Phantom Angel by David Handler Page A

before I could say a word. She took the call. “What’s the up? Uh-huh … Uh- huh … Love it. Love you . Later.” Rang off and said, “Benji, puh-leeze tell me you’re here because you need me.”
    â€œI’m here because I need you. Can I order you something?”
    â€œIs somebody else buying?”
    â€œSomebody else is.”
    â€œGive me an Irish coffee, Al!” she called out to the bartender.
    â€œCricket, it’s ninety-six degrees outside,” I pointed out.
    â€œDoesn’t matter. I’m always cold—especially my feet.” Her eyes twinkled at me. “As you may remember.”
    Cricket wasn’t just any classmate. She owned my virginity. It was she who’d made the first move. I was kind of shy in those days. Cricket kind of wasn’t. “So are you going to fuck me or what?” she’d demanded one night over beers at the White Horse Tavern. So I did. And it wasn’t very good. Not unless elbowy, gulpy and rapid-fire are your idea of good. I don’t know if it was her fault or mine. I do know that I’ve been considerably more successful with other women. Not that there have been a lot. Not unless three is your idea of a lot. But Cricket and I just didn’t click that way. So we settled for being friends.
    Her cell rang again. She took the call and listened a moment before she said, “Already heard about it. Hit me next time, okay?” Rang off as the bartender brought her the steaming Irish coffee. She took a sip, her tongue flicking the creamy foam from her upper lip. “What can I do for you, cutie?”
    â€œEver hear of a Broadway angel by the name of R. J. Farnell?”
    â€œCan’t say I have because I haven’t. Who he?”
    I forked some French fries into my mouth, chewing on them. “The guy who’s supposed to save Wuthering Heights .”
    She let out a roar of laughter, turning heads. Cricket has mighty large lungs for someone so little. “You mean Withering Heights don’t you? No one can save that show. It’s the biggest disaster in the history of the theater.” She peered at me in her inscrutable way. “Please don’t tell me you’re working for Morrie Frankel.”
    â€œOkay, I won’t.”
    â€œMy God, you are, aren’t you?”
    â€œWhat have you heard?”
    She crinkled her nose. “Just that Morrie has a John Q. Somebody out there. He won’t tell a soul who the guy is. Are you telling me his name’s R. J. Farnell?”
    â€œThis is strictly between us. You’ll burn me if you spread it around.”
    â€œI won’t,” she promised. “Scout’s honor.”
    â€œYes, his name’s Farnell. He’s a British hedge fund billionaire, or claims to be. Has a girlfriend named Jonquil Beausoleil.” I pulled out my phone and showed her a photo of Boso on that bed in her black velvet thong.
    Cricket studied it carefully. “Don’t know her. She’s cute.”
    â€œShe’s okay,” I said quietly.
    Cricket swatted me on the shoulder. “Talk to me, will you? What’s the up?”
    â€œFarnell promised to bail Morrie out to the tune of twelve mil. But now he and his twelve mil have vanished, and if Morrie can’t find him he’s going to lose Wuthering Heights —and what’s left of his reputation. He’ll be done.”
    â€œMorrie Frankel is a consummate fucktard. There’s no shortage of people who wouldn’t mind seeing that happen.”
    â€œLike who?”
    â€œWhere do you want me to start?”
    â€œWith that major dustup he and Henderson Lebow had. Is it true that they actually came to blows in Joe Allen’s?”
    â€œIt wasn’t much of a fight,” she sniffed. “Morrie punched him and Henderson belly flopped on somebody’s table with his head in their salad Niçoise.”
    â€œI hear it was a