCOTT C. MARTIN

2

reinvested into furnishings. The dozen or so barstools weren't

fixed into the floor, and only a couple seemed to originate

from the same set. Another few chairs and tables were spread

across the egress from the bar to the stairs.

The restaurant above had changed names, owners, and

cuisine countless times, but the Second Thought remained

true. Some enterprising soul must have installed a wetbar

around a basement wash basin in the 1950s, thought Charles,

and the tables must have come later. He had demolished a

half-dozen just like it in his fifteen years of construction

work. The Second Thought wouldn't pose any significant

problem for him and his crew.

With the sale of the Second Thought and the restaurant

above (the unafilliated Chester's Table, serving the "best" in

southern-style cooking), the entire block was finally in the

control of the city. Charles and his crew often found

themselves contracted by the local government, and that was

fine with him. For the last year, he had steady work turning

THE MESSENGER’S INVOICE

3

failed businesses into jobs centers and community resource

buildings.

The Second Thought should have been filling in on the

Sunday afternoon. The last call had come two days before,

however, with patrons sending the beloved old bar off with a

closing time that defied city ordinance.

Now the Second Thought was Charles's problem, and not

much of one at that. He had spent most of the weekend

upstairs, making plans for the renovation of Chester's Table

into a cubicle farm for the local Department of Motor

Vehicles. Plans for the demolition of the Second Thought

would only take minutes: everything was to be removed, and

the space was to be filled with document storage racks. His

guys would be able to turn the smoke-stained bar into an

oversized file cabinet in two days. He had forecast five days

for the project. Once again, he was about to make the city

administrator very happy.

SCOTT C. MARTIN

4

Charles heard clacking on the landing above, and turned

his head toward the source of cool air. Descending the stairs

was a well-dressed woman in her late 60s or early 70s, able-

bodied enough to manage the stairs with a measure of grace

and authority. The refinement of her business suit led Charles

to believe that she could not possibly be the former owner of

the Second Thought. No, this woman had been successful in

life.

"I'm sorry," said Charles to the woman, who had

descended the stairs halfway. "I don't know if you saw the

signs out front, but the bar is closed now. Construction."

"And yet the door was open," said the woman quickly,

continuing her decent. Her long white hair was pulled up into

a bun, highlighting the severity of her cheekbones. As she

stepped into the flourescent lights of the bar, Charles stepped

back. Her authority preceded her like a bubble, sweeping him

away. "I have an appointment here at four o'clock."

"Sorry?" said Charles.


5

"Four o'clock?" said the woman in a clipped, accent-free

voice. "The hour sandwiched between three and five? Surely

you've heard of it." She checked her watch (a beautiful, silver

piece). "It's three-thirty now, and four o'clock will occur in

roughly thirty minutes."

"Is it about the renovation?" said Charles. "Are you

supposed to meet someone from the city?"

"Most assuredly not," said the woman, standing solid and

still in the middle of the Second Thought's floor.

"I don't know when you set this appointment, ma'am,"

said Charles. "I'm afraid that the bar is closed for business, so

you won't be able to meet here with whoever is coming."

"Whomever," said the woman. "'Whomever' is the object

of your sentence, so you'll want to grant it the 'm' it deserves."

Charles stared at the woman, feeling his patience slip

away. He put his hands on his hips. "Look," he said.

"Forty years ago," said the woman.

SCOTT C. MARTIN

6

"Sorry?" said Charles.

"You said 'I don't know when you set this appointment,

ma'am' and I said 'forty years ago,'" said the woman. She

stepped toward one of the tables near the side of the room and

sat down on a tall chair. "I was assured that my appointment

would be here."

Charles paused. "Well, I'm afraid you can't stay here,

Ma'am, the bar is closed. It's not even approved for public use

right now. You can't be in here without a hard hat. Perhaps

you can meet your gentleman friend outside."

"I haven't told you he was a gentleman or a lady, young

man," said the woman, removing a pack of cigarettes from

her bag.

"Sorry, I just assumed. And I'm pretty sure you can't

smoke in here."

"You said yourself the bar is closed," said the woman. "If

it's not approved for use, I don't think that violating any clean

indoor air act is going to make a lot of difference."


7

Charles stood, stupified. "Lady," he said, "you need to

leave before I call the police."

"You aren't in the slightest bit interested in how I know

that an appointment set forty years ago is going to occur at

the appointed place and time?" said the woman, lighting a

cigarette. "You've got a real lack of imagination, young man."

"Look, lady," said Charles, taking a few menacing steps

forward. "The only thing I'm interested in is getting home to

my family. I haven't seen my kids for more than ten minutes

in two weeks."

"Little ones?" said the woman.

"Early teens, if you must know. Now get out."

The woman exhaled through the side of her mouth.

"Family, huh? Never had one. I was a businesswoman all my

life, no time for a family. A smart business man like yourself

has to be happy for the work. The opportunity to work

overtime must be nice when there are so few opportunities to

work at all."

SCOTT C. MARTIN

8

"I'm calling the police," said Charles, reaching for his

phone.

"And I'm asking you for a favor, young man," said the

woman, a crack in her voice. "I've waited forty years for this,

and I'm assured my appointment won't be late. Not even a

minute."

Charles looked at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes. "You

mean you haven't confirmed with this guy? You're still

working off of a forty year-old arrangement?"

"Forty years is nothing to this man," said the woman,

assuredness returning to her voice. "He has a way with the

long term."

"I guess so," said Charles, "and I'm sure he also won't

mind if you met him outside at four and walked to the nearest

coffee shop."

"No," said the woman. "It has to be in here. It has to be at

this spot."

"Lady," started Charles, raising his voice.


9

"Mr...." interrupted the woman, matching Charles's

volume.

"Charles. You can call me Charles."

"Then call me Della," said the woman, nodding slightly.

"Mr. Charles, at 4:01 pm I will not be a problem for you any

more. I fully expect to be out of your life. Indeed, I fully

expect to be finished with this world altogether."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Charles. "Is this

guy gonna kill you?"

"No," said Della. "No, I expect the only person in the

world who wants be dead right now is you. All of my

enemies are either dead or unaware that I am the person who

has ruined their petty little lives." She paused to drag deeply

on her cigarette. "No, Mr. Charles, the man I want to meet is

merely coming to collect my fortune." She patted her

handbag on the table.

Curiosity tingled within Charles, which only agitated him

further. After the last two weeks, his wife was already

SCOTT C. MARTIN

10

showing frayed patience. She outwardly supported her

husband's business. That didn't mean Charles wanted to test

the boundaries of her patience.

"Why is he going to collect your fortune?" said Charles.

Della smiled and settled into her tall chair. "My father

was a businessman like you, and a very successful one. He

took on three partners when his enterprise started to flourish,

but was a man of excessive trust. He trusted one of these men

to look after the legal matters of the business, and to draw up

all of his legal documents, including his will. My father,

never one to look at what he was signing, trusted his partners

implicitly.

"Though my father was worth a fortune, we lived simply

and easily. Never an ostentatious purchase. With my two

younger sisters, we were a comfortable and happy family.

"My father died in an automobile accident on his way to

work. It was a beautiful funeral, taken care of almost entirely

by my father's partners. We were assured that we would also


11

be taken care of, just as father had asked." Della paused.

"That did not occur."

"His partners cut you off, huh?" said Charles.

"Not without making a show of support first. We received

small checks for a couple of years, and the expenses started

piling up. Their visits grew less frequent, and though they

made claims that the business was suffering in my father's

absence, his partners came to our door in ever-larger, more

extravagant automobiles. Then, contact ended entirely, as did

the checks. All three of them had sold the business and

disappeared."

"Disappeared? Couldn't you find them?"

"Appreciate, Mr. Charles, the means of a widow with

three children who has been cut off from any income. I can

assure you it doesn't leave a lot of time for bounty hunting.

"We sold the house first, moving into a small apartment.

That kept us going for a couple of years. When my mother

wasn't able to find a job, she turned to alternative forms of

SCOTT C. MARTIN

12

income. That lasted for a year. We slept with pillows over our

heads while our mother either worked or cried in the other

room."

"Good God," said Charles.

"Her spirits did not rise during that period, needless to

say. When she became sick and then pregnant with one of her

clients' children, that was the end of her sanity. One day, she

put us in a taxi to her sister, with whom she hadn't spoken for

years. My aunt didn't know what to do with us, and it took a

few days for the police to put the facts together. My mother

was last seen by passing motorists on a high bridge, standing

on the wrong side of the railing. It was a highway bridge, and

stopping was dangerous, but one man turned his car around to

help her. By the time he managed that, however, she was

gone."

"I'm sorry," said Charles.

Della nodded. "Yes. At any rate, my aunt kept us as best

she could. She was a woman of few means, but she was


13

strong. My mother had many wonderful, nurturing qualities,

but she was a kept woman. My aunt knew how to defend

herself."

"It sounds to me like your mother did what she could,"

said Charles, not knowing why he felt the sudden compulsion

to defend a woman he had never met.

"Indeed, she did what she could, and it killed her," said

Della. "My aunt did what she had to do and survived. Not

only did she survive, but she managed to maintain her

dignity. I ask you, Mr. Charles, which example would you

have followed in my situation?"

Just as Charles was wondering if it was a rhetorical

question, Della continued.

"My aunt taught me a thing or two about business, which

she ran with scant help from her know-nothing, do-nothing

husband. She owned a corner store in her neighborhood, and

nobody messed with her. She was tough, and tough on her

competition. 'Business is not a footrace,' she told me, 'but a

SCOTT C. MARTIN

14

very long walk. It's best not to be distracted by the stupid

hares in your way.' This gave me an idea.

"I set about the task of avenging my mother. My aunt had

been strong and powerful for me, now I would be strong for

my mother. I would do so with all of my aunt's know-how

and none of my father's weakness for trust."

"How did you do that?" asked Charles

"At first, I didn't. I didn't at all. I discovered that my

father's business partners had moved out to Sacramento, so

when I was 18, I did, too. My plan was to find out scurrilous

facts about them, get pictures, do whatever needed doing to

ruin their reputations and their families. It stood to reason that

if they would swindle a widow and three orphans, they

almost certainly had more dirt under their rugs."

"What happened?"

"Well, they nearly ruined me. It didn't take them long to

figure out that a young woman was poking around, asking


15

about their affairs. They sent an informant to me, claiming

that she had some information. I went to the meeting — in an

alley, of all places — and had my face rearranged by a pair of

their goons."

"Jesus," said Charles.

"I was lucky it wasn't worse. I came back home, back to

this very city. I came to this bar, despondent, disfigured, a

failure like my parents. I intended to drink myself into a

stupor and begin again as my aunt's apprentice, if she would

have me."

Della stubbed out her cigarette in the table top, tossed it

to the ground and lit another, allowing the silence to linger.

"And that's when I met him," she said.

"Met who?"

"Him. He was a little older than yourself, well dressed,

and very distinguished. He came over to my table with a glass

SCOTT C. MARTIN

16

of whiskey for me, and sat down without asking. I didn't fight

him.

"He said, 'I see that you're having a bit of trouble. Would

you like my help?' I said, 'Who are you?' He said 'Consider

me an independent contractor. My job is to help people while

improving my employer's bottom line.'

"I said, 'What can you do for me?' He said, 'I can restore

your will to fight, for one thing. I can also give you the ability

to do what you need to do.' I said, 'I don't know what I need

to do anymore,' or something just as pathetic, and he said

'Sure you do. You know exactly what you need to do, you

simply don't know how to do it. If you agree to my terms,

you'll have the know-how and the will to finish what you've

begun.'

Della straightened in her chair again. "I don't know why,

but I knew that he could do exactly as he said, and though I

wasn't any clearer on how I would ruin my father's partners, I

again felt confident that it could be done. That's when he


17

leaned toward me and said, 'It will take forty years, but your

mother will be avenged.'

"I asked him what the price was. He said that I couldn't

know the true cost of his services until I saw what I could do

with them. He said, 'I'll give you the ability, but you'll always

be able to choose what to do with it.' I asked him if he wanted

my soul in return, and he stood up to leave. 'You aren't ready,'

he said. I begged him to sit back down."

"Who did he think he was, the devil or something?" said

Charles.

"I've thought about this a lot, Mr. Charles, and I don't be-

lieve he was — or thought he was — the devil. He sat back

down, and I told him that I would do nearly anything to

avenge my mother. The man said 'if you shake my hand, be

back here in this bar forty years from now to the hour and the

day. You'll be presented with my invoice, and only then will

you know the true extent of my fees.'

SCOTT C. MARTIN

18

"And I shook his hand, quickly and desperately. I don't

fully know why, but I did. He stood to go, but said before he

ascended those stairs: 'You're smart, and I suspect you will

have figured out the fee long in advance.' Then he left. That's

when the idea came to me."

Charles glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes until four.

He wasn't so sure that he wanted to be in the bar when her

visitor arrived.

"I knew then that I would go into business for myself. In

my first business, I started an import and export service down

at the docks, handling paperwork and permits for a fee. I sold

that business in two years, for a small profit. Then I started a

perscription drug delivery service, and sold it a year later for

eight times the amount I invested in it."

"Wow. Sounds like you showed them," said Charles.

Della laughed. "My dear boy," she said, "living well is not

the best revenge, in spite of what you may have heard. No,

my revenge was just beginning.


19

"My father had three partners. The first was a lawyer, and

he was easy to uproot. We'll call him Mr. Smith. I began my

own law firm, not knowing anything about law myself, by

hiring the best lawyers I could find and putting them in an

office right next to Mr. Smith's firm. They offered better

service, charged lower fees, and within a year had sewn up all

of the law business within two square miles of their building.

"At first, Mr. Smith was forced to move to a less expen-

sive — and far less lucrative — location. I took that as a sign

that we should expand our enterprise."

"A satellite office in his new building, I suppose," said

Charles.

"Indeed. They moved again, this time to a building

without any vacancies. So I bought the building and

demolished it."

"With them in it?" said Charles.

SCOTT C. MARTIN

20

Della smiled and exhaled smoke. "I didn't need to. By

that time the firm had whittled itself down from a team of 20

lawyers to just him and an assistant. They began working

from his home."

"Did you go after his home, too?"

"Didn't seem necessary. His wife had already left, taking

his children away from him. He moved out of that nice, big

house not too long after that. My work was done. It took me

six years, but I had ruined him. I sold the firm to my three

best lawyers, and they're still in business today.

"And though I had pulled the strings to ruin him, Mr.

Smith never discovered my identity."

"Why is that?" said Charles, genuinely puzzled. "Didn't

you want him to know who had ruined him?"

"I had a choice. I could ruin my father's partners, and

reveal myself just as they had reached their darkest moment...

or, I could let them believe that they were done in by their

own incompetence, their own lack of business acumen. It's


21

one thing for a man to feel he's been defeated. It's a far worse

thing for him to believe that he has defeated himself."

There was a shadow at the top of the stairs. Charles

looked up, startled, while Della calmly turned her head. There

was no one there.

"Someone must have just passed by the door," said

Charles, reassuring himself.

"You have nothing to fear by being here," said Della. "I

guess I would avoid speaking to him when he arrives, but I

don't think you've anything to fear from him. Nonetheless, if

you'd like to go...."

"What did you do to the next partner?" said Charles.

"The next one was a little easier, actually. Mr. Stone was

in import and export, so setting up a shell company to

compete with his was something with which I had a little

experience. That took another eight years, but the results were

the same. He was meant to pay for his daughter's wedding

about three years after I started going after him, and was

SCOTT C. MARTIN

22

forced to do so on credit. I attended the wedding

surreptitiously. It was the most wonderful, extravagant, and

expensive thing I had ever seen. I luxuriated in it, knowing

that behind the muslin curtains and gorgeous flowers was a

crumbling empire.

"I sat and watched him try to enjoy himself, red faced and

drunk, throughout the entire wedding. His wife left him, too,

a couple of years later. His daughter had her wedding gift, a

beautiful red car, reposessed. She wouldn't speak to him. Mr.

Stone killed himself a few years later."

"Jesus," whispered Charles.

"I wasn't in this enterprise to prove a point, Mr. Charles,

which I believe is one of the reasons my benefactor's support

has worked so well. I have been consistent all along. I did not

want their pity. I did not want their contrition. I wanted their

ruination, pure and simple. I wanted them to live long enough

to believe that they had failed at their life's work.


23

"I was nearly twenty years into the project, and I was

growing weary, but my resolve was still strong. My father's

third betrayer had small children with his young, trophy wife.

We'll call him Mr. Edgar. I considered waiting for a few years

to spare his children, but then remembered that my siblings

were small when my father died. I thought it cruel at first, and

then poetic.

"Mr. Edgar was well-aware of his co-conspirators' fates, so

he was a bit more defensive. He was also by far the most suc-

cessful. It took me ten years to amass the capital necessary to

deal with him. The most challenging part of this effort was

remaining anonymous. I had to find a way to exercise con-

trol — micromanage, even-- without my identity being re-

vealed to the general public. There were some close calls, as

well as some corporate espionage perpetrated by Mr. Edgar.

"He did indeed find out my name, but having changed my

surname to my mother's, I don't believe he ever put it all

SCOTT C. MARTIN

24

together. My corporation executed a hostile takeover of his

company thirty-five years after my father died. By then he

was quite old and ready to retire. It took a lot of money to

make it happen. He fought hard."

"Didn't that purchase money go to him?" said Charles.

"It did indeed."

"So didn't that merely make him richer?"

"I never said that I was out to ruin their finances. I said I

was out to ruin them. Mr. Edgar was standing on the

shoulders of my father's work, and considered it his greatest

success. Of the three partners, he was the only one not

concerned with money. He wanted power."

"And you took it from him."

"I took it from him. Mr. Edgar spent the last two years of

his life in a penthouse suite in London, in spite of the fact that

he owned properties in the Hamptons, the Caribbean, Malibu,

and County Cork, Ireland. He never left, and he wasted away.

At his retirement pary, he weighed at least 250 pounds. When


25

they wheeled his body from his building a couple of years

later, the sheet looked as though it was covering a skeleton."

"So you accomplished everything you set out to do."

"I did," sighed Della. "My mother is avenged."

"Why not your father?" said Charles, hesitating. "I mean,

wasn't he the one that that was betrayed?"

"Well, I suppose he was betrayed, Mr. Charles," said

Della, sitting up again. "And in some measure I was avenging

his name as well. But I had my mother in mind all this time. I

could rationalize, and tell you that my mother always lived up

to her end of the marital and parental bargain, where my

father did not. But in the end, I'm not angry with my father.

Nor did I feel a particular need to avenge him.

"Perhaps it's all in how we said our goodbyes. I kissed my

father as I left for school, and he was in a fine mood as he

always was in the morning. That's how I remember him.

That's how he has always stayed in my mind. Then he was

SCOTT C. MARTIN

26

gone, and when he left this life he was in good humor and

looking forward.

"When my mother left me she kissed me on the head, and

I was kicking and screaming not to be left. Her face was

sallow, syphilitic, and her stomach was beginning to bulge.

My aunt had to have known where she was going, but had her

hands full restraining me.

"My father gets my appreciation, my aunt gets my

respect. My mother? She receives my protection. That's how

it is."

Della looked up at the open door, pink strains of

afternoon light filtering down through the dust hanging in the

air. Charles looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after four.

"Your appointment is late," said Charles, smiling.

Della smiled back. "I knew what my fee was years ago,

Mr. Charles, and it is this. Every morning for thirty-eight

years, I woke up with a hunger for revenge. I worked every

day to exhaustion, and went to bed feeling the righteousness


27

of my cause. I slept well during that time, Mr. Charles, and

never questioned my chosen profession.

"Mr. Edgar died two years ago, and I've been ostensibly

retired since then. I've sold off all of my companies, my

assets. On paper, I am the very image of success."

"Success isn't everything, then?" said Charles.

"Success is quite delicious, make no mistake," said Della.

"My mother is avenged. Those bastards died thinking they

hadn't succeeded in life, that their manhood had withered on

the vine. I die knowing that I have succeeded. Nobody can

take that away from me.

"But I haven't slept in two years, Mr. Charles. I have

ruined countless tertiary lives in the process. I have widowed

mothers, taken fathers away from children, and grandfathers

away from grandchildren. I have cheapened the lives of

thousands of employees that depended upon these men."

"But surely you employed many people yourself," said

Charles.

SCOTT C. MARTIN

28

"Not for their own benefit," said Della. "Not for one

single second. If I worked for their happiness, it was to serve

my mother. If I gave a raise, or a good review, it was as if my

mother was giving a raise, encouraging a good employee. No,

I was never there. I haven't lived a second of my life for

myself, and I have used countless people, allies and

adversaries alike, to serve my means. And now they haunt

me... constantly."

Della pulled her handbad towards her and opened it up.

"That is my fee, Mr. Charles. And you are my messenger.

In being a better-than-average listener, you have taken my

final statement on the matter."

"Now wait," started Charles, "I'm sure there's someone

you can talk to about this. Professional help. You aren't going

to do anything drastic, are you?"

"My dear boy, my actions have been drastic enough."

Della removed a checkbook from her handbag. "I have

cancer, Mr. Charles, and probably about six months to live."


29

Charles said nothing.

"My tax attorneys assure me that the amount stipulated in

this check will still be worthwhile in spite of the chunk

missing after Uncle Sam gets his share."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving you a better part of my fortune."

"But you don't know me!" said Charles. "Really, I don't

want that money."

"For God's sake, you don't have to take it for yourself.

Give it to charity, make a scholarship fund, whatever you

like. But you have done me a great service here, and I was

prepared to part with this money today regardless. I want

nothing more to do with it."

"Please," said Charles. "I'm not the messenger."

"Perhaps not," said Della. "But I like you. And you'll do.

What is your last name."

SCOTT C. MARTIN

30

Charles sat quiet for a moment, and Della looked up from

her pen.

"Singleton," said Charles.

Della sat straight. "A great coincidence, Mr. Singleton.

That is my last name, too. What was your father's name?

Perhaps we are related."

"I never knew my father," said Charles, his cheeks

growing warm. As he spoke, he remembered elements of her

story. The passing of 40 years. The cross-country travel. The

cover of time. "My mother's name was Sally," he said quietly.

Della didn't react at all, other than to stare. A crow called

through the door above.

"She died fifteen years ago," said Charles, nearly

whispering. "She... she said that when I was born she was

very sick. She wanted to start a new life. She never said

where she was from originally, only that she would never go

back. She got married when I was fifteen, but I kept the

name. Singleton."


31

Della continued to stare, her face impassive. After a

moment she finished filling out the check, placed it upon the

table, and stood up.

"Wait," said Charles.

Della did not wait. Moving with the same sweeping

authority with which she arrived, she walked to the stairs and

was out the door before Charles could object again.

He picked up the check and held it in his hand, noting that

his sister's check stock did not have an address written upon

it.

Documents

The Messenger's Invoice