“Shitheads. They call themselves journalists, but they’re mostly ex-bond traders and Wall Street scum. A lot of them are European. You want another example of their thievery?”

“Sure, if you have one.”

“Okay. Two weeks ago, The Mirror carried a story saying that J. M. Sedgwick Securities would be firing its chief investment strategist because of trading irregularities. Market-moving news, sent over to Mirror Alert at seven-thirty, as per our arrangement. Guess what? Heavy selling of J. M. Sedgwick Securities begins immediately in Asian markets, where they’re sold. It’s a pattern. They take the information here and trade on it overseas, where they think the SEC won’t notice. It’s corrupt! These people are thieves. We are in bed with a bunch of con men! And the worst of it is, we still don’t know who they are.”

“You have to tell Sellinger, Dirk. Call him tomorrow.”

“He’s away. I already checked. He won’t be back until Monday. And I still think he may be one of the bad guys.”

“Call him Monday. You have to. This could destroy the Mirror. You have to blow the whistle. If Sellinger doesn’t listen, go to Weiss.”

“I don’t know. That’s not my style. I need to be sure who owns them, before I go to war. I have a buddy in the Bahamas who’s working on that. He thinks he’s close to getting some names of the people who own the Press Alert shell company down there. I would love to wait until I have that, before I go to the big shots.”

“You can’t wait much longer, Dirk. If you’re worried about seeing Sellinger alone, we can go together. How about that? I’ll be away Monday, but we could go see him Tuesday. We’ll tell him what you’ve found out.”

“Gosh, a hotshot like you, joining a nobody like me. I’m so flattered. He’d think it was dogshit, coming from me, but he’ll know it’s serious if someone important like you comes along.”

“Fuck you, Dirk. I was just offering to help.”

He looked sheepish; he knew he had overdone it. “I apologize, Eric. Really. Sometimes I can’t help myself. I just don’t feel centered unless I say something offensive. But I’d like your help. We’ll go up Tuesday, stop at Radio City Music Hall, see the Rockettes. Then send the bill to Sellinger.”

Annie knocked on the door of my apartment Saturday afternoon. She was dressed in loose jeans and a cashmere sweater. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. There was a gentleness in her eyes, a vulnerability. I had known Annie long enough to sense that she wanted something.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. After our last meeting I had assumed that she was a page in my life that had finally turned.