“What happened there?”
“Ah, nothin’.”
Nana busted him. “Your grandfather isn’t seeing so well at night lately. Refuses to get his eyes checked. Walked straight into a lamppost.”
“Ouch. That had to hurt.”
He leaned closer, as if to let me in on a secret. “It’s all about attitude, dummy.”
We shared a smile. He truly lived by that creed. When throat cancer left him with just one-quarter of a single vocal cord, he had to train himself to speak in a voice that no longer sounded like his own. Naturally, Papa had been the first to joke about sounding like Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
“So cancel your noon appointments,” he said. “It’s your happy birthday, and we’re taking you to dinner.”
“You mean lunch?”
“No, I mean dinner. When you get to be my age, dinner is at noon.”
My heart sank. For the first time in my life they had pulled off a surprise like this—and they couldn’t have picked a worse day.
“Papa, I’m really sorry, but—”
“No excuses. Your grandmother and I are taking you to the finest Italian restaurant in New York City.”
In my book, that meant Il Molino, but Papa was the kind of guy who could win the lottery and still agonize over buying a new pair of shoes every two years. On a day like today, it made me realize why they called his the greatest generation.
“We’re doing Sal’s Place,” he said. “Marie, give Michael his happy birthday gift.”
Nana pulled a teddy bear from the shopping bag on her arm. SAL’S PAL was stitched on its big belly, and when Papa poked it, the bear sang out like a mechanical Dean Martin: “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie—”
“That’s amore!” sang Papa.
It was suddenly impossible to breathe a word to him about my identity theft. “Papa, I promise we’ll do lunch together, even if we have to order in from Sal’s and eat here in the office. But the next two hours are crazy for me.”
“You do what you gotta do,” he said—one of those expressions that really did make him sound like the Godfather.
My phone chimed with an e-mail from one of my analysts. “Check out FNN,” it read. A sense of dread came over me as I switched on the television in my office.
“Wonderful,” said Nana, “I can watch my soaps.”
“Uh…exactly,” I said, handing her the remote. I promised to return as soon as possible, then bolted down the hall to the nearest conference room. FNN was playing for a handful of staff who looked seriously worried.
“Is that Chuck Bell on the trading floor?” one of the secretaries asked.
It was. Chuck Bell had taken his show from the studio and was broadcasting live from the floor in the New York Stock Exchange. The commotion behind him naturally lent an air of excitement to “this special edition of Bell Ringer.”
Another signature FNN banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen, the knife-to-the-heart update once again punctuated with the cover-your-ass question mark: “REPO LENDERS NOT RENEWING OVERNIGHT LOANS TO SAXTON SILVERS?”
“As I first reported in October,” said Bell, “the internal crisis at Saxton Silvers is personified by two of the president’s protégés, Michael Cantella and Kent Frost. It seems Cantella was talking in Volke’s right ear while Frost had his left ear. It all came to a head early in November when a blast e-mail went out from the residential mortgage desk to the banking industry, announcing that Saxton Silvers was getting out of the subprime business. Sources tell me that Michael Cantella was a major force behind that announcement, even though he had no direct role in the subprime business.”
Bell was dead-on accurate—and I was beginning to get a little nervous about his “sources.”
My cell rang. It was Eric from his office. He had me on speaker.
“You watching FNN?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I need you there.”
“What?”
“That bastard Bell will try to corner one of our traders and get him to say something live and on the air that’ll make this worse than it already is. I need somebody I can trust to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
I needed to meet with Saxton Silvers’ director of security and—now that I didn’t have a lawyer—do my own follow-up with the FBI.
“Bell’s not allowed to interfere with the floor traders,” I said, knowing immediately how lame that sounded.
“Well then, he’ll fucking follow them to lunch. Damn it, Michael. All I need is someone I can count on to go downtown and stop Bell from pulling off an ambush.”
“I’ll do it,” I heard Kent Frost say over the speaker. I didn’t even know he was still there.
“No, I’ll do it,” I said.
“Good, keep me posted,” said Eric.
He hung up, and as I hurried to the elevator, my cell rang again. It was Papa.
“Michael, you know I never pressure you, but Nana just noticed that these ten-percent-off coupons I got for Sal’s are good for in-restaurant dining only.”
“Papa, something’s come up. I can’t do lunch.”
“Oh. Well, all right,” said the Godfather. “You do what you gotta do.”
The disappointment in his voice was far worse than my financial worries. “How about dinner?” I said.
“Sure. Sal’s Place?”
The elevator doors opened, and as I entered the car I knew I was about to lose my signal. “No, not Sal’s,” I said.
“But—”
“Let me pick. It’s my birthday, right?”
“Your happy birthday,” he said. “Sure, you pick.”
The elevator doors closed, and I lost the call. As I rode down, I probably should have been thinking about identity theft, burning envelopes, the firm in crisis, and Chuck Bell. Instead, I was thinking about Sal’s Place.
Sal’s had once been one of my favorite restaurants—mainly because of Papa. After my last visit, however, I had vowed never to return. I blamed my bad experience at the time on an unsettling exchange with a stranger. Now, given today’s events, I was starting to wonder if anything was random.
It was the first week of November—coincidentally, two days after Saxton Silvers announced the end of its subprime business, the controversial blast e-mail that Chuck Bell had just resurrected on FNN. I was seated alone at a small table for two, waiting on an order of linguine with clam sauce, when the stranger sat down in the wooden chair across from me. I was pretty sure I had never seen him before, but I was certain of this:
I would never forget him.
“Another beautiful day in paradise,” the man said.
It was a warm day for early November, and I was seated near the open French doors at the front of the restaurant. I looked up from the newspaper I’d been reading. A quick glance around the restaurant confirmed that there were plenty of open booths and tables—no apparent need to share with a stranger. That was strange enough, but it was his words that had taken me aback. Another beautiful day in paradise. That was what Papa always said as he headed out of the house for his morning walk.
“Do I know you?”
“You tell me,” he said.
I looked at him carefully. He had piercing ebony eyes, and the dark complexion fit the hint of an accent I detected. It sounded Indian, though I knew from my business travels that it was difficult to generalize about a country that had twenty-nine different languages that counted more than a million native speakers. In any event, it was his appearance more than his voice that defined him. His build was that of a weight-lifting fanatic—someone who worked out not for the health benefits, but because he liked to intimidate. His hair was hidden beneath a black knit beanie, but the sideburn on the left side of his face was longer and thicker than the one on the right. A broad scar or some other deformity started at the right earlobe, continued under his jawbone, and disappeared somewhere beneath his black turtleneck sweater.
“I’ve never seen you before,” I s
aid.
He reached inside his coat pocket, pulled out his wallet, and removed a hundred-dollar bill. He flattened it out on the table, rather ceremoniously removing every last wrinkle. Then he held it over the glass votive on the table, not actually putting it in the candle’s flame, but it was dangerously close.
“Watch,” he said.
My gaze fixed on the crisp bill resting atop the glowing votive. A black circle emerged beside the image of Benjamin Franklin as the candle scorched the underside. A wisp of smoke appeared, and suddenly the yellow flame poked through the watermark. In another second, the bill was burning like dry tinder.
“It’s a crime to burn money,” he said, holding the flaming bill.
“Excuse me?”
“I just committed a crime,” he said. “Burning money is a federal offense.”
I watched him, not sure what to do, wondering if this guy was playing with a full deck.
“Are you going to turn me in?” he asked.
“I think you should leave.”
“But I need to know,” he said. “Are you going to turn me in?”
“Just beat it. I’m not going to turn you in.”
“That’s good,” he said, rising. Then he tossed the remnants of the burned hundred-dollar bill on the table and said, “That makes you part of the cover-up.”
I watched with curiosity as he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the ashes.
15
WALL STREET.
Midtown had been a comfortable home for Saxton Silvers since the destruction of its offices on 9/11, but actually standing before the New York Stock Exchange building and seeing the huge American flag draped over its massive stone columns never failed to get my pulse pounding. I was in a hurry, but I stopped for a moment to take it all in. History oozing from a concrete jungle of tall towers on narrow streets. Floor traders hustling back from lunch or the gym for the end-of-day frenzy. People everywhere, rushing with purpose.
And a seven-foot bear in a boxing ring.
“What the hell?” I said to myself.
The Exchange was actually on Broad Street, which was closed to cars. FNN had re-created the Bell Ringer set outside the building, complete with the signature boxing ring. Waiting “in the other corner” was a man dressed up like that lovable bear from Jungle Book who made “The Bare Necessities” one of Disney’s most hummable tunes. Bell was still inside the building, but his plan clearly was to don his boxing gloves and beat the snot out of that poor sloth in the road-show version of Bell Ringer.
“You got a cigarette?” the bear asked as I passed.
Immediately I suspected a setup—a test question planted by FNN to see if the founder of Saxton Silvers’ Green Division and chief proponent of investment in socially responsible companies supported Big Tobacco with his own nasty personal habit. I was officially paranoid.
“Sorry, dude,” I said.
Security at the NYSE was tight, but I had clearance. I was emptying my pockets at the metal detector when my cell rang. I stepped out of line to take the call. It was Eric.
“Change of plans,” he said. “We cut a deal with Bell.”
“A deal?”
“He’s been killing us for refusing to address the rumors, but if senior management responds, it only legitimizes them. Bell agreed to back off if we just give him someone to talk to.”
“Like who?”
“You.”
“Me?”
A minute ago I wanted to take it to Bell. But now I was afraid of what I might say to him.
“Listen carefully,” said Eric. “You are not the firm’s spokes-person on the subprime write-downs. But this nonsense about our former investment advisor of the year dumping his stock has to be stopped. Here’s the plan: You go on the air with Bell, you tell him about the identity theft, and you make it clear that you’re still bullish on Saxton Silvers. That’s it. You got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Michael, I need you to knock this out of the park. Understand?”
“Totally,” I said.
“Good. Just keep it short. I’ll be watching.”
I made it through security as quickly as I could, and fifteen minutes later I walked onto the trading floor. The “Big Board” is a truly grand space, and even folks who know nothing about the market are impressed by the marble walls rising up seventy-two feet to an ornate gilt ceiling, two more dramatic walls of windows, and the famous skylight through which many a devastated trader has looked up to the heavens and asked, “Why me?” Most trading was done away from the floor these days, but the NYSE still did some of it the old-fashioned way, with traders gathering around posts to buy or sell in an open outcry auction. Even with the rise of electronic trading, it remains an icon of American capitalism, the source of countless images of despondent traders, palms to forehead, personifying the pain and tumult of Wall Street’s slides.
I walked through a section of the floor known as “Jurassic Park,” a place where older traders, many of whom started out as runners, rested and reminisced about that one golden year—they all claimed to have had one—in which they raked in a million bucks in commissions. I was headed for “Rodeo Drive,” the corridor of elite trading posts for firms like Saxton Silvers leading up to the famed NYSE bell.
“Mr. Cantella?” a woman said, catching up to me.
I stopped, turned, and saw her FNN credentials hanging around her neck.
“You’re on in five minutes,” she said. “Mr. Bell told me to do your makeup.”
I considered it, then reminded myself that my grandparents were in town. Papa had grown up on the south side of Chicago, stood in bread lines at age nine, and fought with the fair-haired kids in the neighborhood who had a problem with the fact that little Vincenzo’s first and last name ended in a vowel. He just wouldn’t understand makeup on his grandson.
“I’ll pass this time,” I said.
“Suit your shiny self.”
Say that three times fast, Papa would have said. I just didn’t have his gift for small talk—though no one could compete with the man who had managed to be on a first-name basis with every checkout girl at Publix a week after moving to Florida.
“Chuck’s waiting,” said Little Miss Anti-Shine. “I’ll take you to him.”
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.”
James Grippando Page 8