Phantom Angel by David Handler Read Free Book Online

who’d been willing to sleep with Philly Joe told him that she’d tried to cope with his cooties but couldn’t. There was no denying that he had them. Cooties, that is. There was something just a bit off about Philly Joe.
    Helen’s was doing a brisk business at five o’clock. The Early Bird Special crowd flocked there. So did the Lower East Side’s young hipsters. Philly Joe was on the job in a white shirt, black slacks and white apron. He was pushing seventy. His shock of red hair was streaked with gray. But he was still a comically gangly, splay-footed creature as he made his way down the aisle balancing a tray full of borscht. An adroit waiter he was not. Shaky was more like it.
    â€œHiya, Benji boy,” he called to me cheerfully. “Want some dinner?”
    â€œInformation, actually. I’m in a position to pay you.”
    â€œAnd I’m in a position to let you. I’ll take my break.”
    He joined me out on the sidewalk a few minutes later, minus his apron. The thermometer was still hovering in the upper 90s, and the humidity was stifling. But we didn’t have far to go. Philly Joe lived right around the corner from the restaurant in the same rent-stabilized studio apartment he’d always had. He was a tidy housekeeper. His bed was made. Everything was nice and neat. Just not clean. Philly Joe’s apartment had cooties same as he did. It was as if he’d polished the furniture with earwax.
    He’d left the window air conditioner set on low. He cranked it up to high and parked himself at his round oak dining table, which was anchored by a twenty-seven-inch Mac desktop computer. “Who have we got?” he asked, stretching and popping his fingers like a pianist preparing to play a concerto.
    I passed him Boso’s headshot and sat in the chair next to his. Not too close.
    He squinted at it, twitching his busy beak of a nose. “Hmm … Her face isn’t much to go on. There are an awful lot of girls who look like this. Any tats?”
    â€œA sunflower on her left foot.”
    Now Philly Joe raised his eyebrows at me. “Are you sure it’s not her right foot?”
    â€œI’m not sure of anything. Why, do you know her?”
    â€œI might, my young friend. I just might. You know who I’m thinking of? Sweet young Cassia. Also known as Lisa B and Eva E. These girls go by a million aliases, which I don’t have to tell the man whose mom used to call herself Abraxas. What’s this sweetie’s real name?”
    â€œJonquil Beausoleil. She calls herself Boso. Have you seen her?”
    â€œOh, I’ve seen her. I never forget a rosebud. And this girl has herself a real beaut.” He started tapping away at his keyboard. “Hmm … She doesn’t have her own Web site yet. Not under any of her aliases. Is she new at this?”
    â€œBeen at it less than two months.”
    â€œStill getting her dainty feet wet. In that case…” He tapped away some more. “Yeppers, here she is. She’s listed as Cassia on sweetgirls.com and as Lisa B and Eva E on babesalone.com . Those are both so-called good girl sites. Nothing more than modeling and webcams. In the world of hardcore that makes her a virgin—unless she’s also hooking on the side, which at least half of them are. But why go there? It’ll just depress us.… I’m finding two photo galleries and one video. Ready to check her out?”
    A gallery of twelve color photographs came up on his computer screen. He converted it to a slide show for me. A slide show of Boso sprawled this way and that on a bed wearing a black velvet thong and nothing else—unless you count that tattoo on her right foot. Her long blond hair was tousled. Her big blue eyes promised all sorts of carnal delights. She had an amazingly well-toned little body, just like Farmer John said. And a golden, all-over tan. Rose petals were scattered across the