Murder at Union Station

SIXTEEN

Marienthal’s Delta shuttle flight to New York was delayed by thunderstorms that moved through Reagan National Airport that morning. He arrived at La Guardia almost a full hour later than planned and took a taxi into the city, where he was left off in front of an office building on Park Avenue South. He checked his watch; he still had fifteen minutes before his scheduled meeting and used it to grab a coffee and Danish at a luncheonette next door. Fortified, he entered the lobby, took the first available elevator, and rode to the ninth floor, where the offices of the publishing company, Hobbes, were located.

“I’m Rich Marienthal,” he told the young, moonfaced blonde receptionist. “I have an appointment with Sam Greenleaf.”

“Have a seat,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Marienthal browsed a recent issue of People until Greenleaf appeared. “Hello, Rich,” he said, crossing the reception area and shaking hands. “Come on in.”

Greenleaf, Hobbes House’s managing editor, was a large man in all ways-head, face, body, and hands. Sporting an unkempt reddish beard, he wore brown corduroy slacks, well-worn space shoes that showed the result of supporting excess weight for too long, and a checked shirt undoubtedly bought through a big-and-tall-man catalogue. He led Marienthal to a sizable office as disorganized as his personal appearance, moved files from a chair in front of a desk overflowing with books and papers, and invited Marienthal to sit. Photographs dangled crookedly on the walls. A window in need of washing reluctantly allowed gray light into the room. The powdery remains of crumb cake were scattered on a piece of foil on the desk.

“Good trip?” he asked.

“Delayed. Weather in D.C. But I’m here.”

“Good, good. Coffee?”

“Just had some.”

Greenleaf used the phone on his desk to ask someone to fetch him a cup, sat back, and shook his head. “Couldn’t believe the news when you called me,” he said. “Incredible. Who the hell could ever have forecast such a thing?”

“Not me, Sam. That’s for sure.”

Greenleaf came forward and rested his chin on a bridge formed by his hands. “What’s the latest, Rich? I mean, do you know who did it?”

“I have no idea.”

Marienthal adjusted his position in the chair and looked at one of the photographs on the wall, a formally posed portrait of the publishing house’s founder and namesake, Wallace Hobbes. The founder, now deceased, claimed to be a distant relation-very distant-to the seventeenth-century English political philosopher Thomas Hobbes. Hobbes had spawned the movement known as Hobbism, whose creed claimed that human beings were so lazy, selfish, and self-aggrandizing that only an absolute monarchy could control them. Why Wallace Hobbes-or anyone for that matter-would want to claim a relationship to a man with such ideas was lost on Marienthal.

Greenleaf returned to a more relaxed posture in his oversized, overstuffed office chair. “What do you figure, Rich, that those former friends of his who ended up behind bars because of his big mouth finally got even? But why now? Didn’t you tell me Russo was a sick man?”

“Revenge is the most logical explanation,” Marienthal said, reaching into a pocket of his tan safari jacket for a Kleenex. “I think I’m getting a cold,” he said, blowing his nose.

“Summer colds are the worst,” said Greenleaf. “They tend to hang on forever.”

“So I’ve heard. Look, Sam, the question now is, what does this do to the book?”

Greenleaf held up his hand. “Hard to say. It’s all so new. I’ve already been on the phone with Pamela. She’s not happy at this turn of events.”

Pamela Warren was Hobbes’s publisher, a steely woman who’d come up through the ranks at other publishing houses. Those who knew her and had worked with her agreed that she was a savvy businesswoman, a careful publisher, and utterly humorless, especially when it came to the bottom line.

“I’m not happy either,” Marienthal said, “about a lot of things. But that’s irrelevant. The question is how to get around it.” He frowned as a new and unwelcome thought came to him. “She’s not considering yanking the book, is she?”

Greenleaf raised his palm against what had been said. “No fear of that, Rich. The story you’ve so adroitly put together will still have impact, whether Mr. Russo is alive or not.” He paused; an unpleasant expression crossed his face. “Of course,” he said, “we have lost the timing and the event, the very things we were counting on. How that will impact sales is another question.”

Marienthal had expected this issue to be raised and had formulated a response. He started to express it but was interrupted by the arrival of Greenleaf’s coffee. The editor tasted it, swiveled in the chair, reached for something on the credenza behind him, and handed Marienthal a color proof of his book’s jacket.

“We were supposed to have finished books by now,” Marienthal said.

A shrug from Greenleaf. “The wheels of publishing grind slow, Rich. Your book has gone from manuscript to print faster than we’ve ever done before. It’s coming off the presses as we speak. But getting books into the stores is our problem. Your problem is what happens now in Washington. Have you spoken with your friend on the Hill?”

“Last night.”

“And?”

“And they want to go forward with the hearings, using the book.”

“Having a book take the oath isn’t nearly as sexy as having your Mr. Russo do it.”

“You say that as though I could have done something to prevent his getting killed.”

“No, no, no, Rich. I wasn’t suggesting that. It’s just that…”

Marienthal cocked his head. “Just?”

“It’s just that when you brought us the proposal, its appeal was-well, let’s just say there was a built-in publicity hook that helped in our decision to buy it. It was something that Pamela-that we were counting on. Here. Look.”

He gave Marienthal mock-ups of ads that had been prepared by an outside agency. Marienthal scanned them quickly and put them on the desk. “What can I say, Sam? They’ll have to be redone.”

“Provided Pamela is willing to lay out the money to do them over. She runs a tight ship, Rich. I’ll be meeting with her this afternoon. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, we have to go with what we have, minus your inconsiderate Louis Russo.”

“Inconsiderate?”

Greenleaf laughed away his words. “Getting himself killed the way he did. Bad timing, if nothing else.”

Marienthal resisted commenting on Greenleaf’s insensitivity. While his relationship with Louis Russo had initially been solely for the purpose of writing a book, he’d grown to like the old mafioso.

It hadn’t been easy convincing Russo to tell his story for the book Marienthal intended to write. He’d had to work at gaining his trust and had been uncomfortable at times with things he’d said and promised to achieve that trust. Russo, if not exactly a gracious host during Marienthal’s frequent visits to Tel Aviv, had been unfailingly courteous. So had the woman, Sasha, whose good-natured challenges to Russo seemed exactly what was needed to pick up his spirits when they flagged, and to spur him to believe he might live to see another day.

When Marienthal had started writing his novel about a Mafia hit man, it was inconceivable that he would wind up having Hobbes as his publisher. Hobbes published only nonfiction-right-wing nonfiction at that-reflecting the house’s conservative editorial philosophy. It was known as a willing conduit for books generated by the conservative elements in government, and according to some in the publishing industry was handsomely compensated by those elements-a vanity press for special interests whose message matched that of the publisher.

Rich’s numerous meetings with Russo in Israel had provided the sort of inside knowledge he needed to give the novel the ring of truthfulness and authenticity. The old man was a good storyteller and seemed to enjoy reliving his days on the streets and in the so-called social clubs of his Mafia family: the women and the rubouts, his brushes with the law, the colorful characters who were his friends and later his enemies. During one of Marienthal’s earlier visits to Tel Aviv, Russo had told him a story that shocked the young writer. Was it true? Could it be true? Whether it was or not, it provided Rich with a powerful scene to include in the novel.

Not long after returning from that trip, he was introduced to Geoff Lowe at a party.

“What kind of things do you write?” Lowe asked.

Rich told him about the novel and mentioned the startling story Russo had told him, adding, “Probably apocryphal.”

At Lowe’s urging, they met for lunch the next day.

After Rich had delivered a more complete version of Russo’s story over burgers and beer at Hawk and Dove-Lowe’s treat-Lowe asked, “Why the hell are you doing it as a novel?”

“I don’t know,” Marienthal replied. “I suppose because I’m a novelist.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” said Lowe, “but how many first novels sell? I mean, Christ, what’s the chances of even finding a decent publisher?”

“It won’t be easy, Geoff, but I’m confident.”

Lowe drained his beer and wiped his mouth. “Listen to me,” he said, leaning closer. “What if I can guarantee you a publishing contract?”

Marienthal laughed. “Guarantee me? What are you, a literary agent? I thought you worked for Senator Widmer.”

“I do, but I have connections in New York. Look, Rich, I really like you. I don’t know, we seem to just hit it off. If you’d be willing to change your book into a nonfiction account of the story the old guy told you, I can get Hobbes to publish it.”

“Hobbes? They do what, nonfiction. Right-wing stuff.”

“And they’re damn good at it. I know they’d love a book like this.”

“The story’s not enough to support a whole book.”

“Don’t be silly. You pad it with all the history leading up to it and what came after. I can have one of our researchers help.”

Marienthal sat back and slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” said Lowe, slapping his credit card on the check. “But you’ll be passing up a big advance and a ton of publicity. Hell, you’ll make your name with this book and can go on and write all the novels you want.”

They parted on the sidewalk.

“I’ll let you know,” Marienthal said.

“Okay, but don’t wait too long. This book would fit in with some other plans I’m working on. These chances don’t come along every day. Ciao!”

Rich called Lowe a week later. “I’d like to discuss the book again,” he said.

“Great. Lunch? One?”

“Sure. Lunch at one.”

And that’s how it started.

Marienthal was well aware of Russo’s failing health and admired his gritty determination not to give in to self-pity. The old man was a tough bird, not surprising considering his background, but impressive nonetheless. Marienthal hadn’t had time since the murder to allow feelings to intrude upon the shock of Russo’s death, but a measure of sadness had begun to surface. He’d lost someone with whom he’d become close. A piece of him was suddenly gone.

“Going to Washington is the best thing for him,” Sasha had told Marienthal when he prepared to leave Tel Aviv after his most recent visit. “It will give him a purpose to meet some of your friends there.”

“Don’t worry, Sasha,” Rich had said. “I’ll take good care of him.”

Guilt, too, had joined sadness.

“Maybe his murder will help sell books,” Marienthal offered weakly, and not pleased with the thought.

“Maybe, but nothing compared to having him testify,” Greenleaf said.

“Will you have advance copies before the hearings?” Marienthal asked.

“I’ll push for it. You’ll still testify. Right?”

“That’s the plan. It would be better if I had a book in hand.”

“You have the galley proofs. That may have to do.”

“Do what you can, Sam. Look, I realize what happened yesterday changes things. That was beyond my control. But it doesn’t mean the book-the story-isn’t as valid. Geoff, Senator Widmer’s top aide, thinks what the book has to say will stand on its own.”

“But without Russo to confirm it in person, it’s liable to be dismissed as nothing more than the fantasies of some old mafioso looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. That’s the way reviewers might react.”

Marienthal stood. “I’ll do everything I can, Sam. You know that.”

“Of course you will,” Greenleaf said, also standing and coming around the desk. He draped his arm over Marienthal’s shoulders and walked him to the reception area. “Look,” he said as they waited for the elevator, “I’ll work this end. But do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“Keep me informed. No surprises. Our publicity people want to coordinate their work with the hearings. Leak some of the juicier stuff just before the hearings start.”

The elevator arrived.

“Funny,” Greenleaf said.

“What’s funny?”

“Your friend, Russo, is going to get his fifteen minutes of fame anyway. Posthumously.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Marienthal said, stepping into the elevator and watching Greenleaf disappear behind the closing doors.