Murder at Union Station

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sasha Levine had debated long and hard about flying to Washington to claim Louis’s body.

Her initial reaction when called in the evening, Israel time, by someone from the Washington MPD, was resignation. Louis was a sick old man. His death was just a matter of time, and she’d mentally prepared for the day it would come. Still, projecting an acceptance of the inevitable and experiencing it in real time are quite different things, which she would soon discover.

She slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle, went to the small terrace on which they’d spent so many lazy evenings, looked up into a threatening sky, and bellowed a cry of anguish that stopped passersby on the street below. She collapsed into a chair and wept softly and steadily until there were no tears left to shed.

Dry-eyed and carrying a freshly lit cigarette, she returned to the living room and stared at the phone. The caller hadn’t said how Louis had died. Had he collapsed on the street? Been rushed to a hospital? She hadn’t asked and now wanted to know. The caller had left a twenty-four-hour number in Washington. It was morning there, and she made the call.

“Murder?” she said, incredulous. “He was shot dead?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The end of that second call did not result in any hysterical outburst by Sasha. In a sense, his having been gunned down fit more neatly into who he was. At least what she knew about him.

Russo had been living in Tel Aviv under the witness protection program for almost a year when he met Sasha at the Tango nightclub in the Tel Aviv Sheraton Hotel, on Hayarkon Street. It was 1993; he was sixty-one years old, still physically and mentally fit, virile and self-assured. Although he wasn’t tall-five feet, seven inches-he carried himself in such a way that he appeared to be. Shoes with built-up heels contributed to the effect. She noticed that he dressed nicely, although he was overdressed in the informal atmosphere of the club-an Italian-cut double-breasted black suit, a white shirt with a high collar, a black tie, and pointy, polished black shoes.

Sasha was dressed that night in a tight black sweater and slacks, which showcased her full figure and complemented her close-cropped raven-colored hair. Of Jewish-Hungarian parentage, she’d immigrated to Israel from Budapest ten years earlier. Well-schooled, she spoke excellent English and quickly found work as an administrator in an Israeli import-export firm, whose major clients were American companies. Her decision to leave Hungary had been an easy one. Trapped in an abusive marriage, she’d happily walked away from it and looked forward to an exciting, fulfilling new life in that new frontier called Israel.

She accepted a drink from Russo at the nightclub’s bar and found him amusing. His New York accent was thick, adding to his colorful stories of life in Manhattan.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a businessman,” he said.

“What sort of business?”

“Construction.”

“Oh, you build things.”

“Yeah, something like that. Cigarette?”

“Thank you, yes.”

She gave him her phone number at the end of the evening, and he promised to call. She forgot about it until a week later when her phone rang. He asked her out to dinner, and she accepted, but not without reservations. Her previous experience with men had not been positive; it had left her gun-shy and distrustful. Still, a harmless dinner with this amusing older American man couldn’t hurt, a pleasant evening out, nothing more.

They dined on Dizengoff Street at a Chinese restaurant: “This Jewish food ain’t to my liking,” he’d announced when he told her where they’d be eating. She wore chino slacks and a white sweater to dinner. He wore a suit and tie, which set him apart from every-one else in the bustling, informal restaurant. It was like a continuation of their conversation at the bar the previous week. Russo was a natural-born storyteller, regaling her with stories of his youth in New York, his life on the streets, his parents, his friends, the wiseguys he knew, cop stories, trips he took to Miami and Los Angeles and Chicago, the celebrities he’d met: “I knew Sinatra pretty good,” he’d said. “I used to pal around with Don Rickles and-”

“Who’s he?”

“A famous comedian. I always had front row center when Sammy and Dino were in Vegas. One night-”

His life had certainly been an interesting one, colorful and unpredictable, but with a hint of danger, and she wondered whether he’d been involved in some sort of criminal activity. She’d read about the Mafia in America and had seen the Godfather movies. Had this funny man seated across from her, fumbling with his chopsticks, dressed so formally and with such exaggerated good manners, been like one of those men she’d seen in the movies and read about in books? She’d wanted to ask but was afraid to, so she accepted his claim of being in construction and had subsequent dinners with him, an occasional movie, a few drives to the seashore on sunny weekends. By this time, she found herself looking forward to seeing him, even missed him between their times together.

She didn’t know where he worked in Tel Aviv, or even if he did. When asked about it, he’d reply only that he was exploring business opportunities and hadn’t found the right one yet. He lived in a residence hotel, which she’d never visited, and always seemed to have money. And he was unfailingly polite, opening doors for her and standing whenever she approached the table, pulling her chair out for her, lighting her cigarettes, and never failing to introduce her as Miss Sasha Levine.

Loneliness on both their parts eventually closed the gap between them. Unpleasant memories of her failed marriage back in Budapest faded, and after many discussions in Tel Aviv’s cafes and restaurants, she agreed that they should begin living together. For Russo, this woman named Sasha Levine offered a refuge of sorts in a strange land in which he didn’t speak the language, practice the religion, or like the food. And so they moved into her apartment on Basel Street and had lived there in relative happiness over the ensuing years.

It was shortly after they’d started living together that Sasha learned who Louis Russo really was and why he was in Israel.

They’d been sitting on the balcony at sunset, sipping wine and discussing their respective days. She’d had a stressful experience at the import-export firm and commented that one of the partners had been making suggestive comments to her for the past few weeks. Although she’d witnessed an occasional flash of temper in Louis, his reaction this time was extreme. He stood and paced the terrace, swearing in English and Italian and demanding to know where the partner lived. “I’ll take care of the bastard tomorrow,” he snarled.

“No, no, Louis,” Sasha said, trying to calm him. “Don’t make such a tzimmes.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A fuss. It’s no big deal. He’s stupid, an ugly little man.”

“I’ll kill the bastard, he lays a hand on you.”

“Please, Louis, I’m sorry I mentioned it.” Her thoughts were on the revolver he’d brought with him when moving in. She’d asked about it: “For protection,” he’d explained, placing it on the highest shelf in a clothes closet and covering it with sweaters.

He sat again. “I killed people like him for less,” he muttered, his words barely audible.

“You what?”

He proceeded to tell her the story of his life-his entry into the gangs of New York, his work for organized crime, the men he’d killed-and of his testimony against his superiors and entrance into the witness protection program. It was as though he’d been wanting since meeting her to explain to her who he was, and he told her these things with a sense of pride, speaking the words flatly, as though reeling off a grocery list, looking out over the street to the buildings across from them, never looking at her. She listened in silence, at once shocked and fascinated.

When he was finished, he slowly turned and asked, “You want me to leave?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She paused before continuing. “It was good of you to have turned in your criminal friends. An honorable thing to do.”

“No,” he said emphatically. “Killing the men was honorable. They deserved it because they were not men of honor. There was no honor in betraying my friends.”

They barely talked for the next few days. When they finally did, Sasha put her arms around him and said softly, “I don’t care what you did before, Louis. I know who you are now. Please, don’t leave me.”

The subject of Russo’s previous life came up only now and then. He would occasionally slip into a reverie fueled by wine, and would reminisce about his early days. Of his five siblings, only three were alive, although he couldn’t even be sure about that because he’d had no contact with them for years. A brother had died of cancer, he’d heard; a sister had been killed in an automobile accident.

“What do the others do?” Sasha asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. They looked down on me because of the life I chose.” He placed his fingertips beneath his chin and flipped them into the air. “They don’t matter,” he said. “The hell with them.”

He never mentioned his brothers and sisters again.

Now she sat in a spartan office at a police headquarters in Washington, D.C., with a heavyset detective. It was a few minutes after six. While awaiting her arrival, he’d debated slipping out to a nearby bar for a couple of quick ones, but thought better of it. Now he wished he had. The urge was becoming acute.

“You have a nice trip here?” Mullin asked.

“The flight? Yes. But there is no smoking on the plane. May I smoke here?”

“Afraid not. The rules.”

“Yes, the rules. Always the rules. The flight was all right. The reason for it? No.”

“Yeah, sure. I can understand that. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re, ah-you’re Jewish, right? An Israeli, I mean.”

She smiled. You’re a good-looking woman, Mullin thought. The old mafioso had good taste. Large breasts pressed against the fabric of a purple silk blouse; her crossed legs were shapely beneath a short tan skirt.

“I’m Hungarian,” she said. “My parents were Jewish.”

He nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well, so you’re here to claim Mr. Russo’s remains.”

“Yes. We were not married, you know.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I know that. But no other family member has stepped forth to claim him. I guess that means you.”

“Is it all right if I ask you something, Detective?”

“The name’s Bret. Sure. Go ahead.”

“I am told you found the man who shot Louis.”

“That’s right. I mean, we didn’t exactly find him. Alive, that is. Somebody shot him.”

She shook her head. “Everybody shooting everybody. It’s like in Israel. Bombs, always bombs. People killing people.”

“Yeah. I know. Too much a that. I don’t want to offend or anything, Ms. Levine-I mean, considering your loss and all-but there’s some questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About Louis.”

“Yeah. About Louis. I don’t know how much you know about him, but-”

“That he was a criminal in the United States before he came to Israel under your witness program? I know that.”

Mullin started to say something, but she continued.

“I know that he killed people for the Mafia. I know that he did many bad things here. I wish he hadn’t, but that was all before I met him. I knew a good man, not a murderer.”

Mullin felt uncomfortable. It was hot in the room despite the air-conditioning. His collar seemed to have shrunk around his neck. And he wanted a drink, a quiet one in a quiet, cool bar.

“Do you know why he came to Washington?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To meet with Richard.”

“Who’s Richard?”

“Richard Marienthal. It doesn’t matter. Louis was working with him on a book about his life. That was all.”

“This writer. He’s from D.C.?”

Her reply was to take a Kleenex from her purse and blow her nose. “Excuse me,” she said.

“That’s okay. You see, Sasha, even though the guy who shot Louis is dead, and we know for certain that it was him who did it, the case is still open. Who is the guy who shot Louis’s murderer? How come he did-shoot Louis’s murderer? If we know why your, uh-not your husband but your friend-came all the way from Israel to Washington, that might help us get to the bottom of things and wrap it up.”

“I understand, Detective, and I would like to help you. You seem very nice. I appreciate your courtesy. When may I take Louis home for burial?”

“That’s not up to me. The M.E. makes that decision. And my bosses, the D.A. Pretty soon, though. I mean, there’s no reason to keep him anymore.” He ran his finger around his collar. “I suppose you’re unhappy about the delay. I mean, being Jewish and all, you like to bury the dead right away.”

“That’s right,” she said. “But Louis wasn’t Jewish. He was Italian.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess that makes a difference. You, ah-you have a place to stay here in D.C.?”

“A hotel.” She consulted a slip of paper from her purse. “The Lincoln Suites. On L Street.” She smiled and returned the paper to her purse. “You name the streets with letters,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the way they planned it. Nice place, the Lincoln. That’s what I hear. I never been there. Not too expensive, either. You checked in yet?”

“No. I came directly here from the airport.”

“Tell you what, Miss Levine. I’ll drive you over to the hotel. You get checked in, and I’ll buy you dinner. How’s that sound?”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

He stood and waved his hand. “No problem. It’ll be my pleasure.”

They went to Zola, named after the novelist Emile Zola and next to the International Spy Museum, where Mullin knew the bartender. They sat at the bar. Sasha ordered a white Zinfandel, Mullin bourbon on the rocks. She chain-smoked; he chain-drank.

“Here’s to meeting you,” he said, holding his second glass up to hers but withdrawing it quickly to avoid having her see that his hand shook. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”

He sipped his drink slower than he would have had he been alone, but finished it and ordered a third. Fortified, he relaxed and conversation flowed freely-her life in Hungary and Israel, his take on Washington and its problems. “Damn politicians,” he said. “Could be a nice place if it wasn’t for the politicians. The whole country’s screwed up ’cause of them.”

They eventually gravitated to a black and red velvet booth in one of the restaurant’s small, dark rooms, its walls covered with visuals to carry out the spy theme-shredded CIA documents, Plexiglas cases containing stills and posters from famous espionage movies, photographs of the nation’s most infamous spymasters. It was grilled tuna and a salad for her, corn with bacon chowder and roast chicken for him.

“So,” he said over coffee, “you know anybody here in D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“This writer who was doing a book on Louis’s life?”

She nodded and yawned. “I’m sorry, but I am sleepy. The flight was so long and…”

“Hey, I understand. I’ll get a check.” He waved for their waiter, dressed entirely in black.

He pulled up in front of her hotel. “I really enjoyed tonight,” she said. “Thank you very much. You’re a kind man.”

“Yeah, well, not all cops are bad. It isn’t all like you read these days. I appreciate you not smoking in the car.”

“It is not a problem.”

“You have plans for tomorrow?”

“No. I have to call Richard and-”

“This writer?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he like, this writer?”

“He’s very nice.”

“An old guy?”

“Pardon?”

“Just wondered whether he’s an old guy. Maybe I know him. Maybe I read stuff he wrote. I read a lot.”

“No,” she laughed. “He’s quite young. I really must go inside. I don’t want to fall asleep on you here in the car.”

“Sure, I understand.”

“Good night, Detective.”

“It’s Bret, huh? Look, I’ll call you tomorrow? Maybe if you’re not doing anything tomorrow night, we could have dinner again.”

“I-perhaps. Thank you again, Bret.”

He watched her enter the hotel, sat for a minute, then went to a bar near his apartment and had a few more drinks before calling it a night. His last act before going to bed-and after feeding Magnum and downing one final drink-was to write down the name she’d mentioned, misspelling it Richard Mariontholl. He’d check this guy out in the morning.

And he’d be sure to call her about dinner.