Money to Burn by James Grippando Page A

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?”
    As I walked away, I could feel the stares of surrounding floor traders who’d seen the interview—and then they ran off with their sell orders. I was trying to think of what to say to Eric, but I could still hear Bell building up the Wall Street battle of the century.
    “It’s time for me to step outside and put another bear on the canvas!”
    Cell phones weren’t allowed on the trading floor, but mine was ringing just as soon as I exited through the revolving door and stepped outside to Broad Street. It was Eric.
    “What the hell just happened to you?” he said.
    “He was putting words in my mouth.”
    “It’s Chuck Bell . You should have cut it off. That whole exchange was supposed to last two minutes, tops.”
    Two minutes? I didn’t know he’d wanted it that short. “I’m sure I would have done better if I’d actually gotten to sleep last night.”
    “That’s not going