Money to Burn

11

CHUCK BELL GOT TO WORK EARLY-EIGHT HOURS BEFORE HE USUALLY checked in for his talk-and-analysis program, Bell Ringer, the top-rated television show on Financial News Network.

“Morning, Chrissie,” he said on his way through the FNN lobby.

Bell called the receptionist Chrissie only because everyone knew that he hated to be called anything but Christopher. Bell continued through the lobby, slowing only to rub the hoof on a miniature replica of the famous seven-thousand-pound bronze sculpture of a charging bull that sits in the Financial District two blocks from the New York Stock Exchange. Bulls are good on Wall Street. Bears are bad. The financial world is big on animal references, most of which come from the nineteenth-century London Stock Exchange, including “lame duck,” which originally meant a debtor who couldn’t pay his debts.

This morning, Bell was poised to break a story that would turn plenty of bull riders into lame ducks in the classic sense.

Bell had made his mark as a hugely successful hedge-fund manager, and then he retired at the age of thirty-seven to pursue a second career in journalism. His first show on FNN-a serious attempt at market analysis-was a total flop. His research was suspect, his predictions were usually wrong, and the “nice-guy” demeanor the network foisted upon him just didn’t fit. Bell had been notorious for his temper in the business world, and finally the geniuses at FNN realized that he came across as someone who knew what he was talking about only when shouting angrily at the top of his lungs. They renamed the show Bell Ringer, created a set that looked more like a boxing ring than the stock exchange, and let Bell just be himself. The show was an instant hit. “Suze Orman meets Jerry Springer,” critics called it. Viewers especially loved his stunts-like the time Bell rolled up his shirtsleeves, pulled on a pair of boxing gloves, and beat the living crap out of two guys dressed up as Smokey and Yogi the last time the market went from bull to bear. Whenever something good happened-a stock catching fire, or a bear hitting the canvas-it drew the same reaction from the host:

“That’s a Bell Ringer!” he would shout.

Normally Bell’s show didn’t air until five P.M., but today’s big news was happening before breakfast. Bell wanted a piece of the story in real time.

“Go home, Chuck.”

Bell turned to find Rosario Reynolds standing two feet away from him. Rosario was the female half of FNN’s popular morning duo-the young, energetic, and gorgeous counterpart to the stodgy old Wall Street fat cat who, bloggers said, couldn’t keep his dirty-old-man eyes off her breasts.

“Rrrrrosario,” Bell said, trilling the R for added annoyance. “How’s my international superstar this morning?”

“Back off, Bell. If you think you’re going on the air this morning to scoop the Saxton Silvers news, dream on. Roger and I are live in ten minutes.”

“Rosario, Rosario,” he said with a condescending shake of the head. “Don’t you know that at FNN the Money Honey is always the last to know?”

“This Money Honey has a bigger set of balls than you do. So like I said: Back off. This story is mine.”

“You don’t have a story.”

“I broke it this morning. Another twenty-two billion in subprime write-downs.”

“That’s not the story,” he said, smiling thinly. “That’s the tip of the iceberg.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”

He laughed way too hard, then snagged an assistant producer as she was trying to sneak past the two clashing stars in the hallway.

“Sandra,” said Bell, “how are we coming on the Palm Beach connection?”

Sandra checked her clip board. “Shooting for nine forty, maybe nine forty-five at the latest.”

“That’s during my show!” said Rosario

The assistant producer hurried away without a word. Rosario shoved Bell so hard that his shoulder blades bumped against the wall.

“What are you trying to pull?” she said sharply.

“I’m not trying to do anything. It’s done. FNN is bumping you for a special edition of Bell Ringer.”

“That’s not fair! I worked hard on this story.”

“Aww,” he said, patting her head. “Poor Money Honey.”

She knocked his hand away. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Thank you.”

“I am not going to let this happen,” she said.

“You don’t have a choice,” said Bell. “If these subprime write downs create the kind of liquidity problems that people are talking about, this could be the beginning of the end for one of the oldest investment banks on Wall Street. But all you’ve got are rumors. I’ve got a source.”

She gave him an assessing look. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”

“I’ll have your ass if you bump my show and don’t have someone on the inside.”

He smiled thinly. “Under normal circumstances, I might be worried. But you’re overlooking one crucial fact, Rosario.”

“What?”

He leaned closer, as if to share a secret. “There really is no adult supervision at FNN.”