“You mentioned your son, Charlie. I take it that you settled down with someone else.”
“Phil was a CPA with a big firm down on Wall Street,” she said, coloring slightly. “A good, steady man. Steady made for a welcome change after a regular diet of Morrie, who experiences every single human emotion every single day. Joy, misery, anger, jealousy, envy…”
“I think you’re straying into the Seven Deadly Sins now.”
“I married Phil because I wanted a normal life. Kids, a dog, a white picket fence, all of that. But we weren’t happy together. Not for long. Because Morrie is my life, for better or worse. As soon as Phil realized that, he found someone else and divorced me. He died a couple of years ago.”
“And Charlie?”
“He lives in Williamsburg. He’s studying to be a chef. He has a good heart. He’s a good boy. I call him a boy but he’ll be thirty in October.”
“Are he and Morrie close?”
Leah shook her head. “Morrie doesn’t do that.”
“Doesn’t do what?”
“Take an interest in other people’s lives. He only cares about his latest show. And he can’t…” She reached across the table now and put her hand over mine, clutching it tightly. “Morrie can’t lie to me, Benji. I see right through him. I’m the one person in the world who can. And I’m telling you that he is genuinely terrified. Somebody is trying to ruin him.”
“You say he’s terrified. Is there something else you haven’t told me?”
Leah released my hand and reached for her iced coffee, taking another sip. “A pair of apes have started dropping by. Real knuckle draggers.”
“What do they want?”
“Money, what else? I’m afraid they might throw him out the window or something.”
“Who are they?”
“Morrie won’t tell me, but I think they work for one of his backers.”
“Which backer, Leah?”
She leaned across the table toward me. “He’s known as the angel of last resort.”
I stared at her. “Do you mean Joe Minetta?”
“Yes,” she acknowledged, her voice barely a whisper.
Joe Minetta was the head of the largest crime family in New York City. He had many legitimate business interests, such as hotel and restaurant linen supplies, private garbage hauling and real estate management. He also had a financial stake in a lot of the city’s big-ticket live entertainment—rock concerts, boxing matches, anything and everything including Broadway shows. He got that stake by serving as a loan shark to cash-strapped promoters and producers.
“I’m afraid that Morrie has gotten in over his head with some very dangerous people,” Leah said to me in a quavery voice. “But he’s blind to it. Convinced that Wuthering Heights will be the biggest hit in Broadway history and that all of his money troubles will vanish in a sea of green.”
“And what do you think?”
Leah Shimmel’s eyes shined at me. “I think if he doesn’t come up with some serious money—and fast—that something truly awful is going to happen to him.”
CHAPTER TWO
VICKI ARDUINO WAS the busiest casting agent in New York City. She had an amazing knack for finding the perfect person for a feature film or TV role. Also a photographic memory. The woman never forgot a face. Whenever I was searching for a girl like Jonquil Beausoleil—someone who was dreaming the impossible showbiz dream—I went looking for Vicki.
I found her that day at the Hudson Studio, where she was casting day players for an abysmal network sitcom about a male nanny that was going into its fifth season. The Hudson Studio was on West 26th Street over near Ninth Avenue on the edge of the garment district. There were trucks double-parked in the street. Guys in tank tops and shorts were unloading racks of winter coats, the sweat pouring off of them in the poisonous midday heat. The temperature had climbed to 101 degrees. It was so hot out that the blacktop under my feet felt soft as fudge as I scooted my way across the street to the studio, which was housed in a converted brick warehouse. I once shot a Verizon commercial there that went national.
Inside of the double doors there was a tiny reception area, where a young guy wearing a Hudson Studio T-shirt was parked at the desk. I told him I was there for the audition. He let me on through. That line almost always works at a studio because there’s almost always an audition going on somewhere.
The phones were ringing nonstop in the sitcom’s third-floor production office. Harried production assistants rushed this way and that. I strode briskly through them, my gaze never wavering. No one in a production office will question who you are if you act like you know where you’re going. I was going to a lounge area where two-dozen nervous actors in assorted shapes and colors were parked on sofas and chairs and the floor. All were between the ages of forty and sixty. All wore workman’s overalls. All chewed gum with their mouths open as they studied their sides.
An office door opened and an actor in overalls came out followed by a PA with a clipboard.
Before the PA could usher in the next actor, I slipped my way inside and said, “Let me guess—you’re looking for an apartment super who’s between the ages of forty and sixty and chews gum with his mouth open.”
Vicki let out a loud guffaw as she sat there at a desk devouring a Big Mac and fries. She was an overweight, disheveled mess of a woman—which never ceased to inspire catty remarks from out-of-work actors. That day she had on a ketchup-spotted black knit ensemble that was too snug in all the wrong places. “Well, if it isn’t Benji Golden, pubescent private eye. I still think Dick Wolf should do a show about you.”
“You and me both, Vicki. But only if I get to play myself.”
The PA stuck her head in and said, “Next we have Mr. Frank Ionelli reading for the part of Joe, the building super.”
“Give me one sec, Tina, okay?” The PA left us, closing the door behind her. “Benji, I have a half hour to cast this part before I’ve got a dozen eight-year-old girls and their mothers coming in. What do you need?”
I placed Jonquil Beausoleil’s headshot on the desk before her.
Vicki fished her reading glasses out of her overstuffed shoulder bag. They were canary yellow and were missing the right earpiece. Balanced askew on her nose as she peered down at the photo. She took them off and sat back in her chair. “Jonquil Beausoleil. Calls herself Boso. I saw her when I was casting Royal Pains back in May.”
“And…?”
“Pretty girl. Slight hick accent. Extremely slight talent. I was looking for a pair of sorority bimbos. She auditioned with another girl who we liked.” Vicki took a bite of her Big Mac, dabbing at a dribble of sauce on her chin with a sodden napkin. “Her we ended up using.”
“Did they come to the audition together?”
“No, we just paired them off at random.”
“Did Boso have agency representation?”
“She was hoping to get an agent if she got the part.”
“How about a modeling agency?”
“Not a chance. She’s itsy. No more than five-feet-three.”
“Did she mention who she’d been studying with?”
Vicki shook her head. There was, I noticed, ketchup in her uncombed black hair. A lot of ketchup.
“How did she hear about the audition?”
“How do any of you people hear about auditions? The word gets out. Before there was Facebook there were actors.”
“Vicki, do you have a current phone number for her? The one I’ve got is no longer in service.”
“I don’t have a thing, Benji. And now I have to throw you out.”
“You’re the best, Vicki.”
“Damned straight I am.” As I started for the door, Vicki added, “She came to the audition with a guy—tall, handsome, shoulders out to here.”
“Did he have a British accent?”
She frowned at me. “Why would he have a British accent?”
“Any idea who he was?”
“I know exactly who he was,” she
replied. “Farmer John.”
“Who’s Farmer John?”
“You know him.”
“I do?”
“He’s famous.”
“He is?”
“Yeah, he’s been on the news a bunch of times. He’s that Park Avenue do-gooder who converted a bunch of abandoned lots in Brownsville into an urban vegetable farm. And, God, what a hunk. Him I could cast in two seconds flat. But the man’s not interested. Too busy saving humanity.” Vicki Arduino paused to devour a greasy French fry. “One mouthful at a time.”
* * *
AS I RODE THE NO. 3 TRAIN out to the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, I listened to the original Broadway cast recording of Annie Get Your Gun on my iPod and used my laptop to read up on Farmer John, which is to say John Mason Granger III, age twenty-four. There was a whole lot of news coverage about him. He was an All-American rich kid—the only son of John Mason Granger, Jr., managing partner of Granger and Haynes, the big money Wall Street law firm. And he’d been a straight-A student at Yale until he dropped out in the middle of his senior year to launch the Farm Project, an eight-thousand-square-foot urban farm that he’d dug out of the weeds and broken glass in one of the city’s most blighted neighborhoods. It hadn’t been easy. He’d had to convince the city to grant him the use of the neglected vacant lots. And to run water to them from the water main under the street. That had cost money. So had things like sturdy chain-link fencing, lumber and tons and tons of topsoil and mulch. He’d raised most of the twenty-four thousand dollars that he’d needed from small investors online via Kickstarter. Then rounded up volunteers with strong backs to help him. And enlisted the teachers at the neighboring elementary school, PS 323, to embrace the farm as a so-called Edible Schoolyard where the neighborhood kids could learn about science, math and nutrition by planting seeds, watching them grow and feasting on the fruits of their labors. It had proven to be such a resounding success that it was now a model for future urban farms all across America.
It was on the corner of Rockaway Avenue and Sutter Avenue, across the street from a Laundromat and a bodega. A hand-lettered sign on the open front gate read: Welcome to the Edible Schoolyard.
It was startlingly green there. The planting beds were bursting with ripe tomatoes, string beans, eggplants and squashes. It was also bustling. There had to be forty kids and grown-ups harvesting and weeding despite the scorching heat. Nearly all were people of color, with the exception of a handful of volunteers who wore bright green I VOLUNTEERED T-shirts. Teenaged boys and girls were clustered together on benches, chattering away. A laughing little boy stuck a fresh-picked cherry tomato down the back of a little girl’s T-shirt and took off running. She let out a shriek and went chasing after him.
Farmer John was not hard to find. He was as strapping and handsome as Vicki Arduino had said. At least six-feet-four, with floppy blond hair and a granite jaw. He wore a pair of denim overalls cut off at the knees and Nikes without socks.
He smiled at me when I approached him and said, “I’m John. Thanks for coming out.”
“Glad to be here.” I shook his work-roughened hand. “I’m Benji Golden.”
“Are you here to lend a hand, Benji?”
“Not exactly. I’m a private investigator.”
“You’re messing with me, right?”
“No, I’m not. A client has hired me to find Jonquil Beausoleil.”
Farmer John’s face fell. He pulled a blue bandana from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Is it her mom? Did Boso’s mom hire you?”
“That information’s confidential, I’m afraid. But why do you ask?”
“Who else would be looking for her? And it’s about time, too. Boso took off from there at least four months ago.”
“By ‘there’ you mean…?”
“Ruston, Louisiana. That’s where she’s from.” He studied me curiously. “You don’t know much of anything, do you?”
“It’s true, I don’t.”
“Step into my office.” He led me over to a shaded area under a canvas overhang. We sat down on a couple of overturned crates and he popped the lid off an ice chest, rummaging around in it. “How about a cold beer?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
“Bottle of water then. Got to stay hydrated in this weather.”
He removed two bottles of Poland Spring and handed me one.
I unscrewed the top and took a long drink. “You’re making quite a go of it here,” I observed.
“I’ve had so much help,” he said modestly. “The Central Park Conservancy donated all sorts of shovels and wheelbarrows. Not to mention volunteers to help me clear the land and haul the trash away. The teachers at PS 323 have been incredibly supportive. And would you believe the Department of Sanitation donated over a hundred cubic yards of compost?” He gulped down some water. “It’s been a struggle, but just look how much fun these kids are having.”
“This is a not-great neighborhood. Do the gangs give you any trouble?”
“None,” he replied. “As far as they’re concerned I’m like a priest. Somebody who’s strictly here to help. A lot of the younger guys even pitch in. That’s why I keep a couple of six packs in the cooler. I tell them, hey, if you put in an hour hauling compost you get a beer. It’s a win-win.” He grinned at me. “Besides, there are a lot of cute girls here. The neighborhood girls are my Summer Stewards. It gives them somewhere to be, and they stay out of trouble here. No drugs are allowed. And the police steer clear unless I reach out, which I don’t.” He took another gulp of water. “I’d like to build a hen house next so they can have fresh eggs. I’ll let you in on a dirty little secret, Benji. Violence isn’t the biggest problem in this neighborhood. Poor nutrition is. These people have unbelievably high rates of obesity, high blood pressure and diabetes. A lot of that has to do with what they’re eating, which is too much greasy fast food.”
Vicki Arduino was right. He was trying to save humanity one mouthful at a time.
“How did you end up doing this?”
“Somebody has to atone for the sins of my father. That’s my name on his office door, too, you know. My father’s the managing partner of Wall Street’s most heinous foreclosure mill. His law firm is on the side of the big banks and mortgage lenders when they kick honest, hardworking people out of their homes. He has hundreds of lawyers working for him. They have no scruples. And they learn everything they know from him,” he said with cold certainty. “I was supposed to follow in his footsteps. First Yale, then law school, then Granger and Haynes. But I won’t be a part of his system. I flew down to Haiti to help the Red Cross dig sanitation ditches for a while. Thought about staying there permanently until it dawned on me that the Third World is right here in New York City thanks to people like my father. The sad reality is that practically everyone has given up on these kids,” he said as he watched them frolic in his garden. “I haven’t. They’re good kids. And they’re full of hope—until we take it away from them.”
“Did Boso come out here to volunteer? Is that how you met her?”
His face tightened. “Not exactly. I don’t spend very much time in Manhattan anymore. My apartment’s in Bed-Stuy. But I went home to see my mother one day back in May when my father was away on a business trip. My mother’s okay. She doesn’t totally understand what I’m doing but she has my back. We had lunch together on the terrace. It was a nice, sunny spring day. I took a walk through Central Park afterward. I found Boso sitting on a bench by the Bandshell with her duffel bag, sobbing her head off. Cutest little thing I’d ever seen in my life. Eighteen years old. Slammin’ bod. She’s a fitness freak, you know. And a vegan. I asked her if there was anything I could do to help. We talked for a long, long time. She told me she was from Ruston, Louisiana. She calls it Looziana when she loses her temper, which happens a lot. She was supposed to start her freshman year at LSU this fall but she skipped town before she graduated from Ruston High. She was a big time cheerleader there. Won all sorts of national
competitions. She has major acrobatic skills. Came up here to try and make it as an actress. When I met her that day in the park she’d hit bottom. Run out of money. Run out of friends’ places where she could crash. She was homeless. I told her she could crash on my sofa for a few days if she’d put in some time working here. And so she did. And pretty soon she was sharing my bed with me,” he recalled wistfully. “We had a lot of fun together. And she was a huge help here. She knows a lot about gardening from her dad. They were real close. But he suffered from depression. When he found out her mom was involved with another guy he killed himself.”
Phantom Angel Page 3