Phantom Angel (12 page)

Morrie looked at me suspiciously. “Did she?”

“I'm afraid not. She did tell me that Matthew can't sing a lick. And that Henderson Lebow was willing to lip-synch him but you refused.”

“Damned right I did. This is Broadway. If we allow fakery to creep its way onstage then we are nothing. Matthew is no Bob Goulet, I'll grant you, but I believe the kid can pull it off. He's been getting top-notch voice coaching. And Henderson has been working with him for months. He's a bastard but he is one hell of a teacher.”

“And what are you, Mr. Frankel? Aside from a total liar.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I found Jonquil Beausoleil. I've spoken with her.”

“Already? That's terrific! Isn't that great, Leah? Benji found Farnell's little tootsie. Wow, kid, you're as good as they say. So where was she?”

“That's not important.”

“Well, where's R.J.? Did you talk to him?”

“Are you done with this charade? Because it's getting to be kind of insulting. You sent Golden Legal Services on a wild goose chase, Mr. Frankel. She told me everything.”

He furrowed his brow at me. “Everything as in…?”

“As in there's no such person as R. J. Farnell.”

Leah let out a gasp of shock as she stood there, soiled napkins in hand.

Morrie slumped on the sofa, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why would she say something like that?”

“Because she's in trouble. Not to mention really pissed at you.”

“Pissed at me? Why?”

“You promised you were going to cast her as an understudy in
Wuthering Heights,
remember?”

He waved that off. “I was trying to encourage her. She's a kid.”

“There's
no
R. J. Farnell?” Leah seemed genuinely flabbergasted.

“That's correct. You made him up, didn't you, Mr. Frankel? Concocted this whole elaborate story about a shadowy British hedge fund billionaire who promised to sink twelve million into your show. You had Boso rent the place in East Hampton on his behalf. And you pretended to be Farnell on the phone with the realtor, British accent and all, which I would really love to hear some time. A techie friend of Boso's set up the Web site for the Venusian Society, which is totally bogus. It's all been bogus. Why'd you do it, Mr. Frankel? And why on earth did you hire us to go looking for him? What were you hoping to accomplish?”

Morrie wouldn't answer me. Just sat there in surly silence.

Leah said it one more time: “There's
no
R. J. Farnell?”

“He's a phantom, Leah,” he admitted grudgingly.

“But Morrie, I—I gave you…”

“A hundred thou, I know.”

“My
last
hundred thou. Because you promised me Farnell was going to come through for you. You lied to me, Morrie.”

“You'll get it back times ten, I swear,” he vowed. “We always land on our feet, don't we? We're family. And we're in this together. Look, I needed that money, okay? Otherwise nobody would've believed I had a new angel. I had to pay some bills. And rent that beach house. And make a show of driving out there for the day, having lunch, acting like I was rolling in dough. I had to keep up the front. And now I need for you to stay positive, Leah. I need for you to believe in me. We'll have the hugest hit in Broadway history on our hands just as long as we both keep believing. Don't doubt me, Leah. Not after all these years. Please, I'm begging you.”

Leah stood there breathing in and out for a long moment. “All right, Morrie,” she said finally, sounding weary and defeated. “Whatever you say.”

“That's my girl,” he said brightly. “Now please leave us alone, will you?”

“Yes, Morrie.”

I watched her go scuffing off to her office, her shoulders hunched. “I repeat, Mr. Frankel, what were you hoping to accomplish?”

“I needed to buy myself time, okay? Joe gave me two weeks to come up with some new backers—or else.”

“Is Joe Minetta in on this with you? Does he know there's no R. J. Farnell?”

Reluctantly, Morrie nodded his head. “I said to him, Joe, my cupboard is bare. All I've got left is the old phantom angel ruse. I learned it from my mom, Benji. Haven't used it in thirty years, because it's such long odds. First you put out the word that you've found yourself a new, deep-pocketed money guy. Then this deep-pocketed money guy vanishes, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs behind. And then you get down on your knees and pray that somebody else steps forward with major cash while you're busy following the breadcrumbs. It's a major gamble. But I'm a major gambler. So is Joe, especially with my money and my show. All I needed from him was a girl. He grabbed me one of Little Joe's webcam bimbos. A budding actress, no less. She'd even shown up for our cattle call.” He glared at me across the coffee table. “I can't believe you found her already. I was positive it would take you two weeks.”

“You were wrong.”

“But Joe told me those webcam girls are impossible to find. Little Joe keeps them stashed somewhere nobody knows about.”

“Yeah, well, Little Joe may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer. There's also a distinct possibility that you were right yesterday—you
are
slipping. I'm curious, Mr. Frankel. Why did you choose Golden Legal Services? There are plenty of other detective agencies in the city.”

“I wanted to be able to say I'd hired the best there is at finding missing young people. And the girl
swore
to me she'd play along. How did you get the truth out of her?”

“That's my job. It's what I do. Boso's in over her head, Mr. Frankel. She's gotten herself mixed up with organized crime. So have you.”

“Joe's not ‘organized crime,'” Morrie scoffed. “He's a businessman just like me. He's bailed me out plenty of times. And I've always paid him back. But I'm in real trouble with this show, no getting around it. So I put my chips on a phantom angel and now I'm scrambling like crazy to scare up new investors.”

“How's that working out for you?”

Morrie puffed out his cheeks, Dizzy Gillespie style. “I've had plenty of new people step up, just like I told you yesterday. But … they're small timers. A few grand here, a few grand there. I need the big players, except they won't give me the time of day because that vampire Ira Gottfried's been whispering in the right ears that he's getting ready to swoop in and take over. Meanwhile, he's telling Matthew and Hannah that he won't produce the movie version of
Wuthering Heights
if Panorama doesn't own the play. It's grand theft, but they don't understand that. They're just kids.”

“And where does Mr. Lebow fit in?”

“Henderson will do anything to direct
Wuthering Heights,
which will never, ever happen as long as I'm producing it. So he's thrown in with Count Dracula. No surprise there. Henderson is a man who has no concept of personal morality whatsoever. Plus he's desperate to get back at me.” Morrie sat there in heavy silence for a moment. “Benji, I've never been this close to losing everything. I'm fighting for my life here. These people want to
destroy
me.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Frankel. I wish you luck. Really, I do.” I got up off the sofa and started for the door. “We'll be sending you an itemized accounting of our expenses tomorrow.”

His bulging eyes widened. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I'm quitting. Golden Legal Services no longer works for you.”

“Nobody walks out on Morrie fucking Frankel!” he blustered at me. “Sit your little butt back down!”

I stayed on my feet. “Golden Legal Services is a respected, professional agency, Mr. Frankel. High-ranking people at One Police Plaza recommend our services.”

“Is there a point to this?” he demanded.

“You hired us to find an actress who was pretending to be the girlfriend of a man who doesn't exist.”

“I just told you, I was trying to buy myself a couple of weeks. What do you care? I paid you.”

“You used us. You used Boso. You even used Leah, who's been your closest associate for, what, fifty years?”

“Fine, go ahead and slink out that door,” he snarled at me. “But I want the balance of your advance back. There's no way you spent all five thou.”

“Good luck with that.”

“And if so much as one word of this ends up on
crickoshea.com
I swear I'll strangle you! Leah, get this Judas out of here!” he hollered. “Get him out, you hear me? Get! Him! Out!”

She came rushing from her office. “What's the problem, Morrie?”

“This little pisher is no longer in our employ. Get rid of him, will you? I've got some calls to make. And where's my goddamned phone?”

“You broke it, remember? Here, use mine.” Leah handed him her cell before she ushered me out into the hotel's hallway. “Please believe me, Benji, I had no idea what Morrie was up to. If I had I would've tried to stop him.” She lowered her eyes to the frayed carpet. “I guess that's why he didn't tell me.”

“Leah, I can't turn this fucking phone on!” he roared from the living room.

“It
is
on!”

“Like hell it is!”

“Give me one second, Morrie!” She mustered a faint smile at me. “I'm sorry things didn't work out.”

“Please explain one thing to me, Leah. How have you managed to put up with him for so many years? I barely lasted twenty-four hours.”

“You're just catching him at a really bad time,” she explained. “Morrie has a genuinely good heart. He's generous. He's brilliant. He's passionate. Besides, we have to make allowances for men like Morrie.”

“We do? How come?”

“Leah, I am telling you this fucking phone is
not
on!”

“How come?” Leah glanced over her shoulder at the doorway, her face drawn tight with strain. “Because Morrie Frankel
is
Broadway.”

*   *   *

I WAS PERCHED
on a stool at a table in the front window of Gregory's, a gourmet coffee place that was across the street from the Morley. I sipped an iced Peruvian blend. I watched the hotel's front entrance. I waited.

More than an hour had passed since I'd left Morrie's suite and his employ. I'd phoned Mom to tell her that we were off the case, which she was totally fine with. Mom likes being played even less than I do. And now I sat there and watched the hotel and waited. I don't know if I was nursing a personal grudge or what. But I had a strong gut feeling that there was a whole lot more to this case, and that if I tailed the great Morrie Frankel he'd lead me to it.

Besides, I didn't have anywhere else to be.

I had to wait another hour before he came waddling out the door of the hotel wearing his avocado-colored jumpsuit, white sneakers with Velcro closures and a pair of outlandishly garish sunglasses that looked as if they'd once belonged to Sir Elton John. Morrie paused a second to say something to the doorman, who let out a big laugh. Then he started off in the direction of Sixth Avenue.

I followed him in the brutal midday heat, staying a safe two hundred yards back. Even though the sidewalks were crowded with people, Morrie was easy to spot in that jumpsuit. He turned left at the corner of Sixth Avenue and plodded his fat self down Sixth past the International Center of Photography and the mammoth Bank of America Tower. He did not walk with ease. His toes pointed outward and he listed from side to side like a ship bobbing on a stormy sea. There was a Starbucks on the near corner of 42nd Street, but he wasn't going to Starbucks. He crossed 42nd Street and headed his way into Bryant Park.

Bryant Park, which backs up on the historic main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, used to be a crime-infested hole filled with rats of both the rodent and human variety. Office workers skulked in there to buy drugs in broad daylight. Absolutely no one went in there at night. Now it's so spruced up that it's one of midtown's most celebrated attractions.

In order to reach the park's emerald-green lawn Morrie had to make his way between the bustling, ornate 'Wichcraft Express kiosks that sell sandwiches, pastries, coffee and what not. Also past the cluster of Ping-Pong tables where animated young professionals were playing with lusty vigor, their neckties tucked smartly inside their shirts. Everywhere I go these days people are playing Ping-Pong. When did this happen? And why didn't I get the memo? Very few people were sprawled out on the lawn catching rays. Too damned hot out for that. But plenty of them were seated at the green Parisian-style park tables in the shade of the London plane trees that surround the lawn.

Morrie waddled his way to a table where a man sat waiting for him. He parked his fanny on a slatted folding chair, shifting himself this way and that, and the two of them began to talk. I moved behind a plane tree and used the zoom on my Nikon D80 to get a close-up view.

The man who Morrie was chatting with was slim and impeccably groomed. His silver hair was beautifully coiffed. His manicured fingernails gleamed. He had on an elegant white linen suit and an open-collar pale-green dress shirt. He wore the jacket thrown over his shoulders like a cape, a highly affected Continental look that very few American men can pull off.

Joe Minetta pulled it off.

Joe Minetta was a famously careful man. He never carried a phone or electronic device because they can be bugged. And he always conducted business outdoors in open public spaces. As I watched him I noticed that whenever he spoke to Morrie he raised a hand to his mouth so that no one could read his lips. I also noticed that he was not alone. A matched pair of bruisers with buzz cuts was seated at a nearby table. Bodyguards. I panned around the park to see if anyone else besides me was interested in the conversation between Morrie Frankel and Joe Minetta. I saw no one watching them. Or pretending not to watch them. I saw no one on the roof of the library. No one anywhere. If Sue Herrera had a crew on Joe they were very good.