James Grippando - Money to Burn

“Come on, pick up.”

I knew the message I’d left earlier-“I just wanted to let you know that I love you”-had been too much and was probably keeping her from picking up now. I had originally resolved to leave her alone until the morning, but now I needed to get past the answering machine.

“Mallory, I’m standing on the street at the bank trying to get cash. If you can hear this message, please pick up. It’s an emergency.”

She picked up, startling me.

“What is it, Michael?”

It was the same cold tone she’d used when telling me to find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I quickly told her about the nonsufficient funds notice from our checking account.

“I withdrew everything this afternoon,” she said.

My response caught in my throat. “You what?”

“It’s what my lawyer told me to do, Michael.”

Her friend Andrea hadn’t lied: Mallory had a lawyer, and her lawyer already had a plan.

“Can we slow down a little?” I said. “This isn’t necessary.”

“If you didn’t see it coming, I’m sorry, but you should have. I’ll e-mail you my lawyer’s phone number. Please don’t call here again.”

She hung up, and I was standing alone on the sidewalk. But not for long.

“Hey, pal.”

I turned and saw a man wearing a camouflage jacket, torn blue jeans, and old tennis shoes. The thing on his head threw me, but finally I realized it was a metal colander that he’d strapped on like a helmet and fastened beneath his chin with a pink-and-purple bungee cord. He held out his hand.

“Dude, you got a dollar?”

I looked at him and a pathetic smile creased my lips. I couldn’t help laughing as I answered.

“No,” I said. “I really don’t.”

CHUCK BELL SIGNED OFF THE AIR AT MIDNIGHT. TONIGHT’S ROUND-TABLE discussion was his first appearance on one of the big four networks, and he was riding high.

“Great show, Chuck,” said the producer.

“I know,” he said. “And this is only the beginning.”

Ratings for Bell Ringer were off the charts, and Bell was clobbering every other financial show on television. Going on a much bigger network only confirmed that his broadcast persona was growing. Everyone wanted to know what his confidential source was going to reveal next about the impending demise of one of Wall Street’s premiere investment banks.

Bell didn’t want to go home. He was too excited, and too many ideas were percolating in his head as he walked out of the NASDAQ building. The glow of a billion colored lights had him soaring. The north face of One Times Square was behind him, the building famous for the dropping of the New Year’s Eve ball, and Bell glanced over his shoulder to see nine hundred square feet of Bill O’Reilly on the Fox News Astrovision Screen. Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer were on the even larger ABC SuperSign at Forty-fourth Street. Chuck Bell was on his way.

His cell rang as he passed a guitar-pickin’ cowboy wearing only a Stetson, snakeskin boots, and Calvin Klein underwear. Bell pulled the spent chewing gum from his mouth and dropped it into the singing cowboy’s open guitar case on the sidewalk.

“Chuck Bell,” he said into his phone.

“I want to meet,” the man on the line said.

Bell stopped and pressed a finger to his left ear to drown out the sounds of the city. “What?”

“Listen to me,” the man said. “I’m telling you that I want to meet.”

The strange voice was distorted by an electronic device, sounding like one of those anonymous informants on TV who talked from behind screens that concealed their identity.

Bell’s pulse quickened. “Who is this?”

“Someone who knows the real Saxton Silvers story. Meet me outside the FNN Studio. I’ll tell you what I know as soon as you get there.”

The call ended.

Bell looked at his phone in disbelief, hardly able to comprehend his good fortune. He thrust a fist into the air, nearly airborne, he was so excited. This was getting so cool-midnight phone calls, disguised voices, the stuff of big-screen movies.

He was sure it was Cantella. Leaving him a business card with his cell number had been a smart move. Going on the air tonight and being cryptic about his source-Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t Michael Cantella-had been a stroke of genius. The clear implication to all of Wall Street was that it was Cantella, and Cantella had too much of an ego not to control a story that had his fingerprints on it.

Bell spotted a cab, pushed aside a couple of Japanese tourists who were trying to get both a picture and a video of themselves climbing into a real New York taxi, and jumped into the backseat.

“Jersey,” he said, and he gave the driver the studio address.

On the ride across town to the tunnel he checked his smart phone for e-mail. One that immediately caught his eye was from the Legal Department at FNN.

Heads up, it read. I just received word that the U.S. Attorney’s Office plans to hit you with a grand jury subpoena tomorrow morning to force you to disclose the identity of your confidential source. Not sure what the basis for this is. But don’t be alarmed when a federal marshal shows up at the studio.

Bell sat back, closed his eyes, and smiled. Tomorrow was already playing out in his head. First, he would bump Money Honey again at nine A.M. to announce his refusal to comply with the subpoena. Maybe his publicist could book him on The View, where he could take the journalistic high road and proclaim his determination to do whatever it takes to protect his source and the First Amendment. Then, to cap it off, on tomorrow evening’s edition of Bell Ringer he would put on his boxing gloves, literally wrap himself in the American flag like Sylvester Stalone in Rocky, and pulverize two bears dressed in lawyerly pinstripes. No, not bears. Kangaroos-as in a kangaroo court. And he’d name them “Legal” and “Evil.” With any luck, a federal judge would hold him in contempt of court for failure to comply with the subpoena, maybe even throw him in jail overnight. Only then-“under relentless government pressure”-would he capitulate and reveal his source on Larry King Live. If he played this right, he’d be on all the top morning shows and every nightly news broadcast, speeding down the fast track toward the mainstream media and life beyond FNN.

And that didn’t even account for what Cantella was about to tell him.

Looking good, baby.

“Fifty-two-fifty,” the cabdriver said. They were already at the studio. Bell typed out a quick response to the lawyer’s e-mail. “Got it,” he wrote. “At studio now to meet higher source.”

“Now it’s fifty-three-fifty, buddy.”

Bell hit Send, gave the driver sixty bucks, and watched the taxi pull away. He was behind the studio in the empty parking lot. The lighting wasn’t what it should have been. He’d complained to maintenance many times, mainly because he had to park his Maserati at the far end of the lot to avoid door dings from losers in ten-year-old junks.

He didn’t see anyone, and it was too cold and too damn dark to wait outside. He started across the lot and headed toward the light at the rear entrance of the building.

“Hey, Bell,” a voice called out from the shadows.

As he turned he heard a muffled crack that-even though the parking lot was empty-sounded like a car door slamming. A hammerlike jolt to his forehead sent his head snapping back, and his body collapsed to the pavement.

His limbs were frozen, and he couldn’t move. The right side of his face was flat on the asphalt, and it was impossible even to turn his mouth and nose away from the expanding pool of hot blood that encircled his head. He heard approaching footsteps, but his vision was gone, and he couldn’t force himself to speak.