Money to Burn

by James Grippando

  “It will get out. Everything always does. The Saxton Silvers wives club knows all.”

  “You give them too much credit.”

  “Honey, even your little secret was out three days after you moved to New York.”

  Andrea coughed on her wine. “My secret?”

  “Sorry, but it’s pretty juicy when a woman moves to New York with her fiancé and the two of them don’t sleep in the same bedroom. Housekeepers are great sources. You should be careful who you share yours with.”

  Andrea went white, confirming it. “He snores, and so sometimes I have to go in the other room.”

  “It’s okay,” Mallory said. “It happens to a lot of my friends, though usually not until after the wedding.”

  Andrea shifted nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the way Mallory had steered the conversation. It made Mallory feel a little guilty. Andrea had been a good friend and an amazing listener. The conversation was never about her-and true to form, she turned it back around to Mallory.

  “So tell me,” said Andrea. “How did Michael handle the news?”

  “How do you think?”

  Andrea tasted her wine. “Better than he handled Chuck Bell, I hope.”

  Mallory just shook her head.

  Andrea said, “Do you think there’s anything to that?”

  “To what?”

  “The things Chuck Bell was saying-that Michael wasn’t really the victim here.”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Maybe he’s not shocked that you asked for a divorce. Maybe he even anticipated it. Rich men have been known to do some pretty outrageous things to keep the wife from getting her hands on the money in a divorce.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Mallory. “That Michael knew our marriage was going south so he orchestrated the liquidation of our portfolio and made it look like it was some identity thief?”

  Andrea gave her a sobering look.

  Mallory’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

  “Sorry, Mal. Didn’t mean to drop a dead fly in your chardonnay.”

  Mallory froze, then shook her head. “I’m such an idiot. I was feeling like a total bitch over the way I jumped all over him and dropped the news. I’ve been trying to think of ways to throw him an olive branch so we can do this divorce without war.”

  She climbed down from her stool, went to her purse, and grabbed her cell phone.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Who else?” said Mallory, dialing. “My lawyer.”

  19

  THE RED SAUCE SMELLED AMAZING, BUT I HAD NO INTEREST IN THE mostaccioli and meatballs in the big pasta bowl before me.

  “I know nobody makes it like I do,” said Papa. “But try it. You’ll like it.”

  It turned out that the ten-percent-off coupons were good only for lunch, so we went to Carmine’s in the Theater District. It was every bit as lively as Sal’s Place but huge by comparison, with hardwood chairs on creaky oak floors, glass chandeliers hanging from twenty-foot ceilings, and all the trappings of a touristy Manhattan restaurant, right down to the “Old Country” photographs on the walls. It was another of Papa’s favorites, even if it did only look as if it had been around since the 1920s. In truth, it was a vintage 1990s success story that had hit on a timeless formula: great southern Italian food at reasonable prices. Lots of food. Papa said it reminded him of an Italian wedding, the way they served everything on oversize platters intended for sharing. Ironic, on the night my wife asked for a divorce.

  “Sorry, I’m just not myself tonight.”

  “Is everything okay with you and Mallory?” asked Nana.

  “Fine,” I lied. “It’s all this stuff going on at work.”

  The waiter grated Parmesan cheese onto my pasta. Papa sent him back for a block of Romano.

  “Don’t worry about that TV show,” said Papa. “The treasurer of our condo association tells me that nobody takes Chuck Bell seriously.”

  I wished he were right, but in reality a huge chunk of the Wall Street world-everyone from day traders to hedge-fund managers-truly believed that watching FNN all day was “market research.”

  My cell chimed. I had my entire team assigned to the Saxton Silvers rumor patrol, with strict instructions to e-mail or text me immediately with any updates. This one was about Chuck Bell. He’d bumped one of FNN’s evening shows to air yet another special edition of Bell Ringer.

  Give it a rest, Chuck.

  Papa poured me a glass of Chianti Classico. “I haven’t asked about this identity theft, but your grandmother and I are concerned.”

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said.

  “Maybe it will. And you know I don’t pry into your finances.”

  That was true. In my ten-plus years with Saxton Silvers, not once had Papa asked me how much money I was making. But he spent countless hours on the phone talking me through heartbreaks and setbacks-including the loss of Ivy. For Papa, only one thing mattered: whether I was happy or not.

  “I’m only going to say this one time,” he said, “so listen to me. If you’re in trouble, if you need anything. I mean anything. Your grandmother and I-…we have savings. So we can…well, you know what I’m saying.”

  My eyes welled. Papa’s entire life savings couldn’t have covered my club dues, car payment, and annual debt service, but never had he and Nana asked me for anything-in fact, they’d refused my offers many times. He couldn’t possibly understand the mix of emotions he had unleashed inside me. The love made my heart swell, but the knife in my belly was the shame I felt for working with guys like Kent Frost, who could run up $22 billion in subprime losses-fly the plane into the mountain-and then bang on the president’s door to make damn sure he was going to keep his year-end bonus of $22 million. I suddenly realized that the entire financial world could collapse and there would be nothing to worry about-if only we could still count on the generation for whom the American dream was not just buying a home but actually paying off the mortgage.

  “Michael?” I heard a woman say.

  It was terrible timing, but Mallory’s friend Andrea was suddenly upon us and apologizing for the intrusion. She introduced herself to my grandparents as “Mallory’s best friend,” then quickly shot me a more serious expression and said, “I really need to talk with you in private.”

  “Please,” said Papa, “join us for a glass of wine first.”

  “That’s kind of you, but-”

  “But what? Life’s not too short? Come on, I danced on these grapes myself.”

  I knew Papa’s angle. He smelled trouble in my marriage, and just a minute or two with Mallory’s best friend could surely change the course of history. This was a man who would lock his lotto ticket away in the safe deposit box before they announced the winning numbers. He was that optimistic.

  Andrea smiled, unable to refuse Italian hospitality, and pulled up a chair. Papa poured a generous glass of chianti for her, and of course he made her a plate of mostaccioli and meatballs. He had no way of knowing that, as a general rule, Mallory’s friends didn’t eat.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “I’m actually starved.”

  This shocked me-a Saxton Silvers wife-to-be feasting on pasta and meatballs. She even asked for extra cheese. Since moving to New York in the winter, Andrea had quickly earned Mallory’s trust, but admittedly, I didn’t know her well. All I could say for certain was the obvious: She was pretty, like most of Mallory’s friends. I had a hunch, however, more substance was there.

  “Did you see my grandson on television today?” Papa asked her.

  “Yes,” she said, averting her eyes. She seemed embarrassed for me. “I did.”

  “People are saying some really mean things about Saxton Silvers, don’t you think?”

  “Papa, let’s not go there.”

  Andrea said, “My fiancé says it’s the short sellers.”

  “Short?” said Papa. “You mean paisans?”

  I chuckled. “No, not short in stature, Papa. They’re going
short on the stock.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Nana.

  “You don’t really want to know,” I said.

  She grumbled in Italian. Sadly, I’d forgotten most of her dialect since leaving home for college, but she said something to the effect that I was treating my grandparents like a couple of dummies.

  “All right,” I said, “here’s Michael Cantella’s crash course in Short Selling 101. Most people go long on stock. That means you buy it, you wait for it to go up in value, and you sell it at a profit. Short selling is the opposite.”

  “You sell it at a loss?” asked Nana, confused.

  “No. Instead of ‘buy low and sell high,’ you sell high and then buy low.”

  “Explain this to me,” said Papa, putting down his fork. “How do you sell something before you own it?”

  “Good question,” I said. “You borrow it. And you sell it immediately at the high price with the understanding that at some point in the future you have to give back an equal number of shares to the broker who loaned them to you. If all goes as planned, the stock price goes down, the short seller buys at the low price, and he gives back those cheap shares to his lender. He pockets the difference in price as profit.”

  “What happens if the price doesn’t go down?”

  “The short gets screwed. He has to cover the price difference in order to return the shares to his lender.”

  Papa shook his head, wagging a marinara-soaked breadstick like a professorial finger. “I don’t believe in all this borrowing. You make what you earn, and you spend what you make. Not a penny more.”

  “And then there are the naked short sellers,” I said, “who don’t even borrow the stock before they sell it-but we’ll save that lesson for Short Selling 201. Suffice it to say that a lot of smart folks think it was naked shorts that brought down Krispy Kreme.”

  “That is a crime,” said Papa.

  “Actually, there’s nothing illegal about it, unless you manipulate things by flooding the market with sell orders. Even then, I just read in the Journal that the SEC brought a grand total of zero enforcement actions in response to the last five thousand complaints it got about short sellers, so you do the math on getting caught.”

  Papa said, “That’s all just a fancy way of saying a short seller is like some guy in Atlantic City betting that the price of Saxton Silvers stock will go down.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” I said. “The farther it goes down, the more money the short seller makes. Which means they laugh all the way to the bank if they can get guys like Chuck Bell to blabber nasty rumors on television.”

  Andrea said, “But the question is, who are ‘they’?”

  “I wish I knew,” I said.

  “You must have a guess,” said Andrea.

  “I don’t like to guess.”

  “Oh, come on. Who do you think it is?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “You must have thought about it,” said Andrea. “Who would be able to borrow enough shares of Saxton Silvers stock to make it worthwhile to spread these rumors? And who would be that devious?”

  Andrea’s fixation started to feel a little awkward. “I honestly don’t know,” I told her.

  She finished her wine and smiled politely at Papa as she pushed away from the table. “It’s been lovely visiting with you. Thank you so much for the delicious food and wine. But I really do need a moment in private with Michael. It’s kind of personal.”

  I looked at Papa, who of course said, “You do what you gotta do.”

  Andrea said good night, I excused myself, and the two of us went to the bar, where bottles of Campari and Amaretto Disaronno had prime shelf space on the mirrored backsplash behind a long mahogany bar. We found a couple of chrome stools at the end, away from the crowd. Just then I got another rumor alert from one of my analysts; this one was serious. I asked the bartender to tune the flat screen to FNN while Andrea and I talked. The audio was on mute, but Chuck Bell somehow still managed to be obnoxious even in closed captioning.

  Andrea said, “Let me first say that Mallory didn’t ask me to come here.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “I’m not the type to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I hate to see a marriage between two good people not work out.”

  I paused to get a read on her. I’d met many of Mallory’s friends, and something about this one didn’t add up. It wasn’t just the way she took an interest in short sellers. It was the little things-like her pigging out on pasta, or her monochrome dye job, which completely lacked the array of highlights that cost Mallory the monthly equivalent of a subprime mortgage payment after a rate adjustment. I was getting the sense that Andrea didn’t belong in the club-and that she didn’t really want to belong.

  “I appreciate your saying that,” I said.

  My cell rang again. This time it was a red alert: TURN ON FNN!!!

  My gaze shifted to the television. I started reading the closed captioning, the several-second delay from the audio giving me some time to catch up.

  “More devastating news,” said Bell. “My source tells me that, earlier today, the credit department of a major trader held up a trade with Saxton Silvers because of concerns about the firm’s financial health. My source also tells me that perhaps as soon as tomorrow Saxton Silvers could be on a no-trade status that will continue until the firm solves its liquidity problems. All I can say, folks, is that compared to tomorrow, today could look like a good day for Saxton Silvers and its shareholders.”

  “Mallory is very serious about a divorce,” said Andrea.

  I heard her, but I was still numb from Bell’s words.

  “She already has a lawyer,” said Andrea.

  That got my attention, but my phone rang. It was Eric Volke. I apologized to Andrea and stepped away from the bar to take the call.

  “We’re sunk,” said Eric.

  “I heard. Wasn’t Bell supposed to stop spreading rumors after you let him interview me?”

  “He says they’re not rumors. He stands by his source.”

  “Maybe Stuart should go back on the air.”

  “It doesn’t matter what the CEO or anyone else says at this point. Once a statement like that is out there-that Saxton Silvers can’t follow through on a trade-the firm is dead. Chuck Bell killed us.”

  “Bell and his source,” I said.

  “Fucking shorts,” said Eric.

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I’m meeting with Treasury and the Fed tonight. The vibe I’m getting is that they’re going to give us until Sunday to find a merger partner.”

  “Sunday?” I said, incredulous. “That’s crazy.”

  “We either get it done, or we’ll be in bankruptcy court on Monday.”

  Things were moving too fast, and Eric’s use of the B-word really had my head spinning. Just two days earlier, it would have shocked me less if Bill Gates had called me to debug his computer.

  “It’s all hands on deck tonight,” said Eric. “Your Green Division is one of the few that is completely untouched by subprime. I’ll need your most current numbers and six-month pro formas. How soon can you be here?”

  I checked my watch. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

  “Sooner,” he said, and the call ended.

  Andrea approached. “Is everything okay?”

  “Something’s come up. I have to go into the office.”

  “I’m sure it’s important. But let me leave you with this thought: Use me. I think I can help with Mallory.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it.”

  I was having my doubts. I was still hoping that Mallory would cool down and change her mind, but it struck me as odd that Andrea-someone I hardly knew-would track me down and come to my aid, especially if it was true that Mallory had already hired a divorce lawyer.

  “Is there anything you want me to tell her?” asked Andrea.

  Alarms were ringing in my head. Some
thing told me not to trust Andrea, and I always went with my instinct.

  “Yeah,” I said, “there is.”

  “What?”

  “Tell her it’s another beautiful day in paradise.”

  20

  I KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE MINUTE I SMELLED TODAY’S assortment of executive-suite flowers. A pair of Saxton Silvers security guards met me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator, and their expressions could have taken the bloom right off the Sexy Rexy Floribunda roses.

  “I can take it from here, guys,” I said. “I know my way to Mr. Volke’s office.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Cantella. We have our orders.”

  “Oooh-kay.”

  Security knocked on the closed door and Eric let me inside. He was not alone. I recognized Sonya, of course, but not the two men standing beside her. Eric made the introductions, but I noted that he didn’t look me in the eye as he spoke.

  “This is FBI Agent Malcolm Spear and Agent Carl O’Neil,” said Eric. “Mr. Spear is a supervisory special agent, and Mr. O’Neil works in the Computer Fraud Division of the bureau’s Manhattan field office.”

  These were not the same agents who’d come by my building that morning to check out the fire in the elevator. O’Neil was by far the younger man, but Spear had the look of an ex-Marine, and as we shook hands I decided I would rather face O’Neil in a bar fight.

  “I assume this is about my identity theft.”

  “Have a seat, Michael,” said Eric.

  “Is the news not good?”

  “Please. Have a seat.”

  I took the leather armchair facing the agents, who seated themselves on the couch. Eric went behind his desk, and I found Sonya’s positioning very interesting. She took the chair that was on the opposite side of the coffee table from me, closer to the FBI.

  “At the outset,” said Sonya, “let me make it clear that I’m here strictly as general counsel to Saxton Silvers. I don’t represent anyone in his individual capacity.”

  “You mean me?” I said, trying not to sound too facetious.

  She nodded.

  I glanced at the FBI. “I’m guessing you don’t represent me either.”