Fresh Disasters

16

Bob Cantor snapped to attention. He had been half dozing, but a movement on the terrace below had caught his eye.

One of the sliding glass doors had opened, and now a tall blonde, wearing a floor-length robe that appeared to be silk, swept onto the terrace. He recognized her immediately. It was Marilyn, the masseuse.

Marilyn set down a drink on a little table next to a double-width chaise longue, made a motion with her shoulders and the robe fell in a puddle at her feet, revealing a lithe, naked body with high-hung breasts. She pulled something from her hair and shook it loose.

Cantor grabbed the camera and sighted through the long lens. The low afternoon sunlight washed over her pale body, turning it gold, as he focused and fired off a couple of shots. He checked the screen on the back of the camera to be sure he had it right. He had it right. The girl was now rubbing some sort of lotion on her body, and Cantor was getting an erection.

Suddenly, Cantor’s erection wilted. Bernard Finger stepped out onto the terrace with a drink in his hand. He was stark naked, and it was not a pretty sight. Marilyn did not leap up to meet him but patted the other side of the chaise. Finger sat down, they clinked glasses and began to chat.

Marilyn was doing more than chatting. She had her hand in Finger’s lap and was kneading his genitals. Cantor clicked away. The lens was the perfect length; he might as well have been sitting next to them.

Marilyn rolled over and buried her face in Finger’s crotch, and his face took on an ecstatic grimace, which Cantor preserved in digital code. Then they changed positions, and Finger was doing the work in her lap. He was on his knees, his buttocks pointing to the sky. Cantor was almost as ecstatic as Finger. He continued photographing until both Marilyn and Finger had collapsed in a tangle of love.

Cantor took out a small laptop computer and the little portable color printer he traveled with, and, minutes later, he had a sheet of postage-stamp-sized prints, half a dozen enlargements and everything on a CD. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial number.

Up at the Post on the floor where the Page Six staff worked, a phone rang and a young man picked it up. “Page Six.”

“You know who this is, Henry?”

“Yeah, I know who it is.”

“I want you to do two things: I want you to go down to your cashier and draw ten grand in hundreds and fifties, then I want you to meet me at the bar across the street. You’ve got an hour, and if you don’t bring the money, I go elsewhere.”

“What could be that hot?”

“If you don’t think it’s hot enough, you don’t have to give me the ten grand. I’m not going to hit you over the head and take it.”

“Give me a hint.”

“How’s this for a hint: in flagrante delicto?”

“Who is?”

“Trust me, you’re going to love it.” The caller hung up.

Cantor removed the lens from the camera, packed his equipment and took the elevator to the lobby, giving Tim, the doorman, a little salute as he passed. Half an hour later, he was in a back booth of a dark bar, nursing a dirty martini with two olives. Presently, Henry entered the bar, waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the light, or lack of it, then headed for the booth. He was carrying a small, zippered canvas envelope that bulged just a bit.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”

“First, I want complete confidentiality,” Cantor said. “I don’t want even your editors to know where this came from.”

“Guaranteed,” Henry said. “The paper loves it when we go to jail for not revealing sources. It makes them look brave, and they get a chance to run editorials about First Amendment issues.”

Cantor laid an eight-by-ten photograph on the table and switched on a penlight.

“Beautiful girl!” Henry enthused. “Who’s the guy with his head up her twat?”

Cantor laid another photo on the table and illuminated it.

“Holy shit!” Henry spat. “Is that Bernie Finger?”

“None other.” Cantor spread out more photos and held up the CD. “Many more where that came from.”

Henry was not actually salivating yet, but Cantor was afraid his prints were going to get wet. He scooped them up and put them, along with the CD, back into his briefcase. “There’s a backstory, too, a juicy one, but first, the ten grand.”

“First, the photos, the CD and the backstory,” Henry said.

Cantor snapped the briefcase shut. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Henry; I have another appointment in five minutes.”

“All right, all right,” Henry said, holding up his hands in surrender. He unzipped the leather bag, showed the money to Cantor, then rezipped it and handed it over.

Cantor unzipped it, riffled through the bills, then put the money into his briefcase and handed over the prints and the CD.

“Now, the backstory,” Henry said.

Cantor grinned. “Bernie Finger is, as you no doubt know, a ‘happily’ married man” [he made quotation marks with his fingers], “but he’s been promising the girl, a masseuse named Marilyn, that he’s getting a divorce any minute. To prove his undying love, he bought her the Park Avenue penthouse, or at least, that’s what he told her. I am reliably informed that the deed is in his name, not hers.”

“Good stuff,” Henry admitted, looking through the photos again. “I’m not sure we can actually print these, but we could certainly use them as evidence in defending a slander suit.”

“Come on, Henry. A little black tape in strategic places would do the trick. But hey, they’re your photos; do with them as you will.”

“The timing is good,” Henry said. “We’ve just had a little back and forth in the column between Bernie and Stone Barrington.”

“Who?”

“Another lawyer.”

“Never heard of him, but let me know if you want him photographed doing the nasty.” Cantor slid out of the booth, offered a quick handshake and was on his way.

Back in his car, Cantor hit another speed-dial number.

“Stone Barrington.”

“The deed is done,” Cantor said.

“Which deed?”

“All the deeds. And the rag paid so well that I’m not even going to charge you expenses.”

“You’re such a nice man,” Stone said.

“Well, we all know that. Listen, I haven’t heard from my nephew for a couple of days, and that’s unusual. He normally calls every day, wanting money.”

“Oh,” Stone said, “he called me and said he was being chased by some of his bookie’s leg breakers and needed to go to ground somewhere. I suggested a homeless shelter.”

“That doesn’t sound like the boy’s style.”

“Who cares about his style? He stayed one night with a girlfriend, then she kicked him out. He says he has nowhere else to go, said you weren’t talking to him, either.”

“That’s kind of true,” Cantor said. “Kind of true is as close as he ever gets to the truth. Let me know if you hear from him, will you? I promised his mother on her deathbed I’d look after him.”

“I hope I don’t, but if I do, I will. Any idea when the Post will publish?”

“Could be as early as tomorrow,” Cantor replied. “Henry will have to clear it up the ladder, but he’s hot to trot. Bye-bye.” He punched off the cell phone and drove home happily with the ten thousand in his briefcase.