Phantom Angel (7 page)

“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?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I know lots of desperately horny young actresses who deserve to be treated nice for a change. Want me to hook you up with one?”

“I'll think about it.”

“No, you won't. You're still hung up on that One True Love fantasy of yours. It's a myth, Benji. This is me talking. Do yourself a favor, will you? Have some fun for a change. Because, guess what, while you're waiting for that One True Love of yours to come along your whole fucking life is passing you by.”

 

CHAPTER THREE

“AVALON” BY ROXY MUSIC,
Mom's favorite band, was blasting from her office when I got home. I found her at her desk tapping away on her laptop, a tall gin and tonic within arm's reach. The lights were low. The rackety window air conditioner was cranked up high.

“You're back,” I observed, smiling at her from the doorway.

She turned down the music, smiling back at me. “A person can't pull anything over on Mrs. Golden's sharp-eyed son.”

“Did you eat dinner?”

“I had a huge salad with Gretchen before I drove back from the Hamptons. That would be Gretchen Van Deusen of the Hoity-Toity Agency. Gretchen is
the
go-to realtor for luxury rental properties in East Hampton, thank you very much. Want Diego to bring you up something? I think Scotty's special tonight was goulash.”

“I'm all set. Where's Rita?”

“Having a late supper with Myron. I practically had to kick her out the door. She was so engrossed in your nudie shots of Boso that she lost track of the time.”

“Did she get anywhere?”

“Well, she convinced me that they Photoshopped Boso's vay-jay lips. Does that count?”

My cell phone rang. It was Morrie yet again. This time I took his call. “This is Ben Golden. How may I help you?”

“You can return your fucking phone calls, you little putz!” he roared at me. “Do you
know
how many messages I've left you?!”

“Mr. Frankel…”

“If I call you it's for a reason!”

“Mr. Frankel…”

“
And
I expect you to call me back, hear me? I'm paying you all of this goddamned money and I still haven't heard a goddamned thing from you!”

“Mr. Frankel, we're devoting a hundred percent of our time to your case. We're making excellent progress, but I'm not in a position to report anything yet, okay?”

“No, it's
not
okay! That little twat Cricket O'Shea just posted a photo of
my
stars and
my
ex-director having dinner at Zoot Alors with none other than Count Dracula himself. She said, flat out
declared,
that he's plotting to steal my show out from under me. So you'll forgive me if I'm just a tiny bit upset!”

“Cricket O'Shea has been known to make stuff up. Don't let her throw you.”

“I don't like this,” he growled. “I don't like
you
.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. If you want to hire someone else just say so.”

I heard another voice in the background now from his end. Then heard him grumble something unintelligible before he said, “Leah thinks I should shut up and let you do your job.”

“Leah's a smart woman.”

“Hey, I don't need you to tell me that.”

“Mr. Frankel, I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“What time?”

“Just as soon as I have something. Good night, Mr. Frankel.” I rang off, letting my breath out with a sigh. “That was Mr. Frankel.”

“So I gathered.” Mom narrowed her eyes at me. “Weren't you and Cricket romantically involved for a while?”

“I guess you could call it that.” I fetched a cold bottle of Long Trail IPA from the little fridge in the outer office, opened it and took a long, thirsty gulp before I flopped down on Mom's sofa next to Gus, who curled up in my lap and started purring. “So tell me about Gretchen Van Deusen of the Hoity-Toity Agency.”

“She was a skinny blond society bitch in her late forties. Divorced, bitter, could not keep her mouth shut. You'd have loved her, Bunny.” Mom reached for her notepad, scanning through it. “The house on Lily Pond Lane belongs to a power couple that's splitting up. He's a big shot at NBC News. She's on-air talent. Or was. Her job went south when the marriage did. She's suing him. He's suing her. It's love in bloom all over. Meanwhile, their snug little cottage is on the market for five point five million. It has seven bedrooms, five baths, a pool, four acres of land and beach access. Confidentially? Gretchen told me they'd take four point nine mil for it. While they wait for the offers to roll in she's renting it out for thirty thousand a month. A Silicon Valley exec has it this month.”

“What about last month?”