Phantom Angel by David Handler Page B

fresh air and sunshine. Hey, listen, I don’t mean to be rude but where are you taking me?”
    â€œNot to worry. You’re in safe hands.” I steered us uptown on West Street, skirting alongside of the Hudson River toward TriBeCa and the West Village. “So who set up that phony Web site?”
    â€œPetey. He’s the webmaster for sweetgirls and babesalone. He works downstairs in the computer room.”
    â€œYou mean at the Crown Towers?”
    â€œYeah. He’s very shy, but a total wiz. Pretty much the brains of the outfit. Although don’t let his cousin, Little Joe, hear you say that. Little Joe thinks he runs things.”
    â€œAre you talking about Joe Minetta, Jr.?”
    â€œYeah. He thinks he’s some kind of rock star because his dad owns the company.”
    West Street becomes Eleventh Avenue once you hit Gansevoort in the West Village. I took that uptown past the Chelsea Piers—home to Silver Screen Studios, where I filmed my guest shots on Law & Order and also auditioned for a Mucinex commercial that I didn’t get.
    â€œBy ‘the company’ you mean the Minetta crime family. You do know that you’re working for the mob, don’t you?”
    â€œYou make them sound like bad people.”
    â€œThey are bad people.”
    â€œNo, you’re wrong. The guys I work for are, like, total sweeties. They went to Seton Hall together. They’re frat boys. And the girls are real nice, too.”
    I took Twelfth Avenue past the Javits Center and Hell’s Kitchen, or Clinton as people now prefer to call it. When we reached Midtown I hung a right onto West 57th and maneuvered us toward Lincoln Center, where I ditched the Brougham in one of those garages that charge by the half hour. Morrie Frankel was still paying for my time. And, for all I knew, Sue Herrera had put out a BOLO on me. She seemed like the vindictive type.
    â€œLet’s walk,” I said.
    Boso wouldn’t budge. “ Where are you taking me?”
    I grabbed us two water bottles from the cooler in back, then reached for her gym bag on the floor at her feet. There was something inside of it that was surprisingly heavy and clunky. “Here, you may want this,” I said, placing the bag in her lap.
    â€œWhy should I go anywhere with you?” she demanded.
    â€œI’ve been sitting in this car for hours. I think better when I stretch my legs.”
    â€œWhat’s there to think about?”
    â€œHow we’re going to get you out of this mess that you’re in.”
    â€œI’m not in any mess.”
    â€œTrust me, you are. So just shut up and walk with me, okay?”
    She shut up and walked with me. She was at least two inches shorter than I am. Maybe even three. It felt kind of nice to walk with a girl who didn’t tower over me. We headed west on West 66th Street. After one block Boso no longer had to wonder where we were going—we’d run smack into Central Park, which was crowded with people seeking relief from the heat. There was deep shade and coolness to be found in the park. Young mothers were out pushing their double-wide all-terrain strollers. Vendors were selling cold drinks and Italian ices. I steered us toward the Sheep’s Meadow. Every guy who walked in our direction eyeballed Boso as he went by. She was eye candy. A tanned, toned blonde in a cropped, skin-tight tank top and spandex shorts. She seemed oblivious to their stares. The male of the species, I supposed, had been staring at her for as long as she could remember.
    â€œI’m not in any mess,” she said to me with great insistence, her gym bag thrown over one shoulder. “So I’m a webcam girl. So I take my clothes off. Maybe that seems sleazy to you or whatever. But to me it’s just an acting gig.”
    I led her in the direction of the Mall. When we reached the Bandshell she came to a halt, her jaw stuck out. “Hey, wait, this is where I