Phantom Angel (6 page)

“What about those phone numbers that Morrie had for him?”

“Nothing more than disposable cells. His girlfriend, Jonquil Beausoleil, is totally off the grid. No driver's license, no credit cards, no nothing. This is a girl who doesn't want to be found. I can try to back-trace her from Charleston if you—”

“It's not Charleston. It's Ruston, Louisiana.”

“Sounds like
you
got somewhere.”

“I found her, in a manner of speaking.”

“What manner would that be?”

“I just forwarded you two nude photo galleries. Also a video.”

“Got 'em. Let's see what we … Oh, goodie, here she is on a yacht. Wow, she sure is a limber little thing, isn't she? I could never do a full split like that. Not even when I was on 'ludes. What am I looking for here? Because I've seen a vay-jay before. Although I'm wondering if they Photoshopped hers because it
really
looks like she's wearing lipstick on it, don't you think?”

“I think we're getting off of the subject here. And no.”

“Okay, here she is on her tum-tum in a hotel room. What am I…?”

“Any detail, however tiny, that might tell us where she is. When you start enlarging the images you may spot something. An item on that nightstand next to the bed. Or a reflection coming off of a picture on the wall. Maybe you'll be able to make out what's outside the window.”

“Want me to check out the yacht, too?”

“Please. And zoom in on that coastline in the background. I could be wrong but it sure looks like the South Shore of Long Island to me.”

“I'll see if I can find a landmark. What else?”

“Are you watching the video yet?”

“Hang on … Yeah, Boso's rubbing baby oil on her boobies. What about it?”

“Those mirrored sunglasses she has on. I thought I saw an image reflected in them.”

“You do realize that you're the only man in the entire world who was looking at her sunglasses, don't you?”

“Can you digitally enhance it?”

“I'll try,” she sighed. “But there's only one of me, Benji, and I just broke my umpteenth dinner date with Myron. He got all sore at me about my ‘priorities' so I promised I'd meet him for a late supper and … did I remember to mention there's only one of me?”

“What I remember is that one of you is more than enough for any man.”

“Are you getting frisky with me?”

“What if I am?”

“You need to find yourself a nice girl.”

“Yeah, I'll get right on that.”

I caught the No. 4 train up to Grand Central, then rode the Shuttle across to Times Square where I was, in fact, looking for a girl. Although the one I was looking for wasn't somebody whom I'd call nice.

The sun was setting by the time I climbed the steps up to 42nd Street. Times Square is no longer the deliciously raunchy Times Square of old with its XXX movie houses, dive bars and sleazy strip clubs. It's now a gaudy Las Vegas-style re-creation of Times Square. Ginormous Diamond Vision TV screens soar one atop another twenty stories into the sky hawking Coca-Cola and Bud Light. There's a Hard Rock Cafe. There's a Levi's store. Families of tourists wearing fanny packs crowd the sidewalks, walking four, six, eight abreast, loaded down with shopping bags. Times Square just doesn't feel like New York anymore. Although on a steamy hot summer night it does still
smell
like New York—that oh-so-distinctive blend of car exhaust fumes, molten blacktop, street vendor hot dogs, maxed-out sewage pipes and decomposing garbage.

It was nearing curtain time, and the sidewalks of the theater district were crowded with people. I took Shubert Alley to West 45th Street and made my way past the Booth, the Schoenfeld, the Jacobs and the Golden, knowing I'd find her eventually. Cricket O'Shea was never anywhere else once evening fell. I walked past the mammoth, shuttered David Merrick Theatre on West 46th, where
Wuthering Heights
had been in rehearsals until Hannah Lane broke her ankle. I tried Joe Allen's, but the bartender there told me he hadn't seen Cricket. I stuck my nose in Bruno Anthony's on Eighth Avenue, hangout of choice for out-of-work actors. No sign of her. Nor at Margot Channing's, the bar across from the Hirschfeld. From there I made my way along West 44th to Zoot Alors, a boisterous Parisian-style bistro that was popular with theatrical agents, flacks and journalists. They were stacked three deep at the hardwood bar and filled the tables under the brightly lit chandeliers. I didn't see her there either, but since Zoot Alors was her favorite haunt I figured she'd end up there eventually. Plus my stomach was growling. So when a barstool opened up I slipped my way onto it and ordered myself a cheeseburger with fries and a glass of milk.

She came hurtling through the door—all four-feet-eleven of her—with her laptop and a fistful of iPhones just as I was biting into my burger. Cricket weighed no more than ninety pounds and had no boobage to speak of. Her pale arms looked like cooked spaghetti in the sleeveless black T-shirt that she was wearing with tight black jeans and a pair of vintage white go-go boots. She had a mountain of black hair tinged with blue, a nose ring and a neck tattoo that read
I
L
OVE
T
HIS
D
IRTY
T
OWN
—a tribute to J. J. Hunsecker's famous line from
The Sweet Smell of Success,
which is Cricket's all-time favorite movie. We saw it together at the Film Forum when we were freshmen at NYU. She and I were classmates. Cricket started out wanting to act, same as me. She ended up writing about the theater. Covered Broadway for the
Village Voice
before she became sole owner and content provider of
crickoshea.com,
which now ranked as
the
Web site for theater world gossip. If a show was on its way up or on its way down Cricket knew it. If an actor or actress was in trouble, Cricket knew it. She worked nonstop, updated her postings day and night and dug up amazing dirt on Broadway's best and brightest—thanks in part to her live-in boyfriend, Bobby, who was a personal trainer to a number of top stars. Also their pot dealer.

She said hey to the bartender before she spotted me scarfing my cheeseburger and shrieked, “OMG, it's
Benji
!” Low-key Cricket was not. “How
are
you, cutie?” Her cell rang before I could say a word. She took the call. “What's the up? Uh-huh … Uh- huh … Love it. Love
you
. Later.” Rang off and said, “Benji, puh-leeze tell me you're here because you need me.”

“I'm here because I need you. Can I order you something?”

“Is somebody else buying?”

“Somebody else is.”

“Give me an Irish coffee, Al!” she called out to the bartender.

“Cricket, it's ninety-six degrees outside,” I pointed out.

“Doesn't matter. I'm always cold—especially my feet.” Her eyes twinkled at me. “As you may remember.”

Cricket wasn't just any classmate. She owned my virginity. It was she who'd made the first move. I was kind of shy in those days. Cricket kind of wasn't. “So are you going to fuck me or what?” she'd demanded one night over beers at the White Horse Tavern. So I did. And it wasn't very good. Not unless elbowy, gulpy and rapid-fire are your idea of good. I don't know if it was her fault or mine. I do know that I've been considerably more successful with other women. Not that there have been a lot. Not unless three is your idea of a lot. But Cricket and I just didn't click that way. So we settled for being friends.

Her cell rang again. She took the call and listened a moment before she said, “Already heard about it. Hit me next time, okay?” Rang off as the bartender brought her the steaming Irish coffee. She took a sip, her tongue flicking the creamy foam from her upper lip. “What can I do for you, cutie?”

“Ever hear of a Broadway angel by the name of R. J. Farnell?”

“Can't say I have because I haven't. Who he?”

I forked some French fries into my mouth, chewing on them. “The guy who's supposed to save
Wuthering Heights
.”

She let out a roar of laughter, turning heads. Cricket has mighty large lungs for someone so little. “You mean
Withering Heights
don't you? No one can save that show. It's the biggest disaster in the history of the theater.” She peered at me in her inscrutable way. “Please don't tell me you're working for Morrie Frankel.”

“Okay, I won't.”

“My God, you are, aren't you?”

“What have you heard?”

She crinkled her nose. “Just that Morrie has a John Q. Somebody out there. He won't tell a soul who the guy is. Are you telling me his name's R. J. Farnell?”

“This is strictly between us. You'll burn me if you spread it around.”

“I won't,” she promised. “Scout's honor.”

“Yes, his name's Farnell. He's a British hedge fund billionaire, or claims to be. Has a girlfriend named Jonquil Beausoleil.” I pulled out my phone and showed her a photo of Boso on that bed in her black velvet thong.

Cricket studied it carefully. “Don't know her. She's cute.”

“She's okay,” I said quietly.

Cricket swatted me on the shoulder. “Talk to me, will you? What's the up?”

“Farnell promised to bail Morrie out to the tune of twelve mil. But now he and his twelve mil have vanished, and if Morrie can't find him he's going to lose
Wuthering Heights
—and what's left of his reputation. He'll be done.”

“Morrie Frankel is a consummate fucktard. There's no shortage of people who wouldn't mind seeing that happen.”

“Like who?”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“With that major dustup he and Henderson Lebow had. Is it true that they actually came to blows in Joe Allen's?”

“It wasn't much of a fight,” she sniffed. “Morrie punched him and Henderson belly flopped on somebody's table with his head in their salad Niçoise.”

“I hear it was a lover's quarrel.”

“You hear right. Morrie found out that Henderson was dogging him with a much younger man.”

“Any guesses who that much younger man was?”

“This reporter doesn't have to guess. This reporter knows. Henderson was, and still is, getting it on with loincloth boy himself, as in ‘Me Tarzan.'”

“Wait, he's sleeping with Matthew Puntigam?”

“Ka-ching. And puh-leeze don't tell me that can't be possible because Matthew is so deeply, truly in love with Hannah Lane, as in ‘She Jane.' He's British. He's an actor. Hello, they are
all
switch-hitters.”

“Hang on a sec, I want to write this down.”

She swatted me again. “I'm giving you the goods here, cutie.”

“Does Hannah know?”

“Poor thing hasn't a clue. Hannah has the approximate I.Q. of a parakeet. She's also incredibly naïve. So's Matthew, for that matter, but Henderson loves him the baby boys. In fact, if you don't watch out he'll hit on
you
.”

“When?”

“Right now. He just walked in the door. And he's not alone.”

In fact, the ex-director of
Wuthering Heights
was accompanied by none other than Matthew and Hannah—not to mention the two-dozen yammering paparazzi who were crowded outside the bistro's glass door like brain-eating zombies.

“What's Henderson doing out in public with them?”

“Poking Morrie in the eye with a sharp stick. What do you think?”

I thought Matthew and Hannah looked incredibly young, which they were. He was twenty-three, she was twenty-two. Also shockingly tiny. They were like a matched pair of miniature movie star dolls. Hannah had huge, protruding green eyes that were set freakishly wide apart, plump, bee-stung lips and flawless ivory skin. Her trademark strawberry blonde ringlets fell practically to her waist. She wore a gauzy off-the-shoulder top that accentuated her fine-boned delicacy, a pair of leggings and flip-flops. Matthew had the jaw and shoulders of a big brute even though he was no more than a junior welterweight, tops. Actually, I thought his jutting jaw and prominent brow made him look like a caveman. But I'm told that women go weak in the knees for cavemen. Matthew's jaw muscles were tightly clenched and he was glowering. Glowering was his thing. He was unshaven and his long, dark brown hair was uncombed. He had on a white T-shirt with the sleeves chopped off to show off his arms, khakis with the cuffs rolled up and a pair of rope-soled espadrilles.

The maître d' greeted them warmly. They started their way past us toward the dining room, Henderson bringing up the rear.

Cricket hurled herself in front of them. “How's the ankle doing, Hannah?”

“My ankle feels perfectly fine,” Hannah responded in her trademark soft, trembly voice. “The doctor has cleared me to resume normal activities. I'm back in the dance studio.” She almost seemed to be reciting the words, as if they'd been scripted for her.

“That's great, hon. Hey, Matthew, does the name R. J. Farnell mean anything to you?”

“No, it does not,” he answered in a haughty, dismissive voice. “Should it?”

“Just wondered if you knew him.” Cricket stepped aside so they could pass.

“I thought we were going to keep his name between us,” I growled at her.

“Matthew's a Brit. R.J.'s a Brit. I took a shot. Don't look at me that way. This is what I do.”

“Do
not
repeat that name again, Cricket.”

“Okay, okay. Don't be such a lame-o.”

Henderson Lebow was way more anxious for face time with Cricket than the young stars had been. He even seemed happy to see her. “How are you this evening, you little firecracker?”