Phantom Angel (2 page)

“Is it true that you're not happy with your stars' singing voices?”

He waved me off. “That's a nasty rumor planted by someone who hates me. I have many enemies. That's because I do things my own way. When you do a Morrie Frankel show you get Morrie Frankel. Some people can't handle that. The kids are going to be fine. They're working with a voice coach on their breathing and stamina. Naturally, we'll have to mike them. The Merrick's the hugest theater on Broadway. More than two thousand seats. We have to mike everybody nowadays. God doesn't make voices like Ethel Merman's anymore. Ethel Merman they could hear in Secaucus. But I have high hopes for Matthew and Hannah. Am I rough on them? You bet I am. I don't coddle my stars. Six months ago I told Hannah that she had to get into a dance studio and learn how to move onstage. Did she listen to me? No. She was too busy steam cleaning her karma. So what happens? She falls down during a rehearsal and breaks her ankle. Would that have happened if she'd listened to me? Never. Did I tell her off? You bet I did. Because she put us on the shelf with me bleeding money. Hannah's a spoiled kid. So is Matthew. But they're starting to understand what's expected of Broadway stars. And they're relishing the opportunity to show the world what they can do. They're performers, after all. And performers yearn to perform.”

I was well aware of this. I'd yearned to perform myself. Went to NYU drama school. Did a couple of episodes of
Law & Order,
a week on a soap, a few commercials. But I soon discovered that there isn't much demand for a twenty-five-year-old juvenile type. Make that any demand. So I'd ended up in the family business. “How may Golden Legal Services help you, Mr. Frankel?”

He positioned his pudgy self in front of the sofa just so, then sank slo-o-owly back down onto it. Watching Morrie Frankel touch down on that sofa was like watching someone trying to land the Goodyear Blimp. He settled there, choosing his words carefully. “I'm in big trouble, Benji. The worst kind of trouble a guy like me can get into.” He looked at me warily. “You people are discreet, right?”

“We don't go blabbing to Page Six or Cricket O'Shea, if that's what you're wondering. If we did we wouldn't stay in business very long.”

“So everything I tell you is confidential?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“It better be,” he warned me. “The truth is, I've been financing this entire show on a shoeshine and a smile for the past three months. I owe
everybody
money. My cast, my set designer, my costumer, you name it. I've got over a hundred people on the payroll who I can't pay. I'm tapped out, Benji. The banks won't lend me another nickel, even though I've signed over to them all of the royalties on every show I've ever produced. I've sold the summer house in Sag Harbor that my mom bought back in 1957. I've sold my winter house in Key West. I have nothing left to sell. And nowhere left to turn. That vampire who runs Panorama Studios, Ira Gottfried, would be happy to bail me out. He's wanted a piece of this show since day one. Matthew and Hannah are his gold mine. And he expects to film
Wuthering Heights
. It'll be an epic movie musical. Huge. But I'll never, ever give Count Dracula a piece of
my
show. It's a Morrie Frankel production. It's
mine
. That's how I operate, for better or worse. Maybe I'm a dinosaur. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe…” He trailed off, clearing his throat uneasily. “Maybe I'm slipping. I entered into a financial relationship with a new backer a couple of weeks ago, and well, I would never have gotten myself into something like this in the old days. But I'm tapped out, like I said. And he seemed so legit.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“A slick young hedge fund billionaire named R. J. Farnell.”

“R as in Robert, Richard…?”

“I honestly don't know. He's a Brit, maybe thirty-five years old. Loves the theater. Is crazy about
Wuthering Heights
. And he promised he'd advance me the twelve million that I've got to have if I'm actually going to open.”

“I saw an item about him on Cricket O'Shea's Web site. She called him ‘that noted theatrical benefactor John Q. Somebody.'”

“That's because I wouldn't tell her his name. R.J. wants his identity kept under wraps.”

“Why?”

“How would I know why?” Morrie blustered. “He wants what he wants, and I'm respecting it. I need the guy's money. R.J. looked me right in the eye, shook my hand and promised he'd give it to me. As a good faith gesture he even handed me a hundred thou in cash.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Is what unusual?”

“Cash.”

“Not in this business,” Morrie said with a shake of his head. “R.J. assured me he'd be sending me a certified check for twelve mil by messenger by the end of the week. I'm talking about
last
week, Benji. I was counting on that money. I went ahead and made promises to certain people. My landlord, just for starters. That theater costs me a fortune to hold on to. And my newest angels. I've landed some solid new investors thanks to the promise of R.J.'s twelve mil. Just in the past forty-eight hours I've connected with a garment industry exec and another guy who's the founder and president of the second-largest denture adhesive company in North America. They've verbally committed one mil apiece. But if R.J. doesn't come through…” Morrie's face dropped. “And he hasn't. In fact, he's disappeared. The phone numbers he gave me have been disconnected. He's moved out of his house. The bastard's
gone
.”

“How did you hook up with him in the first place?”

“He called me up. We spoke several times on the phone. He seemed highly intelligent, very charming and very serious about committing money to my show. He invited me out to his place in East Hampton for lunch, so I went.”

“When was this?”

“Two weeks ago, like I said. He had a beautiful home on Lily Pond Lane. Beach view, swimming pool, the works.”

“Describe him for me, please.”

“Okay, sure. He's tall and good looking, with slicked back hair and a three-day growth of beard. Not lacking in the self-confidence department, if you read me. Knows a lot about vintage sports cars and sailboats. His accent, I would say, defies categorization. Sometimes he sounds like he's out of Eton and Cambridge, other times like he has no breeding at all. He told me he'd moved here from London to make his fortune. Left Goldman Sachs a few years back to start his own hedge fund, the Venusian Society.” Morrie paused, letting his breath out slowly. “Benji, I can smell a phony from a mile away. I honestly thought R.J. was the genuine goods. Maybe a teeny tiny bit on the shady side, but genuine.”

“Back up a second, please. Shady as in…?”

Morrie made a sour face at me. “It's not like the old days. My angels used to be people of genuine class. I'm talking A-list Park Avenue dowagers in diamonds and furs. These days, I deal with people who call themselves ‘entrepreneurs' and ‘venture capitalists.' People who get rich by moving other people's money around. I don't know where that money comes from. And I don't want to know. I'd take money from Pol Pot if it meant that
Wuthering Heights
would open.”

“I think Pol Pot's dead.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, that's going to be me if you can't save me.”

“Didn't you have someone check Farnell out?”

“Like who?” he demanded.

“Your lawyer, your accountant…”

“
I'm
a lawyer. And I do my own books. Leah did check out the Venusian Society's Web site, which looked totally legit. It was filled with all sorts of testimonials from real life investors who'd made millions by investing with him and … God, this sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud, doesn't it? You're absolutely right. I should have done a more thorough job of vetting him. But I was desperate. R.J. threw me a lifeline. I grabbed it. Now he's yanked it away. I don't know where he went. And I don't know why. I don't know a goddamned thing, except that if you don't find him—and my twelve mil—I'll be finished as a Broadway producer.”

“You met him only that one time in East Hampton?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“You communicated the rest of the time by phone?”

“Yeah.” With a grunt he reached for a bulging leather address book on the coffee table, removed a slip of Morley Hotel notepaper and handed it to me. On it he'd scrawled two phone numbers. One had a 646 New York City area code, the other an East Hampton 631.

“How about e-mail?”

“I don't like e-mail. I prefer to talk to people.”

“Did you talk to anyone else who he's connected with?”

“His girlfriend.”

“So there's a girlfriend?”

Morrie nodded. “A little blonde who looks good in a bikini. She's young. No more than eighteen, nineteen years old.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Jonquil Beausoleil. That's not a name you forget. She calls herself Boso. Has a slight Southern accent. Comes from … Charleston, maybe? One of those places.”

“What else can you tell me about her?”

Morrie shrugged his soft shoulders. “She's a showbiz tartlet. A nothing. You throw a stick on Jones Beach and you'll hit a hundred just like her. She was desperate for a part in
Wuthering Heights
. Even slipped me her headshot. Dense I am not. R.J. never said the words out loud but I figured she was attached to the twelve mil. So I promised I'd audition her for an understudy role.” He turned his head and bellowed, “Hey, Leah…?!”

“What…?!”

“Bring me a headshot for a girl named Jonquil Beausoleil, will ya?”

“Jonquil
who
?”

“Beausoleil!”

“Gimme a sec! I have to find it!”

“And did you audition her?” I asked Morrie.

“Couldn't.”

“Why not?”

“She's disappeared, too.”

“I see…”

“I asked around, Benji, and everyone says you're the best there is at finding missing girls.”

“And boys.”

“Excuse me?”

“I also find boys.”

“R.J. couldn't keep his eyes, or his hands, off of this girl. I'm no expert at what you do, but it seems to me that if you can find her you'll find him.”

“So you still think he's for real?”

Morrie's face tightened. “He has to be.”

“If he is then why'd he disappear on you?”

“That's what I'm paying you to find out.”

Leah appeared with the headshot, glaring at the fresh piece of Scotch tape on Morrie's forehead. But she didn't yank this one off. Just handed me the headshot and went back in her office.

Jonquil Beausoleil was pretty in what casting agents call a California-girl way. Her long blond hair was parted down the middle. Her smile was sunny and playful. Her eyes were wide set. Except I saw something in those eyes that I recognized. And didn't like one bit. It made me shudder involuntarily. “You said you saw her in a bikini. Does she have any ink or piercings?”

He had to think about it. “Yeah, she has a tattoo of a sunflower on the top of her foot. Her left one, I think. I don't understand why you kids do that to yourselves.”

The headshot was of professional quality. I turned it over, but there was no mention of who'd taken it. Or an agency listing for Jonquil Beausoleil. The only info on the back was her name and phone number.

“You tried calling this number?”

“It's been disconnected.”

“Does Actors' Equity know anything about her?”

“Actors' Equity has never heard of her. Can you can find her?”

“I can find her, Mr. Frankel. But let's be clear about one thing. I can't guarantee you that I'll find your twelve million. Do you understand?”

“No, I
don't
understand! I've been doing this for forty years and I've never had an angel leave me holding the bag like this. Why would someone want to do this to me?”

“Just exactly how conniving and ruthless is Ira Gottfried of Panorama?”

Morrie raised an eyebrow at me, or tried. The Scotch tape wouldn't let him. “Why, what are you thinking?”

“You said he'd love nothing better than to be your partner in
Wuthering Heights
. Is there any chance he might engineer something like this to force your hand?”

“More than a chance,” he acknowledged.

“Who else wants you to fail?”

“That lying, two-faced bastard Henderson Lebow.”

“Your director?”

“
Ex
-director.”

“Who else?”

“Plenty of people.”

“Like who?”

“Like the other producers in town. The big boys with the deep pockets. Take a stroll up and down the theater district. Study the marquees. Each and every one of those hit musicals will start losing fannies on a nightly basis once
Wuthering Heights
opens. My show will be
the
hottest ticket on Broadway and they know it. It'll cost those greedy bastards millions.”

“Are you saying they may have colluded against you to bury
Wuthering Heights
?”

“It wouldn't be the first time that's happened. This isn't a gentlemanly business, Benji.” He tilted his head at me curiously. “You think I'm being a paranoid nut, don't you?”

“I'm thinking it sounds awfully elaborate. Also expensive. You told me Farnell coughed up a hundred thou. That's a lot of money.”

“Not to them it isn't. Speaking of money, your employer mentioned something on the phone about a retainer in the form of a certified check for five thousand. My personal check will be just as good, won't it?”

“No, it will not.”