Phantom Angel by David Handler Page A

How did Morrie—?”
    â€œSeven.”
    â€œHow did he get your phone number?”
    â€œI auditioned for a role in the chorus. Me and everyone else. There were people lined up all the way around the block.”
    â€œA cattle call, sure. Been there, done that.”
    â€œWait, you’re an actor ?”
    â€œI was. Did a couple of episodes of Law & Order, a week on a soap.”
    Boso looked at me in astonishment. “Who are you, my brother from another mother?”
    â€œYou’d like my mother, actually. She used to be a pole dancer.”
    â€œWhat happened to your acting career?”
    â€œThe phone stopped ringing. And my family’s business needed me.”
    â€œDon’t you miss it? You must.”
    â€œWe were talking about you, remember?”
    â€œRight, okay. No need to get touchy, Mr. Sensitive.” She gazed back out the window. “I couldn’t believe it when my cell rang and it was Morrie Frankel on the other end.”
    â€œDid you leave your headshot there after the cattle call?”
    â€œYeah, I did. And he told me an associate of his had recommended me.”
    â€œWas it Vicki Arduino?”
    â€œHe didn’t say.”
    â€œWhat was the favor Morrie asked you to do?”
    â€œPretend to be this guy Farnell’s executive assistant. Drive out to East Hampton and rent a fancy house for a month. He gave me an outfit to wear and the keys to a killer Porsche. Plus a briefcase stuffed with cash. It was kind of fun, actually. I got to act all bitchy with the realtor. Plus Morrie let me housesit out there. I swam in the pool and worked on my all-over tan, which I need for my modeling. A real tan is so much better than a salon tan. When you know it’s real you project that it’s real.”
    â€œThe realtor has a signed lease agreement. Who signed it?”
    â€œMorrie did. He talked to her on the phone, too, British accent and all.”
    â€œDid he ever show up out there?”
    â€œYeah, he came out once, on a Saturday, and took me to lunch at this super-fancy place in Sag Harbor called the American Hotel. A whole bunch of people kept coming over to our table and saying hi to him. Don’t ask me who any of them were. They all seemed rich and super impressed with themselves.”
    â€œDid they ask Morrie what he was doing out there?”
    â€œThey did. He said he was visiting a new backer. Me they ignored. I was just there to look nice. I had the seasonal mixed greens, which turned out to be arugula drowning in citrus-herbal vinaigrette. Morrie had clams and a steak and huge piece of strawberry shortcake. He sprays food when he talks. He’s a really disgusting eater.”
    Not to mention a major league bullshit artist. The great Morrie Frankel was paying us good money to find someone who he was fully aware didn’t exist—because he’d made him up. What in the hell for? “Tell me about that phony Web site for the Venusian Society. Did Morrie set that up himself?”
    â€œNot even. He isn’t tech savvy.”
    â€œIs Leah?”
    â€œWho’s Leah?”
    â€œHis assistant.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know. I’ve never dealt with her. Just Morrie. And he…” Boso suddenly let out a gasp, her eyes widening as she stared out the windshield ahead of us. “Oh, lord…”
    We were descending into the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, which burrows its way under the East River into lower Manhattan. She didn’t speak the whole time we were down in the tunnel. Or breathe, near as I could tell. Just sat there rigid with her fists clenched until we emerged back into bright daylight amongst the impossibly tall towers of the financial district.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    â€œI hate tunnels,” she gasped, inhaling deeply. “I always think they’re about to cave in right on top of me.”
    â€œHow are you with the subway?”
    â€œ Hate it. I need to be in the