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.”