Read Online Phantom Angel by David Handler - Free Book Online

Golden?”
    The Tony Award-winning director eyed me up and down greedily. He didn’t lick his chops like the Big Bad Wolf but he did appear to drool slightly. Henderson was in his fifties but looked younger. He was extremely fit. His tanned face was smooth and unlined, his glossy black hair thick and free of gray. He wore a snug-fitting lime-green Izod shirt with the collar turned up just so and even snugger-fitting blue jeans. “Why, yes, I believe so,” he said to me warmly. “I auditioned you for Bye Bye Birdie, didn’t I?”
    â€œNo, sir, you didn’t.”
    â€œYet I’m positive we’ve met.”
    â€œYou spoke to my drama class at NYU. I asked you a question afterward.”
    â€œWhat did you…?”
    â€œIf you thought that the musical comedy was dead.”
    â€œAnd what did I…?”
    â€œYou said, ‘Not as long as there are people out there who yearn to be swept away to somewhere magical.’”
    Henderson arched an eyebrow at me. “God, I’m full of shit. So you’re an actor?”
    â€œPrivate investigator.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.”
    â€œHe’s working for Morrie,” Cricket said. “Although he won’t admit it.”
    â€œWell, good luck with that, Benji. I wish Morrie well. Would you like to know why?”
    â€œYes, sir, I would.”
    â€œBecause as long as Morrie’s around people won’t think I’m the biggest scumbag in town.” He winked at me, then went off to join Matthew and Hannah, who were seated at a table for four being stared at by everyone in the place.
    I went back to work on my cheeseburger while Cricket thumbed out a quick tweet about what had just transpired. She was never off the clock. “I don’t get it,” I said to her. “Henderson Lebow can, and apparently does, sleep with any hunky young actor he wants. Why on earth would he sleep with Morrie?”
    â€œBecause he’s consumed by self-loathing,” she answered with great confidence. “Deep down inside, all gay men are.”
    â€œHang on, I want to write this one down, too.”
    â€œYou didn’t used to be so sarcastic, cutie.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t used to talk out of your ass.”
    â€œIt’s the Web site,” she conceded. “I spew and spew and no one ever tells me to shut up. Plus the Times Styles section just called me one of the five most influential people on Broadway. That sort of thing can go to a person’s head, believe me.”
    â€œOh, I do.”
    â€œOMG!” Cricket gasped, swatting me yet again. My arms used to be black and blue when we were together. She was staring at the front door in wide-eyed disbelief. “OMG!”
    The single most powerful and enigmatic man in the entire entertainment industry, Ira Gottfried, the bicoastal chief of Panorama Studios, had just walked in. Ira Gottfried had bankrolled and reaped billions from the Tarzan trilogy. And he had Matthew and Hannah under contract to star in a fourth Tarzan blockbuster. He was a new-age mogul—an ascetic, forty-something tai chi master and practicing Buddhist, a loner with no wife, no kids and no vices. He had no social or romantic life that anyone knew about. Fasted at an ashram in the Mojave Desert for a week at a time to clarify his thoughts. And was famously reserved and understated. He was tall and gaunt. Wore his graying hair in a ponytail. Was dressed in a black silk shirt, black jeans and black suede Puma Classics. He always wore black. I’m guessing his underwear was black, too, though it wasn’t something I wanted to devote a lot of time to thinking about. Morrie Frankel had called him Count Dracula. To most people he was known as the Man in Black.
    Cricket, who did not lack for balls, barged on over and intercepted him before the maître d’ could. “Please tell me this isn’t a coincidence, Ira.”
    â€œI’m