THE THUMB AND INDEX FINGER ON MY LEFT HAND WERE STARTING to blister. I didn’t think I needed a doctor, but it hurt enough to make me reconsider the sender’s agenda. Maybe the FBI was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t just a warning.
Maybe he did want to see me dead.
I was still in Eric’s office waiting for a chance to fill him in on my situation, and he was still on the phone talking through his headset. He suddenly stopped pacing long enough to grab the remote control from his desk and switch on the flat screen that was mounted on the wall above the wet bar. Like everyone else on Wall Street, Eric’s television was pre-set to FNN. The only thing worse than a business news network spreading rumors was being the only financial player in New York who hadn’t heard them. Chuck Bell was on the air, which caused me to do a double take. I’d been awake all night and my internal clock was off, but I was pretty sure it was just coming up on nine-thirty A.M., not Bell’s regular time slot.
“Good morning, all you mavericks and moneymakers,” he said, his usual greeting. “And welcome to the second half hour of this special edition of Bell Ringer.”
The familiar ding-ding-ding-ding of the NYSE opening and closing bell pulsated over the television, followed by a streaming banner at the bottom of the screen that proclaimed the reason for the special edition of Bell’s show:
LIQUIDITY PROBLEMS AT SAXTON SILVERS?
It was classic FNN: report something outrageous and potentially libelous to grab the viewers’ attention, and then put a question mark after it to keep from being sued.
Eric was red faced with anger. “Bell, you son of a bitch.”
Bell continued on the air. “Rumors, rumors, rumors. Such a vicious thing on Wall Street.”
“Then why do you start them?” Eric shouted at the screen.
Bell said, “We here at FNN are dedicated to bringing you only the facts. Unfortunately, the facts have investors, lenders, and players at every corner of the financial world nervous about one of the most prestigious institutions on Wall Street: the investment banking firm Saxton Silvers.”
Eric took a seat, glancing nervously back and forth from the television to the NYSE ticker that streamed across the wall behind his desk. As always, trading had started at nine-thirty A.M., and we were keeping an eye on the price of Saxton Silvers’ stock.
“Here is what we know as trading begins this morning,” said Bell.
“God help us,” said Eric.
“Fact: Saxton Silvers reported last fall that a write-down of one-point-six billion in subprime losses would stop the bleeding. Fact: FNN has confirmed that Saxton Silvers will announce another twenty-two billion in subprime losses later today.”
Bell paused, and Eric looked at me, as if to will Bell to stop right there. It was merely a pregnant pause, however, and Bell proceeded to do what he did best, throw gasoline on smoldering embers.
“The question becomes: Can Saxton Silvers take a hit of this magnitude to its capital reserves? Is this latest write-down of twenty-two billion dollars really the end of the downward spiral? Why should investors think so when management told us six months ago that one-point-six billion was the real number? Could Saxton Silvers face charges from regulatory authorities for misleading investors about the full extent of its worthless mortgage-backed securities? Rightly or wrongly, can multibillion-dollar class actions alleging fraud and mismanagement be far behind?”
Bell kept talking, but I was watching Eric, who truly looked to be on the verge of an aneurysm.
“Somebody needs to shut that lunatic up,” said Eric.
Bell said, “Joining me now from Palm Beach is Saxton Silvers chief executive officer Stuart Wyle. What better person is there to address these issues? Sir, thank you very much for joining us on Bell Ringer.”
“Uh, you’re very welcome.”
I couldn’t help but cringe. Bell had just laid out a case of financial Armageddon for Saxton Silvers, and pictured on television screens everywhere was our fearless leader speaking from the golf course at the Breakers Hotel, his nose shiny with sun-screen and a plaid golf cap atop his head. He must have looked ridiculous to anyone who wasn’t within three blocks of tony Worth Avenue.
“Mr. Wyle, let me begin by asking you this: Why are traders dumping their shares in Saxton Silvers?”
“No one’s dumping anything,” said Wyle.
“Sir, it is now nine forty-six A.M. Eastern time, and in just sixteen minutes of trading your stock has dropped from one hundred ninety per share to one hundred thirty.”
“Because of you!” Eric said to the screen.
Our CEO, fortunately, kept his cool. “The firm’s capital reserves are more than sufficient to cover the write downs that we will announce later today. The market will correct itself, and the price will come back just as soon as these silly rumors stop.”
“If that’s the case, sir, then why are Saxton Silvers’ most talented people dumping their stock in the firm?”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, let me give you an example. Michael Cantella has twice been named Saxton Silvers’ investment advisor of the year, correct?”
“I believe that’s true.”
Eric and I looked at each other, equally confused.
“He also holds the title of vice president, as head of your Green Division?”
“He’s certainly one of our most outstanding young talents.”
“No argument there,” said Bell. “He’s appeared a half dozen times on FNN, including twice on my own show-which, by the way, normally appears Monday through Friday at five P.M., so viewers, please set your TiVo.”
“And your point is?” said Wyle.
“Simple,” said Bell-and he seemed to be struggling not to smile. “My sources tell me that just yesterday, Mr. Cantella liquidated his entire personal holdings in Saxton Silvers-nearly two million dollars’ worth of stock and options.”
On screen, our CEO looked stunned. Across the room, Eric looked even more stunned. I stared at the screen with my mouth hanging open.
Bell said, “Sir, what about that?”
“I-I can’t comment, except to say that it sounds like more silly rumors.”
“It’s no rumor,” said Bell, holding up a document. “I have here-”
My cell rang, and I recognized the incoming number: It was Sonya, the general counsel.
“Be in my office in two minutes,” Sonya said, without even a hello.
“Michael, what the hell is going on?” said Eric.
“I can explain,” I told him, then went back to the phone. “Sonya, I’m with Eric.”
“I’ll be right there,” she said, and hung up.
“I’m listening,” said Eric.
“This is not what it looks like,” I said, taking a deep breath to start my story.
But Eric was now staring past me in disbelief. On FNN, Bell was going to a commercial-but not before the network flashed a new BREAKING NEWS banner on the screen: SAXTON SILVERS “ADVISOR OF THE YEAR” DUMPS ALL S &S HOLDINGS.
My burned hand was stinging worse by the minute, and echoing in my ear once again was Stanley Brewer’s warning about the type of work I did, the enemies I’d surely made-enemies I didn’t even know I had.
“That’s the thing about revenge,” I said, watching the screen.
“Revenge?” said Eric. “Who said anything about revenge?”
“No one, forget it,” I said, but the lawyer’s words were still ringing.
You never know when-if ever-they are going to call it even.