Phantom Angel (17 page)

“I'll have Diego prepare trays for us,” Mom said, reaching for her phone to call downstairs. “I think tonight's special is chicken à la king.”

Boso shuddered. “I don't eat anything that's ever had eyeballs.”

“How about a salad then?”

“Can I have a kale smoothie?”

“I'll get you one across the street at Lucy Juicy.”

“You don't have to do that, Benji. I'll go get it.”

“Not a chance. The NYPD is looking for you. The Feds are looking for you. And before the evening is over the entire Minetta crime family will be looking for you. You're not going anywhere.”

It was still stiflingly hot outside. The muggy evening air smelled strongly of rotten eggs. I took my time fetching Boso's kale smoothie. I wanted to see if anyone was watching our building. I moseyed my way up and down both sides of the block with my hands buried in the pockets of my shorts, my eyes flicking this way and that. I saw no surveillance vans parked anywhere. No one sitting in a parked car. No one hanging out on the sidewalk. No Con Ed crews were digging up the street. No UPS trucks were making any late deliveries. Nobody was doing much of anything. Just sweating.

By the time I got back upstairs with our food, Mom and Boso were parked in front of the TV in Mom's office watching the live coverage of Operation Yum-Yum on NY1. The Feds were putting on an impressive made-for-TV event, complete with a camera-ready perp walk of young guys in handcuffs being led out the front door of the Crown Towers.

“There's Little Joe!” Boso cried out, pointing at a defiant-looking weasel wearing a Hawaiian shirt and way too much product in his wavy black hair. “And that's Petey!” The resident webmaster was not at all defiant looking. Geeky was more like it. The rest of them were an assortment of smirking pinheads in tank tops. They were followed out the door by the webcam girls in their tight, revealing clothing. Absolutely none of them were smirking. They looked frightened and terribly, terribly young. “There's
Luze.…
And Chantarelle, and—and Christa and Little Mutt…”

Mom said, “Why do they call her Little—?”

“Mom, please don't go there. I really don't want to know.”

“Oh, my God…” Boso began to weep as she sat there. She seemed genuinely blown away by the harsh reality of seeing her girlfriends being led off in handcuffs. “I am
so
screwed right now.”

I didn't spot Sue Herrera or Jack Dytman at the scene, but I sure did see a lot of U.S. Attorney Gino Cimoli, which didn't surprise me one bit. The man had glory-grabber written all over him. “Online pornography may not be against the law,” he proclaimed for the news cameras in a booming voice. “But credit card fraud is. Identity theft is. Racketeering is. And it will not be tolerated by the U.S. Department of Justice.”

“What'll happen now?” Boso asked me in a tiny voice as I unwrapped our dinners on Mom's desk. “What'll they do to my friends?”

“There's no such thing as federal night court. They'll be held over for arraignment in the morning.”

“You mean they'll have to spend the night in jail?”

“I'm afraid so. Once they post bail in the morning they can go home, although I'm betting the Crown Towers will be locked down. They'll have to find somewhere else to crash.”

Boso wiped her eyes, snuffling. “Oh, my God…”

“You look a little pale, dear,” Mom observed. “Drink your kale smoothie.”

“I—I feel sick to my stomach.”

Me, I was starved. I sat down at Mom's desk and started in on my chicken à la king special, which came with rice, string beans and a fruit cup. I'd barely taken my first bite when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen, got up and took the call in the outer office, shutting Mom's door. “What's up, Cricket?”

“Are you shitting me? You heard about the raid, right?”

“Mom and I were just watching it on TV. Quite some show.”

“So what have you got for me, cutie?”

“Cricket, I have no idea what you mean.”

“Benji, this is
me,
the girl who knows how to connect the dots. Morrie Frankel was in bed with Joe Minetta. Morrie gets bumped off today, gangland style, and now Little Joe Minetta's harem of teen skanks get paraded out the door of a Staten Island high-rise by the Feds. Give, will you? Where is she?”

“Where is who?”

“Jonquil Beausoleil, the little blond cutie who you were looking for. The one who goes by the screen names of Cassia, Lisa B and Eva E. She wasn't one of the girls who got busted tonight. Wasn't there, period. So where is she?”

“How should I know?”

“Don't you play dumb with me, Benji Golden.”

“Cricket, why don't you just forget about her, okay?”

“Why should I?”

“As a favor to me.”

“Sure, I can do that,” she said easily. “
If
you tell me why I should.”

“I don't know anything. I'm not involved in this case anymore. My client's dead, remember? I've moved on.”

“Like hell you have. Tell me something that no one else knows. Do that for me and I'll give Jonquil Beausoleil a pass. Although I have to say I'm getting
really
curious now as to why I should. Are the two of you—?”

I hung up on her and went back in Mom's office. Boso was on the sofa sipping her smoothie.

Mom was at her desk tucking into her chicken à la king. “Who was that?”

I sat back down and had another forkful of mine, which for some reason now tasted remarkably like Elmer's Glue. And it was usually such a palate pleaser, too. “Cricket. She never lets me forget that we have a history. As if I could.”

Boso raised an eyebrow at me. “Old girlfriend?”

I nodded. “And a very savvy reporter. She wanted to know why you weren't busted tonight with all of the others. And she was positive I'd know where you were.”

Her eyes widened. “How did she figure that out?”

“Because she has amazing instincts and great sources.”

“What did you tell her, Bunny?”

“That I was off the case.”

“Did she believe you?” Boso asked.

“Not a chance. But you know what? Right now Cricket qualifies as the least of your worries.” I shoved my uneaten dinner aside and grabbed Boso's weighted gym bag. “You're spending the night with us. You can have my bed.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“Right here. That way I can keep on eye on things.”

“I'm not kicking you out of your own bed, Benji. I can crash down here.”

“Not a good idea. It's too accessible to the street.” Not to mention too easy for her to slip out on us and disappear into the night. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “G'night, Mrs. Golden. Thanks for being such a sweetie.”

“Think nothing of it, dear. And my name's Abby, remember? I'll be right downstairs from you if you need anything. Just knock.”

We took the stairs and, I'm happy to report, didn't encounter either of the Felchers as we climbed our way past the third floor.

“This is Mom's apartment,” I said when we arrived at the fourth floor landing. “And I've got the penthouse.” I unlocked my door when we got there.

“Wait, what's up there?” Boso asked, gesturing to the stairs that continued on past my place.

“The roof garden.”

Her eyes lit up. “For real?”

“Okay, I may have been overselling it a bit.”

“Can I see it? Please?”

We climbed the last flight of stairs. I unlatched the steel door, shoved it open and we went out onto the roof, hearing the traffic down below on Broadway, seeing the many lights in the many windows of the taller apartment buildings that surrounded us.

“It's just your basic tar beach,” I said, inhaling its fragrant essence.

“I
love
it up here!” Boso spread her arms wide and twirled around and around just like a little girl. “I can see the sky!”

“We'd better go back inside now. And don't come back up here in the morning, okay? Stay off the roof.”

“Why?”

“Because someone may be watching our building.”

That scared her in a hurry. “Okay,” she responded obediently. “Whatever you say.” I led her back downstairs and, frankly, she was a whole lot more excited about the roof than she was about my apartment. Just stood there in the living room looking around with crinkly nosed disapproval. “Dang, this looks like an old lady's place. Where on earth did you get your furniture?”

“From an old lady.”

“And what is that smell?”

“Kasha knishes.”

“Kasha
what
?”

“Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?”

“Well, yeah. Gus has really bad breath. His teeth need cleaning.”

“Duly noted. Anything else?”

“I don't like the way you dress. You look like a skater punk.”

“It so happens I was in costume today.”

“How do you usually dress?”

“Not that differently, actually. And you can feel free to shut up any time now. There are fresh linens in that cupboard in the hallway. And the bedroom has AC but our wiring is so old that you can't run anything else once it's on. Not even the coffeemaker, okay?”

“I don't drink coffee.”

“If you blow a fuse the fuse box is in the kitchen. The spare fuses are—”

“Wait, what's a fuse box?”

“Tell you what. If the power goes out just knock on Mom's door, okay?”

Boso tilted her head at me, studying me curiously. “I asked her about that story you told me. What happened to you when you ran away, I mean. She said it really happened.”

“Well, yeah. Did you think I made it up?”

“I wasn't sure. Guys make up all kinds of stories.”

“I don't.”

She looked at me through her eyelashes. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Do you like me?”

“Sure, I like you.”

“Then why aren't you hitting on me right now?”

“You're a client. That would be unprofessional. And
why
is this a topic of conversation?”

“I guess because I don't understand why you're being so nice to me.”

“You're in trouble and somebody has to help you. That somebody is me. Besides, I happen to like Farmer John.”

“What's he got to do with it?”

“He's in love with you, silly. Double bolt the door after I leave. Don't let anyone in except for me, Mom or Rita. Don't call anyone. And don't answer the phone if it rings. I'll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Wait one sec…” She slid neatly, way too neatly, into my arms and hugged me tight. “I just wanted to say thank you. You're a sweet guy. And I—I guess I'm kind of freaked out right now.”

I tucked a loose strand of her ponytail behind her ear and gave her my most reassuring smile. “You'll be safe here. Just holler if you need anything.”

Mom was busy making up the office sofa with sheets that she'd brought down from her apartment. Gus was busy helping her, which is to say standing on each and every corner that she was trying to tuck into place.

She gave everything a final tug and said, “There we are. All comfy cozy.”

Gus certainly was. He stretched right out, his tail swishing.

“You didn't have to go to all of this trouble, Mom.”

“Nonsense. I won't have you wrapped in a ratty old blanket like a homeless person.” She hesitated, arching an eyebrow at me. “She's cute.”

“She's a kid. Barely eighteen.”

“Seems like a nice girl, too. Not cynical and hard.”

“Mom, I'm not planning to tiptoe upstairs in the night. You don't have to worry.”

“That's just it. I never have to worry. And that's what worries me.”

“Um, okay, you just lost me.”

“Ever since Rita took up with Myron you've been all by yourself. You don't date. You don't even look. That place around the corner where the hardware store used to be? There are nice-looking single women in there every night but you won't go near the place. It's not natural, Bunny. A healthy young man like you should be having sex at least three times a week.”

“Actually, a healthy young man like me should be having sex at least three times a
night
. But let's not quibble. It's too hot. I'm fine, Mom. Really, I am. Now why don't you go up and get some sleep, okay?”

She let out a sigh. “Okay, fine. I'll mind my own business.” And went upstairs to bed.

I went downstairs to make sure our street door was locked. Sometimes it doesn't catch if we've buzzed someone in. Then I went back up, bolting the office door behind me. I had a spare toothbrush in my daypack along with my Chief's Special. I brushed my teeth, turned off all the lights and, gun in hand, looked out the wraparound windows at our second-floor view of Broadway and West 103rd. Wilted people were still oozing along the sidewalk in the late night heat. Cabs and buses were coming and going. But I saw no one staked out in a parked car. No one lounging in a doorway. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

I peeled off my clothes and slid between the sheets, keeping my gun close at hand. Gus padded around on top of me until he got good and settled on my left hip, grateful for an all-night visitor. I lay there, acutely aware that if I went upstairs right now Jonquil Beausoleil might be grateful for an all-night visitor, too. Also acutely aware that I wasn't going anywhere. There are times when I wish I were some other guy. A guy who'd just march up those stairs, shtup the hell out of that emotionally scarred little hottie for seven hours straight and not think a thing of it. But I'm not some other guy. So I lay there in the semidarkness of the streetlights, eyes wide open, ears tuned to the rhythm of the traffic outside. It got quieter as the minutes and hours ticked by. The late-night revelers went home to bed from the neighborhood bars and restaurants. Fewer cabs and buses drove by. The subway trains rumbled underneath our building less frequently. But I didn't sleep. I was still wide-awake at 2:00
A.M.
when I heard a single set of footsteps on the sidewalk approaching our door and coming to a halt.