James Grippando - Money to Burn

I followed her through the maze of trading posts, passing dozens of frenzied floor traders dressed in their mesh-backed jackets. I probably could have spotted a few friends, but I was busy gathering my thoughts on how to match wits with the one-and-only Chuck Bell, bear-slayer extraordinaire. Since Saxton Silver’s first announcement of subprime losses in the fall, Bell had been on a rampage against the firm, predicting its demise. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to confine our discussion to the sale of my own shares of Saxton Silvers stock. But I had to restrain myself. Eric had made it clear that I was not the firm’s spokesman on subprime.

I need you to knock this out of the park, Michael.

News stations were once unheard of near the floor, but now they routinely did live broadcasts there during trading hours. Bell was more of a studio guy, though he seemed pretty comfortable seated on his stool in front of the busy Saxton Silvers trading post. It was a high-energy backdrop for his show, and I noted that the sellers outnumbered-and were outshouting-the buyers. On the stool beside Bell was Rosario Reynolds. I was glad to see her there. Both times I’d appeared on her show I was treated fairly. Maybe it was because I was the only guy on Wall Street who didn’t call her Money Honey.

“All right, let’s bring on our first guest,” said Bell, speaking to the camera. “We’ve been talking about Saxton Silvers all morning, and here with us now in another Bell Ringer exclusive is Saxton Silvers’ two-time investment advisor of the year, Michael Cantella.”

I walked in front of the camera. There was no audience, no applause. But Bell did have his portable sound-effects machine. He held his microphone to it, and with the push of a button there was a loud plop-the sound of a rock dropping into a bucket of water.

Bell glanced over his shoulder at the trading screens and said, “That was the sound of Saxton Silvers stock dropping like a stone this morning.”

I took a seat on the bar stool next to Reynolds. Bell punched another button. It was the sound of a toilet flushing. I almost checked to see if Nana and her peanut-size bladder had crashed the Exchange.

“Will that be the sound of Saxton Silvers stock in this afternoon’s trading?” said Bell.

He hit the toilet-flushing button a second time. I tried to keep my composure, but it was quickly becoming apparent that, on the dignity scale, I had nothing on that poor slob in the bear suit out on Broad Street.

“Michael, thank you for coming. Now, let’s look first at some numbers.”

Bell launched right into a chart that showed my holdings of Saxton Silvers stock as of yesterday, the timing of the sale, the timing of Saxton Silvers’ announced subprime write-downs-and the money I allegedly pocketed by selling my stock.

“Quite a nifty job of timing the market there, my friend.”

“Well, you’re leaving out one key fact,” I said.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said dismissively. “The most convenient case of identity theft in the history of Wall Street. You claim that someone stole your identity and unloaded all of your stock in Saxton Silvers on the night before the stock went into free fall.”

“Not just Saxton Silvers stock. All my holdings.”

“And why would someone target you in that way?” he asked.

“Why do thieves target anyone? Because they can, I guess.”

“Well, let’s look at the broader context here. Just a couple of hours ago the CEO of Saxton Silvers was on my show-”

“My show,” said Reynolds.

“Good one, Money Honey!” he said as he pressed the effects button to unleash a mock clanging of the NYSE bell. “That’s a Bell Ringer!”

“Whatever,” she said.

At that moment, I would have sworn that the “F” in FNN stood for freak show.

“Back to my point,” said Bell. “Stuart Wyle was on the air this morning telling me that everything we have reported from our sources about Saxton Silvers-the liquidity problems, repo lenders cutting off overnight lending, novation problems, and on and on-those are all just vicious rumors.”

Eric’s admonition-you’re not the spokesman-was buzzing in my ear. “I’m not here to talk about any of that,” I said.

“I understand. But stay with me. Let’s assume that people in the market are lying about the financial condition of Saxton Silvers. Let’s assume that in the same twenty-four-hour period, Michael Cantella-the firm’s two-time investment advisor of the year-is wiped out by an identity thief. Is there something afoot here?”

“I don’t understand your question.”

“Are you prepared to say here on this show today that there is some kind of financial assault on Saxton Silvers?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“I think you are.”

“You’re saying it, not me.”

“Is it possible?”

“Is what possible?”

“That there is some connection between the rumors about Saxton Silvers and your alleged identity theft.”

“I can’t speculate on that.”

“Are you saying it’s not possible?”

“Well, anything’s possible but-”

“Aha!” said Bell, slapping his thigh. “Folks, you just heard it here on Bell Ringer-right from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Michael Cantella says there may be some financial conspiracy against Saxton Silvers. That’s a Bell Ringer!”

“What? No, I didn’t-” I started to say, but I was cut off by the sound of that damn pretend bell.

Ding, ding, ding, ding.

Bell checked the board again. “Perhaps someone out there has a serious interest in driving the value of the stock down fast-in ‘murdering’ Saxton Silvers virtually overnight. With the stock price already down as much as ninety dollars per share today, this supposed financial assassin is well on his way.”

“I’m not the one who said-”

Bell cut me off with another slap of the effects button. This time it was the sound of a telephone ringing.

“It’s for you, Michael,” said Bell, pretending to talk on his cell. “It’s Chicken Little. He wants his sky back.”

I needed this to end-quickly.

“Chuck, I’m here to talk about identity theft.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Let’s put this Oliver Stone conspiracy stuff aside. And for the moment, let’s just assume your claim is true. Here’s the question I have for my viewers,” he said, staring straight into the camera. “Why would any investor trust his money with a Wall Street investment bank whose fastest-rising star can’t even come up with a hack-proof password for his own account?”

Reynolds grumbled. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious,” said Bell.

“Hackers can be very sophisticated,” I said.

Bell said, “Investment banks are also supposed to be sophisticated.”

“I’m working with the FBI and the firm’s security director now to find out exactly what happened.”

“Was your account password protected?”

“Chuck, now you’re being silly,” said Reynolds. “Of course it was protected. And I would bet my last dollar that Michael Cantella is not the kind of dummy who would use his phone number or his wife’s birthday as a password.”

I hesitated. It was nice to have Reynolds’ support, but I didn’t want to start talking about passwords on the air. “Let me just assure our clients that their investment portfolios are intact.”

“Well, I hope so.”

Bell hit another button. This one was the sound of screeching tires and a car wreck.

“That’s enough crashing for one day,” he said. “Michael, thank you for joining us. I’m not saying that we believe you, but we do thank you.”

Had he offered his hand, I wouldn’t have shaken it. But he simply moved on.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for the Bell Ringer main event?”