“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.

Joan brought in the Post just before lunch. “Story, but no pics,” she said, handing the paper to Stone, opened at Page Six.

Stone read the piece:

ATTORNEY NESTLES WITH MISTRESS IN LOVE NEST,

BUT DEED TO NEST IN WRONG NAME

Ace lawyer Bernard Finger has been shacking up in a Park Avenue penthouse with his honey, Marilyn the Masseuse, for weeks, unbeknownst to his wife. (Note to Missus: New York is NOT a no-fault divorce state, so go for it!) The lovely Marilyn thinks the lovely nest is hers, but somehow the deed got registered in Bernie’s name. Wonder how that happened?

“Cute,” Stone said, “but why no photos?”

“I expect they’re afraid of a suit from ol’ Bernie,” Joan replied.

“They need have no fear with those pictures in their possession. No, something else is going on here.”

At the Post, Henry Stead was sitting at his desk when he spotted the process server, a short, plump man in a wash-and-wear suit. Henry waved at him cheerfully. “Over here, Arnie! I’ll accept service!”

Arnie waddled over to the desk and ignored Henry’s outstretched hand, holding the summons close to his chest. “How come you’re so anxious to get sued?” he asked suspiciously.

“Arnie, you of all people are in a position to know that we get sued all the time.”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve never seen anybody here look so happy about it.”

“It breaks up the day, Arnie. Gimme the summons.”

Arnie handed it over with some reluctance. “This goes against my experience of these things,” he said. “Ordinarily I have to chase people around if they know what I’m doing.”

“Gimme the clipboard, Arnie,” Henry said, extending a hand.

Arnie handed over a clipboard holding a sheet of paper with space for a dozen signatures. “Sign on line six,” he said.

Henry signed with a flourish. “That’s it, Arnie; your work is done. I’m sure that up in heaven an angel just got his wings.” He picked up a little bell on his desk and tinkled it. A copy boy sprinted toward him. “False alarm, Terry,” Henry said. “That was a heavenly bell.”

Terry came to a screeching halt. “Don’t pitch me no balks,” he said sullenly, turning away.

“That was an oxymoron, Terry,” Henry called after him.

With a last, untrusting glance, Arnie turned and trudged toward the elevators.

Henry ripped open the envelope and read the document. “Bingo!!!” he yelled, and everybody in the room turned and stared at him as he sprinted toward his boss’s office. He ran into the room without knocking, startling a man who had just taken a big bite of a corned beef and chopped liver sandwich on rye with Russian dressing. “Bernie Finger came through like a champ!” Henry yelled, holding up the summons so his boss could read it without getting chopped liver on it.