Phantom Angel

by David Handler

  “How did you hook up with him in the first place?”

  “He called me up. We spoke several times on the phone. He seemed highly intelligent, very charming and very serious about committing money to my show. He invited me out to his place in East Hampton for lunch, so I went.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two weeks ago, like I said. He had a beautiful home on Lily Pond Lane. Beach view, swimming pool, the works.”

  “Describe him for me, please.”

  “Okay, sure. He’s tall and good looking, with slicked back hair and a three-day growth of beard. Not lacking in the self-confidence department, if you read me. Knows a lot about vintage sports cars and sailboats. His accent, I would say, defies categorization. Sometimes he sounds like he’s out of Eton and Cambridge, other times like he has no breeding at all. He told me he’d moved here from London to make his fortune. Left Goldman Sachs a few years back to start his own hedge fund, the Venusian Society.” Morrie paused, letting his breath out slowly. “Benji, I can smell a phony from a mile away. I honestly thought R.J. was the genuine goods. Maybe a teeny tiny bit on the shady side, but genuine.”

  “Back up a second, please. Shady as in…?”

  Morrie made a sour face at me. “It’s not like the old days. My angels used to be people of genuine class. I’m talking A-list Park Avenue dowagers in diamonds and furs. These days, I deal with people who call themselves ‘entrepreneurs’ and ‘venture capitalists.’ People who get rich by moving other people’s money around. I don’t know where that money comes from. And I don’t want to know. I’d take money from Pol Pot if it meant that Wuthering Heights would open.”

  “I think Pol Pot’s dead.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, that’s going to be me if you can’t save me.”

  “Didn’t you have someone check Farnell out?”

  “Like who?” he demanded.

  “Your lawyer, your accountant…”

  “I’m a lawyer. And I do my own books. Leah did check out the Venusian Society’s Web site, which looked totally legit. It was filled with all sorts of testimonials from real life investors who’d made millions by investing with him and … God, this sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud, doesn’t it? You’re absolutely right. I should have done a more thorough job of vetting him. But I was desperate. R.J. threw me a lifeline. I grabbed it. Now he’s yanked it away. I don’t know where he went. And I don’t know why. I don’t know a goddamned thing, except that if you don’t find him—and my twelve mil—I’ll be finished as a Broadway producer.”

  “You met him only that one time in East Hampton?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “You communicated the rest of the time by phone?”

  “Yeah.” With a grunt he reached for a bulging leather address book on the coffee table, removed a slip of Morley Hotel notepaper and handed it to me. On it he’d scrawled two phone numbers. One had a 646 New York City area code, the other an East Hampton 631.

  “How about e-mail?”

  “I don’t like e-mail. I prefer to talk to people.”

  “Did you talk to anyone else who he’s connected with?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “So there’s a girlfriend?”

  Morrie nodded. “A little blonde who looks good in a bikini. She’s young. No more than eighteen, nineteen years old.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Jonquil Beausoleil. That’s not a name you forget. She calls herself Boso. Has a slight Southern accent. Comes from … Charleston, maybe? One of those places.”

  “What else can you tell me about her?”

  Morrie shrugged his soft shoulders. “She’s a showbiz tartlet. A nothing. You throw a stick on Jones Beach and you’ll hit a hundred just like her. She was desperate for a part in Wuthering Heights. Even slipped me her headshot. Dense I am not. R.J. never said the words out loud but I figured she was attached to the twelve mil. So I promised I’d audition her for an understudy role.” He turned his head and bellowed, “Hey, Leah…?!”

  “What…?!”

  “Bring me a headshot for a girl named Jonquil Beausoleil, will ya?”

  “Jonquil who?”

  “Beausoleil!”

  “Gimme a sec! I have to find it!”

  “And did you audition her?” I asked Morrie.

  “Couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s disappeared, too.”

  “I see…”

  “I asked around, Benji, and everyone says you’re the best there is at finding missing girls.”

  “And boys.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I also find boys.”

  “R.J. couldn’t keep his eyes, or his hands, off of this girl. I’m no expert at what you do, but it seems to me that if you can find her you’ll find him.”

  “So you still think he’s for real?”

  Morrie’s face tightened. “He has to be.”

  “If he is then why’d he disappear on you?”

  “That’s what I’m paying you to find out.”

  Leah appeared with the headshot, glaring at the fresh piece of Scotch tape on Morrie’s forehead. But she didn’t yank this one off. Just handed me the headshot and went back in her office.

  Jonquil Beausoleil was pretty in what casting agents call a California-girl way. Her long blond hair was parted down the middle. Her smile was sunny and playful. Her eyes were wide set. Except I saw something in those eyes that I recognized. And didn’t like one bit. It made me shudder involuntarily. “You said you saw her in a bikini. Does she have any ink or piercings?”

  He had to think about it. “Yeah, she has a tattoo of a sunflower on the top of her foot. Her left one, I think. I don’t understand why you kids do that to yourselves.”

  The headshot was of professional quality. I turned it over, but there was no mention of who’d taken it. Or an agency listing for Jonquil Beausoleil. The only info on the back was her name and phone number.

  “You tried calling this number?”

  “It’s been disconnected.”

  “Does Actors’ Equity know anything about her?”

  “Actors’ Equity has never heard of her. Can you can find her?”

  “I can find her, Mr. Frankel. But let’s be clear about one thing. I can’t guarantee you that I’ll find your twelve million. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t understand! I’ve been doing this for forty years and I’ve never had an angel leave me holding the bag like this. Why would someone want to do this to me?”

  “Just exactly how conniving and ruthless is Ira Gottfried of Panorama?”

  Morrie raised an eyebrow at me, or tried. The Scotch tape wouldn’t let him. “Why, what are you thinking?”

  “You said he’d love nothing better than to be your partner in Wuthering Heights. Is there any chance he might engineer something like this to force your hand?”

  “More than a chance,” he acknowledged.

  “Who else wants you to fail?”

  “That lying, two-faced bastard Henderson Lebow.”

  “Your director?”

  “Ex-director.”

  “Who else?”

  “Plenty of people.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like the other producers in town. The big boys with the deep pockets. Take a stroll up and down the theater district. Study the marquees. Each and every one of those hit musicals will start losing fannies on a nightly basis once Wuthering Heights opens. My show will be the hottest ticket on Broadway and they know it. It’ll cost those greedy bastards millions.”

  “Are you saying they may have colluded against you to bury Wuthering Heights?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. This isn’t a gentlemanly business, Benji.” He tilted his head at me curiously. “You think I’m being a paranoid nut, don’t you?”

  “I’m thinking it sounds awfully elaborate. Also expensive. You told me Farnell coughed up a hundred thou. That�
��s a lot of money.”

  “Not to them it isn’t. Speaking of money, your employer mentioned something on the phone about a retainer in the form of a certified check for five thousand. My personal check will be just as good, won’t it?”

  “No, it will not.”

  He glowered at me with those bulging eyes of his. “Are you serious?”

  “Totally.”

  “Well, then how about cash? Do you accept cash?”

  I treated the great Morrie Frankel to my most earnest smile. “Cash is always welcome.”

  * * *

  THE AIR-CONDITIONING on the New York City subway system is so much more reliable now than it was back when I was a little kid. These days it only breaks down on rare occasions.

  Like, say, in August when it’s really, really hot out.

  I was drenched with sweat by the time I got off of the No. 1 train at Broadway and West 103rd Street. And I could still smell the brothy armpits of the 300-pound guy in the tank top who’d been squeezed in next to me in the crowded subway car. It was a sticky ninety-eight degrees outside now. The air was thick with moisture, the sky a milky white. The spindly trees in Broadway’s center divider looked wilted. So did the people who were trudging slowly along.

  The offices of Golden Legal Services are located on the second floor of an 1890s brownstone right there on the corner of Broadway and West 103rd, one flight up from Scotty’s twenty-four-hour diner and Pearl’s nail salon. My dad, Meyer Golden, was the hero cop who caught Briefcase Bob, the subway serial killer who terrorized New York City back in the early ’90s. I was just a toddler back then. And Mom was still getting used to being a Mineola housewife named Abby. When my dad first met her she called herself Abraxas and enjoyed the distinction of being the only Jewish pole dancer in New York City. My dad opened the agency after he retired from the job. Bought the whole building, in fact. He and Mom sold our raised ranch in Mineola and moved in to a floor-through apartment on the fourth floor. Mom went to work for him as an operative. So did I. Working for my dad was how I supported myself while I was trying to make it as an actor. When he died from cancer two years ago, Mom took over the agency. She’s a fully licensed PI now, same as I am.

  I took the stairs up to our office. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the elevator. Unless you nudge its door open just right you can get trapped in there for hours. It’s temperamental. So is the building’s plumbing, heating and wiring. It’s a tired old building. There are those who might even call it a shithole. I call it home.

  Lovely Rita was on the phone at her desk getting tough with a deadbeat client who’d owed us money for the past six months. She and I share the outer office. Rita’s a lap dancer buddy of Mom’s. She danced under the name Natural Born, which referred to not only her boobage but her flaming red hair. She’s just under six feet tall and, at age forty-two, still does wonders to a tight knit top and a pair of slacks. Lap dancing was how Rita put herself through the Rutgers computer science program. Give her a keyboard and ten minutes and she can find out anything about anyone. We’d be lost without Rita. Her no-good husband, Clarence, who used to play outside linebacker for the Jets, is currently serving ten to fifteen at Sing Sing for aggravated assault.

  Mom’s office door was open so that her rackety window air conditioner could send some semi-chilled air out our way. Her office is very homey. She has a big, old-fashioned walnut desk. A Persian rug on the floor. A comfortably worn leather sofa where Gus, our grizzled black office cat, likes to doze. There’s an enormous pre-World War II Wells Fargo safe where we keep our weapons, surveillance equipment and good liquor. Wraparound windows overlook our little stretch of upper Broadway.

  “I brought you some cash money, boss,” I said, plopping Morrie’s retainer down on her desk.

  “What a sweet gesture, Bunny,” she exclaimed, beaming at me. Mom is pushing fifty now but she’s still a MILF, and if you don’t know what those initials stand for I’m not going to tell you. I’ll just say she’s a strikingly attractive woman with huge dark eyes and major league curves. But she hasn’t shown an interest in any man since Dad died. “And what does the illustrious Mr. Morrie Frankel have for us?”

  “His twelve-million-dollar angel, a British hedge fund player named R. J. Farnell, has disappeared—and taken the future of Wuthering Heights with him. Our best lead is Farnell’s girlfriend, a wannabe actress named Jonquil Beausoleil.” I fished her headshot from my daypack and put it down on the desk. “Her nickname’s Boso. If we find her, we’ll find him. Maybe.”

  Rita sashayed in and had a look at the photo. “She’s cute.”

  I studied Boso’s eyes, shuddering once again. “She’s okay,” I said quietly.

  Too quietly. Rita, who knows my darkest secrets, studied me with concern. When my heart got stomped on a few months back, Rita performed an act of genuine human kindness and invited me into her bed. What we had together was very pleasant. Also very brief. Deep down inside she and I are family, not lovers. And, well, there’s also the whole age and height discrepancy thing. Rita’s now dating a very respectable East Side dentist named Myron. They seem very happy together. I’m still alone, but that’s something I’m used to.

  “There can’t be too many Jonquil Beausoleils in New York City, Rita. See what you and your magic fingers can find out about her, okay? Driver’s license, credit cards, employment records. Morrie thinks she’s originally from Charleston, although he didn’t sound real sure.”

  “No prob,” she said, continuing to study me.

  “We’re searching for her boyfriend, a Brit named R. J. Farnell.”

  “R as in Robert?”

  “No idea. I do know he runs a hedge fund called the Venusian Society.”

  “I’ll look into it.” Rita went striding back to her desk.

  “Mom, how’d you like to go to East Hampton today?”

  “I’d love to,” she said eagerly. “It’ll be a pleasure to get out of the city. What am I…?”

  “Farnell was living in a schmancy house on Lily Pond Lane as of a couple of weeks ago. He and the girl. That’s where Morrie met them.”

  “Say no more. I’ll find me a rich bitch realtor.” Mom swiveled in her chair and started trolling for one on her laptop. “I’ll say I’m working for the law firm that’s representing Mrs. Farnell in the divorce proceedings. That’ll get her talking.”

  There was a tap on our hallway door now and in walked Leah Shimmel, Morrie Frankel’s personal assistant, who looked a bit flushed from the heat. Also more than a bit aghast. “There is an extremely old man wandering the hallway in a pair of crusty boxer shorts and nothing else,” she informed us in horror.

  “That would Mr. Felcher, our tenant in 3-B,” I said.

  “Shouldn’t someone be looking after him?”

  “That would be Mrs. Felcher, our tenant in 3-A. It’s a long story.” After I’d introduced her to Mom and Rita, I said, “How may we help you, Leah?”

  Leah cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Actually, I was hoping to explain a few things to you. Could we…?”

  I bought her an iced coffee downstairs at Scotty’s. I opted for a chocolate milk shake myself. We sat in a booth by the window and watched the pedestrians ooze by, laboring in the heat.

  “Morrie thinks I’m getting my hair done,” she said, taking a small sip of her iced coffee. The glass trembled in her pale, thin-boned hand. “If he knew I was here talking to you he’d go ballistic. Morrie can’t handle the idea of anything going on behind his back. That’s not to say he’s a bad person, despite what you may have heard. But he is a control freak, and conflict is his oxygen. If none exists, he’ll create it. He needs enemies. If Morrie were a professional athlete people would call him a great competitor. Since he’s a theatrical producer they call him a monster. But he’s no monster. He’s loyal and sensitive and this situation has hit him hard. He’s afraid he’s losing his grip.”

  “Is he?”

  Leah narrowed her sharp eyes at me before she gazed back ou
t the window. “I don’t know, but I am deeply concerned about him. I’ve never seen him so upset, and I’ve known that man for a long, long time. Longer than anyone else. Morrie’s a creature of the theater, by which I mean he’s a big child. He needs constant looking after by someone who’s a grown-up.”

  “Someone like you?”

  She smiled at me, a thin smile that vanished quickly. “He’s gotten himself into a real jam, Benji. It’s bad. So bad that he was ashamed to admit the cold, hard truth to you.”

  “The cold, hard truth about what?”

  “The hundred thousand that Mr. Farnell gave him as a good faith gesture. I’m the person who put up that money, not Mr. Farnell. Morrie borrowed it from me. I didn’t hesitate to give it to him, even though it was the last of my savings. Charlie, my son, has gone through the rest. Charlie’s someone who, well, he’s had a hard time settling down. Morrie … Morrie needed to tell you that he got the money from Mr. Farnell. He didn’t want you thinking he’d been completely duped by that bastard.”

  “Did you meet Farnell, Leah?”

  She shook her head. “Morrie went out to East Hampton by himself. Morrie’s handled all contact with him personally. He’s been very insistent about that.”

  “Is that typical?”

  “No, it’s not. I typically interact with all of his angels. That’s my job.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Morrie’s had a very hard time of it lately. That’s what I make of it.” She took another cautious sip of her iced coffee, weighing her words carefully. “That ugly dust-up he had with Henderson Lebow in Joe Allen’s? That wasn’t creative differences between a producer and his director. That was a lover’s quarrel. Morrie caught Henderson two-timing him with another man. Poor Morrie sobbed his heart out in my arms for hours.”

  “I didn’t realize that … What I mean is, Mr. Frankel gave me the impression that he was straight. In fact, he went out of his way to mention his three ex-wives.”

  “Of course he did,” Leah responded tartly. “Morrie has spent his whole adult life trying to pass as straight—all because of his mother. Panama Hattie was many things. Tolerant wasn’t one of them. So for her, he tried to be straight. That’s what a lot of gay men used to do. Maybe they still do. I don’t know. I only know that Morrie has been gay ever since we were teenagers together at Stuyvesant High. I lived in Flatbush. Morrie lived in the Morley with Hattie. His dad ran off with a dancer when Morrie was a baby. Hattie raised him by herself in the Morley. Would you believe he’s lived in that exact same suite since he was nine years old?” She paused, a fond glow softening her seamed, narrow face. “I had never met anyone like Morrie. He was as mad for the theater as I was. And so full of moxie. When he was sixteen he was already planting items in Liz Smith’s column for Hattie. He’d take me to see a different show every night. After the curtain we’d go backstage and he’d get his picture taken with the stars. It was all like a dream. I was madly in love with him. But he treated me like a sister, nothing more. It didn’t take long for me to figure out why. I was so hooked on the theater that I ended up going to work for Hattie as an assistant publicist, working side by side with him eighteen hours a day. And I’m still around all of these years later. I’m the only family Morrie has had since Hattie passed away. Not that I could ever replace her. She was the great love of his life. And shrewd beyond belief. He’s been lost without her. Hasn’t had one hit show in the five years she’s been gone. And his personal life has been nothing but turmoil. He was discreet and careful while Hattie was alive. Now he’s reckless. Everyone knows that you don’t fall in love with Henderson Lebow. That man is a player. Also a vindictive son of a bitch. He will never forgive Morrie for attacking him in Joe Allen’s. This R. J. Farnell business? For all I know it could be Henderson’s way of getting even. I wouldn’t put it past him. Henderson’s nasty. Morrie isn’t. He’s sweet and vulnerable. He yearns for the blissful, innocent love that Cathy and Heathcliff share in Wuthering Heights. That’s why he adores the show so much.”