A messenger from out of the blue, and his clue

“Money Walks,” a serial novel by 16 Los Angeles writers who will be appearing at this year’s Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, ends today. The festival takes place Saturday and Sunday at UCLA.

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Before Franco could move, the man in the trench coat picked up the nickel. He smelled of ozone and warm tortillas.

“Some say fire,” he said, examining one side of the coin, “and some say ice. What’ll it be, Rev?” He flashed a smile so bright and perilous that even Rudy gasped.

“Oh, my God,” Bunny moaned.

“Nope,” said the man. “But close enough.” He sighed. “I told Him if He really wanted to get your attention He should just get rid of television. But He likes television. Though I think He’s kind of worried about pushing Leno to 10.”

“This is crazy,” said Angie, stepping forward, the gun aimed now at the man in the trench coat.

“Indeed,” said the man, and the gun became a ferret, which bit Angie’s thumb before leaping to the floor. “Crazy, crazy days.”

“So,” Franco said. “This is the end of the world. In a nonmetaphorical sense.”

“You wish,” said the man, pocketing the nickel. “There were a few focus groups, but this is neither bang nor whimper. This is just --”

For a moment the man’s attention wandered and he shook himself, like a dog released from a bath. “Sorry, I haven’t been down in a while and what with global warming. . .”

“Is this about global warming?”

“It’s never about one thing in particular. Although you might want to get on top of that ASAP.”

“That will be a little tough,” said Bunny. Since she wasn’t planning on surviving, there was no reason to be lectured to by a guy pushing a shopping cart. “There’s no money, remember? To fund the research or tax the polluters?”

The man’s mouth twitched dangerously.

“Don’t you smile at me, bub,” Bunny said.

“I can’t help it,” the man told her. “You have been missed, Bunny. Would you like to go now? Because I can arrange that.”

“No,” she said stubbornly. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to see what happens next.”

“Me too,” said the man. “It’s been awhile since He’s pulled such a Grand Gesture, though that’s not too surprising. You all have an unfortunate tendency to shoot the messenger. This is much simpler.”

“Simpler?” Bunny said. “You took the money. All the money. People need money, you know.”

“Why? You can’t eat it or wear it or sleep beneath it.”

“Oh, man,” said Rudy. “Here we go with the spiritual crap.”

“It’s not spiritual,” the man answered. “We didn’t come up with money, you did. You made it up, just like you made up clocks and the calendar and marriage and monarchy. None of it is real, except in a symbolic sense. So nothing has vanished actually.”

“Socialism,” said Rudy, eyes gleaming.

“Not at all,” said the angel.

“But how do we pay for the things we do need?” Bunny asked.

The angel shrugged. “Abalone shells? Or salt, that was a good one. Maybe you move past the idea of paying at all. But think of something fast because it’s nuts out there.”

“What about the painting?” Franco asked.

The angel shivered again; his coat was pulling at the seams. “You could start with that. Just be careful” -- the coat was disintegrating now, as was the man’s skin and hair and voice -- “because He could decide to take art away next.”

For a moment the air split open and something beyond the confines of color and light poured out. Then the moment passed and they were left with silence. And a painting. And a shopping cart.

“Well,” said Bunny, reaching for her oxygen. “This will be interesting.”

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McNamara is a Times television critic and the author of the novel “Oscar Season.” Her new novel, “The Starlet,” will be out next spring. She will be on the “Mystery: Guns & Gams” panel at 1:30 p.m. Sunday in Dodd 147 at UCLA and in conversation with Michael J. Fox at 3 p.m. Sunday in Ackerman Grand Ballroom at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books.