“None of us are,” Legs said. “Until we are.”
Ira Gottfried continued to listen in still silence, his chin resting on his index fingers. He was so quiet I almost forgot he was there. Almost.
“Mr. Lebow, what’s the real deal with Matthew’s voice?” I asked.
He arched an eyebrow at me. “And this has what to do with Morrie’s murder?”
I took a sip of my iced tea. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
“Very well,” he said agreeably. “The real deal is that he hasn’t got one. Not even after months and months of lessons. Dear Hannah’s is lovely. It’s by no means professional but it’s sweet and genuine. The song arrangements can be crafted to accommodate her. But Matthew possesses what is known as a tin ear. Also an unexpectedly high-pitched range. Honestly? He doesn’t sound like brawny Me Tarzan at all. He sounds more like—”
“One of the Chipmunks?”
Henderson stared at me. “Dear God, he does sound like one of the Chipmunks.”
I leaned forward anxiously. “Which one—Alvin, Simon or Theodore?”
Henderson didn’t say. Clearly, I was never, ever going to find out. “Trust me, every time that boy breaks into ‘You’re Still My Queen’ I find myself searching for a ball-peen hammer so as to put him out of his misery.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” I said. “Considering that he’s your lover.”
“It’s not his singing that I’m attracted to.” Henderson had another piece of mango. “You have eyes, don’t you? Half the planet wants him. And I’ve got him.”
“So does Hannah. Is that a problem?”
“Not for me,” he answered breezily. “I can share.”
“Is it true that you and Mr. Frankel argued about how to get around Matthew’s voice problem?”
“We certainly did. Morrie went berserk when I raised the idea of lip-synching him. He thought it would destroy Broadway forever. I’m more of a pragmatist. I think the audience is there to have a good time and that it’s my job to give it to them.”
Ira nodded in agreement. “The audience,” he put forward sagely, “wishes to be entertained.”
“My feeling,” Henderson went on, “is that if we need to enlist another singer in support of Matthew, then so be it. Because, trust me, he cannot be allowed to go out on that stage and sing. Ben, I’m looking into your eyes and I can see that you don’t agree. You’re a purist like Morrie was. But we’re talking about the theater, Ben, which is nothing more than illusion. If the audience wants to believe that Matthew Puntigam is up there on that stage belting his heart out then who are we to deny them their illusion simply because it so happens that the boy can’t sing?” Henderson let out a regretful sigh. “But I couldn’t bring Morrie around to the idea. He was the most stubborn man I’ve ever known.”
“You went back a lot of years together, didn’t you?”
“More years than I care to remember,” he acknowledged wistfully. “When I first met him, Morrie was flacking for his horrible bitch of a mom. Also trying to pass for straight. I was doing improv at a dive in the Village called the St. James Infirmary. I still thought I had a future as a performer. A lot of us go through that phase when we’re young and foolish, don’t we, Ben?”
“Yes, we do.”
“But we find our calling eventually. Mine was directing. Yours is peeping through keyholes.”
“Actually, there are no keyholes anymore. Hotels use keycards now.”
Henderson narrowed his gaze at me. “You said you couldn’t find R. J. Farnell. Is Farnell considered a missing person?”
“No, he’s considered a nonexistent person. Farnell was a phantom angel. Morrie made him up.”
“And then sent you looking for him?” Henderson’s face broke into a merry smile. “That old scoundrel was trying to dupe some other backers, wasn’t he? Morrie was the last of the riverboat gamblers. Never gave in even when defeat was staring him right in the face. I’m going to miss that fat bastard, you know that? He lied. He cheated. At least half of the words that came out of his mouth were total bullshit. But he believed his own bullshit. And, my God, he loved the theater.”
Legs turned to the Man in Black now and said, “Mr. Gottfried, may I ask where you were yesterday at one P.M.?”
“Of course you may,” Ira answered softly. “I was in my office on the thirty-seventh floor of the Panorama building on Park Avenue. Am I considered a person of interest, Lieutenant?”
“Well, you do have an interest in this matter.”
Ira considered this, his chin continuing to rest on his steepled index fingers. I was beginning to think it was affixed to them with Krazy Glue. “Do I? And what is that?”
“Now that Mr. Frankel’s gone you can take over his show.”
“It’s true, I can. But that was going to happen anyway.”
“It was?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ira assured him. “I wanted to be involved from the outset. Matthew and Hannah are my most valuable assets, after all, and I genuinely believe that the film adaptation of Wuthering Heights will prove to be the greatest musical in Hollywood history. But Morrie wouldn’t take a nickel from me. No matter how dire his financial situation became the answer was always no. Morrie was positive that he’d be surrendering his creative autonomy. Which is in no way true. Ask any of the content providers with whom I’ve been associated. I don’t interfere. But Morrie was a stubborn man, as Henderson said. Consequently, he was going to lose Wuthering Heights within the next few weeks. It was inevitable. All I had to do was wait and the show would have been mine.”
“So what happens now?” Legs asked him. “Will Panorama take over Wuthering Heights and open it this fall?”
Ira Gottfried gazed up at the ceiling, his eyes squinting shut as if he were staring directly into a very bright light. “This is not a question for which there is a simple yes or no answer. There are contractual issues that will have to be resolved. Under common contract law most contracts become void when one of the two parties to the contract dies. We know that there is no Morrie Frankel Productions without Morrie Frankel. We also know that Morrie drafted those contracts himself, and he was nobody’s idea of a fool. Therefore, our lawyers will have to sift through the fine print very carefully. It’s possible that we will be able to green-light Wuthering Heights within a few short days. It’s also possible that whoever killed Morrie laid bare a contractual minefield that will effectively delay the staging of Wuthering Heights for months, even years.”
I went back to work on my sandwich, chewing on it slowly. “Matthew told us that he and Hannah have to start shooting The Son of Tarzan in May.”
“Correct. The Tarzan franchise is our number-one priority. Principal photography must begin in Tanzania on time. We have an obligation to our shareholders.” Ira paused, pursing his thin, pale lips. “Although there is a way to have our cake and eat it, too. Thinking long term, that is to say.”
“Which is what?” Legs asked him.
“May I take a crack at this one, Mr. Gottfried?”
Ira studied me curiously. “Very well. The floor is yours, Ben.”
“How tight is the script for The Son of Tarzan?”
“It’s camera ready. Has been for two months.”
“Has your casting director found the boy yet?”
“What boy?”
“The boy who’ll play Tarzan’s son.”
He smiled at me thinly. “Yes, she has. In London. I’ve seen him on video and he’s terrific. Our director has already spent a lot of time with him.”
“And have they scouted the Tanzania locations?”
“I like how your mind works, Ben. You should come to work for me instead of peeping through keyholes.”
“Like I said, there are no more keyholes.”
“Our Tanzania locations are all nailed down. And our base camp is staffed and fully operational. It stays that way 365 days a year. We’ve filmed three mammoth productions there. We are committed to filming a fourth. It�
��s in our interest to keep our production and housing facilities up and running, as well as to keep the local officials well-compensated and compliant.”
“In other words, you can ramp up production pretty quickly.”
“Our second unit can be there in one week. Our first unit in two weeks. Our stars just need a few days in London for costume fittings and hair.”
“And how about the weather?”
“The weather’s ideal right now. It’s their dry season.”
“Okay, what are we talking about?” Legs demanded.
“Flipping the projects,” I told him. “Matthew and Hannah can go to work right now on The Son of Tarzan while all the contractual wrangling over Wuthering Heights is being resolved. Then they’ll come back and get the stage production up on its feet for next season. And then they’ll shoot the film version. Bim-bam-boom. Makes perfect sense. Everyone comes out ahead.” I glanced at Henderson. “Except for you, Mr. Lebow. If Matthew and Hannah fly off to Tanzania you’ll be left high and dry.”
“Who, me? Not a chance,” he responded. “I have firm offers to take over the reins of three different shows, each one quite promising in its way. Trust me, I’ll be very busy if Matthew and Hannah end up in Tanzania.”
“But you’ll miss Matthew, won’t you?”
“Absolutely. But I’m very good at making new friends. Besides, shelving Wuthering Heights until next season might be the very best thing for Matthew. It’ll give him more time to get his voice into shape.”
“And if he can’t?”
“It’ll give me more time to figure out how to deal with it.”
Legs’ right knee was beginning to jiggle. “Will you gents kindly explain something to me? Are you just spitballing right now or is this what’s actually going to happen?”
The Man in Black squinted up at the ceiling again for a long moment before he said, “I still believe in Wuthering Heights. And I still believe in my stars, despite Matthew’s vocal shortcomings.”
I said, “It’s a sixty-five-million-dollar musical and one of your two stars sings exactly like a cartoon rodent. I wouldn’t call that a shortcoming. I’d call it a crisis.”
“There is no such thing as a crisis,” he lectured me patiently. “A crisis is merely a problem in search of a solution. There is always a solution. You simply have to remain open to receiving it. If you are, then the solution will present itself.”
And indeed it had, I reflected, gazing at Ira Gottfried and Henderson Lebow. The murder of Morrie Frankel counted as a very tidy solution to all of their legal and creative problems. They had their ducks in a nice, neat profitable row now. Morrie’s death was good for them, good for Matthew, good for everyone. Everyone except for Morrie, that is.
In fact, it was all so damned tidy that I couldn’t help wondering if that had been the plan all along.
* * *
WE’D MOVED UP in the world.
This time we were in a genuine conference room seated around a table that could accommodate at least two-dozen Very Serious People. There were windows that looked out at the New York County Courthouse. There was a framed photo of the president on the wall. There was an American flag, carpeting. We’d made it to the big time. We even got a chance to watch U.S. Attorney Gino Cimoli strut around the conference room in full peacock mode barking orders into his cell phone. Legs and I sat there in silence with Detective Lieutenant Sue Herrera and Special Agent Jack Dytman, waiting for him to get off the damned phone.
“I heard from the Attorney General personally this morning,” Cimoli informed us proudly when he finally got off the damned phone. “He phoned me from D.C. and said two words to me that I’ll sure never forget for as long as I live: ‘Good job, Gino.’”
I did not, repeat not, point out that the Attorney General had actually said three words to him, not two. After all, I wanted something from this guy. Besides, it was a big day for Cimoli, career-wise. Sue-wise, too, he was obviously hoping. It was pretty clear that his preening was targeted in her direction. It was also pretty clear that Sue was totally oblivious. Her eyes were focused on the screen of her laptop on the table before her. Dytman sat across the table from her, craning his itchy red neck and trying not to claw at it. His heat rash looked even angrier today, if such a thing was possible. I wanted to run out and buy the man some baby powder.
Cimoli plopped his tubby self down in a chair, beaming. “In case you’re interested, Lieutenant Diamond, Joe Minetta is being questioned at this very minute by our people about his involvement in the Crown Towers operation.”
“Will you be able to charge him with anything?” Legs asked.
“We don’t think so. It was Little Joe’s baby all of the way. Big Joe is, at most, a material witness. But, believe me, this is not the happiest day of his life. His son is going away for a long, long time.” Cimoli gazed across the table at me now. “You wish to have a conversation about Jonquil Beausoleil?”
“Yes, I do. I want her brought in.”
“Good, so do I. She’s a loose end. I hate loose ends.”
Dytman cleared his throat. “Do you know where she is, Ben?”
“Let’s say, for the sake of discussion, that I do. What are you people prepared to offer her?”
“For the sake of discussion?” Cimoli said. “That all depends on what she has to offer us.”
“Let’s say it’s game-changing testimony.”
“What is it?”
“You’d have to hear that from her.”
Cimoli sighed impatiently. “Will it bring down Big Joe? Because it’s Big Joe who I really want.”
“Like I said, you’d have to hear it from her.”
“I’m going to play devil’s advocate here,” Dytman said, craning his neck. “Why should we go out of our way to cut this one particular webcam girl a deal? We’re already flipping all of the other girls. They’re more than eager to tell us everything they know. What reason do we have to believe that Miss Beausoleil knows more than they do?”
“How about because she was the only one who happened to be working a side scam with my murder victim?” Legs said. “How about because it was Joe Minetta himself who put her and my murder victim together? That girl is the one and only link between Minetta and Morrie Frankel. It seems to me you’d be mighty interested in what she has to say. I sure am.”
“Makes sense to me,” Sue Herrera murmured, tapping away at her laptop.
“And there’s more,” I said. “Her life is currently in danger. Boso was the only girl who wasn’t home when you raided the Crown Towers. Really unfortunate timing on her part because now the Minettas have got to be thinking that she ratted them out. They’re looking for her.”
Cimoli stuck out his lower lip. “I’m going to be candid with you, Ben. That particular argument carries a lot less weight with me. This is a girl who masturbates on camera for a living. She chose this life.”
Sue glared across the table at him. “Please tell me you did not just say that.”
He reddened instantly. “All I meant was—”
“We have a responsibility to protect her,” Sue stated firmly. “Whether we like how she earns her money or not.”
“I didn’t say that we didn’t. What I meant was that this girl—”
“Her name is Jonquil Beausoleil. Friends call her Boso. And I’m out of here.” I got up and started for the door.
“Wait, where are you going?” Cimoli demanded. “Calm down, will you? Tell him to calm down, Lieutenant Diamond.”
“He seems perfectly calm to me,” Legs said.
“I was just venting,” Cimoli said defensively. “Can’t a guy vent? I promise you that if Miss Jonquil Beausoleil is ready to help us then we’re ready to help her. You have my word. Now sit back down like a person, will you?”
I sat back down like a person. “What are you prepared to offer her?”
“For now? Protective custody.”
“What about immunity from prosecution?”
“Ben, we�
��ve got her dead to rights on credit card fraud.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “Immunity’s on the table.”
“Are you prepared to put her in the Witness Protection Program?”
“Depends on what she’s got to say. Don’t ask me to promise you anything more right now because I can’t. But it’s not out of the question if she can put Big Joe behind bars. Can she?”
“I honestly don’t know. But the only way you’ll find out is if you keep her alive.”
“What do we know about Miss Beausoleil’s whereabouts at the time of the Morrie Frankel shooting?” Dytman asked Legs.
“I’m told she was at the Ralph Lauren store on Madison Avenue. Their security cams will clear her if that’s the case. We’re checking them.”
Cimoli frowned at him. “Who told you that?”
“That would be me,” I said.
“So you’ve been in contact with her?”
“I never said I hadn’t been.”
“Do you know where she is right now?”
“Yes, I do. Lieutenant Diamond doesn’t, but I do.”
“I don’t believe this shit,” Cimoli fumed. “Where is she?”
“I’m not prepared to tell you that yet. I still have one more question I want to ask.”
He crossed his arms in front of his chest, glaring at me. “Ask away.”
“Who leaked her identity to Cricket O’Shea?”
“What are you looking at me for? I didn’t out her.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m a sworn officer of the court,” Cimoli shot back. “You have got some balls coming here and accusing me of leaking confidential information to a gossip blogger.”
“Somebody who has intimate knowledge of the case leaked it to her,” Legs pointed out. “Somebody who knew her age, her place of birth. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Benji. And it—”
“Hold on a sec…” Cimoli glowered at me balefully. “What makes you so sure it wasn’t him?”
“Because I know him. I know Sue, too.” Legs raised his goateed chin at Cimoli. “But I don’t know you.”
Phantom Angel Page 17