Greed, he was called. Greed, for his many crimes, for the deaths of those he had “cut out” so that profit could increase and spending decrease, until nothing was left but profit. Thousands starved under his regime, and he was happy for it. More money for him.

He functioned in Club Black, raising billions and trillions of dollars for their twisted gains. He raised money that paid for drug trade in Columbia, for guns in the Midwest, for Communist leaders in poor China. He had his hands in the world economy.

Nobody wanted him to withdraw it the way he did.

His daughter, pure and sweet, the only child of a soul as black as night, was his undoing. She talked to him, over years and years, weaseling tiny bits of information from him. Charity killed him, finding his private accounts, sending secret drains into thousands of others. Saint Jude. Meals on Wheels. The Literacy Fund. But that wasn’t what destroyed him.

What destroyed him came simply. Someone sent him a bill.

Greed had never really operated in a way that allowed him to come in contact with the things. No, he had instead shunted off the work to one of his several personal assistants, each with the shrewdness and rancor as their boss. So it came to be a surprise when he arrived at his beautifully carved mahogany desk to find a simple white envelope on it with the words “Last Warning” stamped on the top.

His bills were supposed to be paid automatically. There was no reason for one to reach him, far up in his lofty tower. He built his empire on the backs of millions, and they were the ones who paid for everything. He went to his computer, trying to fix the mistake. Every account was empty.

His body landed in the intersection between Fourth Avenue and Broadway.