Phantom Angel by David Handler Page B

lover’s quarrel.”
    â€œYou hear right. Morrie found out that Henderson was dogging him with a much younger man.”
    â€œAny guesses who that much younger man was?”
    â€œThis reporter doesn’t have to guess. This reporter knows. Henderson was, and still is, getting it on with loincloth boy himself, as in ‘Me Tarzan.’”
    â€œWait, he’s sleeping with Matthew Puntigam?”
    â€œKa-ching. And puh-leeze don’t tell me that can’t be possible because Matthew is so deeply, truly in love with Hannah Lane, as in ‘She Jane.’ He’s British. He’s an actor. Hello, they are all switch-hitters.”
    â€œHang on a sec, I want to write this down.”
    She swatted me again. “I’m giving you the goods here, cutie.”
    â€œDoes Hannah know?”
    â€œPoor thing hasn’t a clue. Hannah has the approximate I.Q. of a parakeet. She’s also incredibly naïve. So’s Matthew, for that matter, but Henderson loves him the baby boys. In fact, if you don’t watch out he’ll hit on you .”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œRight now. He just walked in the door. And he’s not alone.”
    In fact, the ex-director of Wuthering Heights was accompanied by none other than Matthew and Hannah—not to mention the two-dozen yammering paparazzi who were crowded outside the bistro’s glass door like brain-eating zombies.
    â€œWhat’s Henderson doing out in public with them?”
    â€œPoking Morrie in the eye with a sharp stick. What do you think?”
    I thought Matthew and Hannah looked incredibly young, which they were. He was twenty-three, she was twenty-two. Also shockingly tiny. They were like a matched pair of miniature movie star dolls. Hannah had huge, protruding green eyes that were set freakishly wide apart, plump, bee-stung lips and flawless ivory skin. Her trademark strawberry blonde ringlets fell practically to her waist. She wore a gauzy off-the-shoulder top that accentuated her fine-boned delicacy, a pair of leggings and flip-flops. Matthew had the jaw and shoulders of a big brute even though he was no more than a junior welterweight, tops. Actually, I thought his jutting jaw and prominent brow made him look like a caveman. But I’m told that women go weak in the knees for cavemen. Matthew’s jaw muscles were tightly clenched and he was glowering. Glowering was his thing. He was unshaven and his long, dark brown hair was uncombed. He had on a white T-shirt with the sleeves chopped off to show off his arms, khakis with the cuffs rolled up and a pair of rope-soled espadrilles.
    The maître d’ greeted them warmly. They started their way past us toward the dining room, Henderson bringing up the rear.
    Cricket hurled herself in front of them. “How’s the ankle doing, Hannah?”
    â€œMy ankle feels perfectly fine,” Hannah responded in her trademark soft, trembly voice. “The doctor has cleared me to resume normal activities. I’m back in the dance studio.” She almost seemed to be reciting the words, as if they’d been scripted for her.
    â€œThat’s great, hon. Hey, Matthew, does the name R. J. Farnell mean anything to you?”
    â€œNo, it does not,” he answered in a haughty, dismissive voice. “Should it?”
    â€œJust wondered if you knew him.” Cricket stepped aside so they could pass.
    â€œI thought we were going to keep his name between us,” I growled at her.
    â€œMatthew’s a Brit. R.J.’s a Brit. I took a shot. Don’t look at me that way. This is what I do.”
    â€œDo not repeat that name again, Cricket.”
    â€œOkay, okay. Don’t be such a lame-o.”
    Henderson Lebow was way more anxious for face time with Cricket than the young stars had been. He even seemed happy to see her. “How are you this evening, you little firecracker?”
    â€œI’m making it happen, Henderson. You know Benji