Phantom Angel

by David Handler

  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 LOVE THIS DIRTY TOWN—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.

&
nbsp; “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?”

  “I’m making it happen, Henderson. You know Benji Golden?”

  The Tony Award-winning director eyed me up and down greedily. He didn’t lick his chops like the Big Bad Wolf but he did appear to drool slightly. Henderson was in his fifties but looked younger. He was extremely fit. His tanned face was smooth and unlined, his glossy black hair thick and free of gray. He wore a snug-fitting lime-green Izod shirt with the collar turned up just so and even snugger-fitting blue jeans. “Why, yes, I believe so,” he said to me warmly. “I auditioned you for Bye Bye Birdie, didn’t I?”

  “No, sir, you didn’t.”

  “Yet I’m positive we’ve met.”

  “You spoke to my drama class at NYU. I asked you a question afterward.”

  “What did you…?”

  “If you thought that the musical comedy was dead.”

  “And what did I…?”

  “You said, ‘Not as long as there are people out there who yearn to be swept away to somewhere magical.’”

  Henderson arched an eyebrow at me. “God, I’m full of shit. So you’re an actor?”

  “Private investigator.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He’s working for Morrie,” Cricket said. “Although he won’t admit it.”

  “Well, good luck with that, Benji. I wish Morrie well. Would you like to know why?”

  “Yes, sir, I would.”

  “Because as long as Morrie’s around people won’t think I’m the biggest scumbag in town.” He winked at me, then went off to join Matthew and Hannah, who were seated at a table for four being stared at by everyone in the place.

  I went back to work on my cheeseburger while Cricket thumbed out a quick tweet about what had just transpired. She was never off the clock. “I don’t get it,” I said to her. “Henderson Lebow can, and apparently does, sleep with any hunky young actor he wants. Why on earth would he sleep with Morrie?”

  “Because he’s consumed by self-loathing,” she answered with great confidence. “Deep down inside, all gay men are.”

  “Hang on, I want to write this one down, too.”

  “You didn’t used to be so sarcastic, cutie.”

  “And you didn’t used to talk out of your ass.”

  “It’s the Web site,” she conceded. “I spew and spew and no one ever tells me to shut up. Plus the Times Styles section just called me one of the five most influential people on Broadway. That sort of thing can go to a person’s head, believe me.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “OMG!” Cricket gasped, swatting me yet again. My arms used to be black and blue when we were together. She was staring at the front door in wide-eyed disbelief. “OMG!”

  The single most powerful and enigmatic man in the entire entertainment industry, Ira Gottfried, the bicoastal chief of Panorama Studios, had just walked in. Ira Gottfried had bankrolled and reaped billions from the Tarzan trilogy. And he had Matthew and Hannah under contract to star in a fourth Tarzan blockbuster. He was a new-age mogul—an ascetic, forty-something tai chi master and practicing Buddhist, a loner with no wife, no kids and no vices. He had no social or romantic life that anyone knew about. Fasted at an ashram in the Mojave Desert for a week at a time to clarify his thoughts. And was famously reserved and understated. He was tall and gaunt. Wore his graying hair in a ponytail. Was dressed in a black silk shirt, black jeans and black suede Puma Classics. He always wore black. I’m guessing his underwear was black, too, though it wasn’t something I wanted to devote a lot of time to thinking about. Morrie Frankel had called him Count Dracula. To most people he was known as the Man in Black.

  Cricket, who did not lack for balls, barged on over and intercepted him before the maître d’ could. “Please tell me this isn’t a coincidence, Ira.”

  “I’m meeting friends for dinner,” he said to her quietly, his thin-lipped mouth barely moving. “Don’t make it into anything more.”

  The maître d’ led him to his table—the very table that Henderson was sharing with Matthew and Hannah. Cricket followed him like a pesky terrier and, as soon as he sat down, snapped a picture of the power foursome with her camera phone. The maître d’ clucked at her and shooed her away, but she was already posting the photo on her Web site by the time she returned to me at the bar.

  “They knew you’d do that,” I observed.

  “Of course they knew,” she said, thumbing out a caption to go with the photo. “And they want Morrie to know. You’re witnessing history here tonight. The great Morrie Frankel is getting royally hosed. Is this exciting or what?”

  I looked over at the four of them. They didn’t exactly seem to be hatching a nefarious plot. Just chatting together politely. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?”

  “I’d say Ira’s inviting Henderson to step back in and direct Wuthering Heights as soon as Morrie goes under. Which won’t be long now.”

  “Meaning Panorama will bankroll the show?”

  “Ira’s wanted to bankroll it all along. Matthew and Hannah are his biggest stars, and Wuthering Heights has major, major movie upside. But I hear that Morrie won’t even return his phone calls. Can you imagine?”

  “Do you really think that’s what they’re talking about?”

  She batted her eyelashes at me. “It better be. That’s what I just posted.”

  “Cricket, that’s outright speculation.”

  “That’s how I roll. And I happen to be right ninety percent of the time, which gives me a much higher batting average than the so-called responsible mainstream media.”

  I finished off the last of my cheeseburger, washing it down with a gulp of milk. “I have a serious question for you.”

  “Fire away, cutie.”

  “Why is Wuthering Heights in so much trouble? I know Hannah broke her ankle, but a cloud’s been hanging over this show since Day One. What’s the real story?”

  Cricket hesitated. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay?”

  “Okay…”

  “Matthew and Hannah have been taking voice lessons. And Hannah’s singing voice is getting stronger. But Matthew’s? Not so much.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Laugh-out-loud bad. When he breaks into ‘You’re Still My Queen’ I’m told he sounds shockingly like one of Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

  “Which one—Alvin, Simon or Theodore?”

  She let out a snort. “Does it matter?”

  “Oh, it totally does.”

  “Matthew simply can’t pull off a live Broadway performance. The only way Wuthering Heights can possibly be staged with Hannah and him headlining it is if somebody else sings Matthew’s songs for him and Matthew lip-synchs them. Which Morrie flat out refuses to do. Morrie may be a consummate fucktard but he’s a Broadway purist. And I’m with him on this one. Can you imagine the blowback if there was a Milli Vanilli meltdown in the middle of a major Broadway musical production? It’s too horrifying to even contemplate. But Henderson’s okay with the idea. He thinks he can pull it off.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “My boy Bobby is tight with Henderson’s personal trainer, and he heard Henderson and Morrie screaming at each other about it one day in Henderson’s apartment. This was before Morrie fired Henderson for the
penile-related matter.”

  “Lip-synching,” I said disgustedly. “I can’t believe that Broadway has fallen this far. Ethel Merman must be spinning in her grave.”

  “You really, really need to get over your Ethel Merman thing, cutie. This is why you never get laid.”

  “I get laid.”

  “Oh, really? When was the last time?”

  I peered at her curiously. “Why haven’t you broken this story?”

  “What story?”

  “That Matthew can’t sing. That they’re between a crag and a hard place.”

  “Good line. Can I steal it?”

  “It’s yours. Why haven’t you?”

  Cricket drank down the last of her Irish coffee, swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Because I don’t want to see two hundred people thrown out of work. A lot of folks think I’m a heartless little bitch. But I happen to love the theater. And those people are my friends—the kids in the chorus, the set dressers, lighting guys, ushers, all of them. If Wuthering Heights goes under then they’re out on the street.”

  “And what about the other big shows on Broadway?”

  “What about them?”

  “They have producers of their own, ruthless bastards one and all. Is there any chance those producers dangled R. J. Farnell in front of Morrie—flat out duped him—because they don’t want Wuthering Heights to open?”

  “No way. A hit show is good for everyone. If the public comes to see one show they’ll stay to see another. Every producer knows that. Besides, those greedy bastards can barely have a cup of coffee together, let alone conspire to scam somebody as shrewd as Morrie Frankel.” She studied me curiously. “Tell me the truth, are you getting any pussy at all?”