Harold Morton Jr., sat across from his father’s sour-faced partner, unable to tune out his tirade.

"This is not trivial. It is emblematic of your lackadaisical approach to business. If an icicle fell and injured a client, the firm would be liable," Calvin Williams said.

"I’m sorry."

"You’re always sorry, because you don’t do what you’re told, j-u-n-i-o-r." He delivered the word ‘junior’ as if he were speaking to a toddler. "I’m sick of you. Problems don’t take care of themselves, you know. Your father would not have put up with this, and if I can’t fire you, the board certainly can." Calvin Williams was shaking with anger and had to take a breath.

"I’m just not sure menial work is what my father had in mind when he brought me into the firm."

"Well, your father is dead. If I tell you to remove the icicles from our awning, then that is what you do."

Harold thought about this for a moment and decided the fight wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t concerned that the board would fire him, it was stacked with his dad’s cronies. He just thought that when his father died he would be elevated to junior partner. Instead, Calvin treated him like the bank’s gofer. For now, it was probably best just to humor the old goat.

"I’m very sorry. I’ll take care of it." Harold stood and stepped into the hallway. He removed a broom from the janitor’s closet and headed to the entrance of the bank.

It was a beautiful winter day. The air smelled crisp and clean. Harold stretched and smiled.

He reached up with the broom, knocked the icicles from the awning, and swept them into the gutter.

"This is going to turn out to be a gorgeous day."

He put the broom away, straightened his shoulders and walked back to Calvin’s office.

"You’re right, sir. Problems won’t fix themselves." He stood at the fireplace next to Calvin’s desk warming his hands.

Calvin stood and wagged a finger at him. "Stop that. Do you hear me? Stop that. I want you to look at me. You’re not listening. You finally do something that you should be doing all along, and you think all is forgiven. Well, you’re too...."

His harangue ended abruptly when Harold struck him above the left ear with a poker. He hit the floor, clattering like doorknobs in a gunnysack, and then was wonderfully, magnificently, silent.

Harold felt for a pulse and chuckled. No pulse might be normal.

He wiped the poker clean and placed it back in the rack. Calvin lay next to his chair with his head on the hearth. That was perfect.

He would need to arrange the rest of the tableau with great care, and then he would call the police to report that the bank’s beloved founder had succumbed in a gruesome fall.

Harold sighed, the same thing happened to his father only a year ago.