Murder at Union Station (12 page)

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.

SEVENTEEN

M
arienthal left the building and walked slowly up Park Avenue in the direction of Grand Central Station. The day was as gray as his mood. The meeting with his editor had accomplished little, aside from giving him some assurance that Hobbes House and its publisher, Pamela Warren, still intended to go forward with the book. That was comforting. At the same time, he wondered whether he even wanted to see the book, his first and only thus far, published under the circumstances. There was much to think about.

He’d been writing for a living, as tenuous as it might have been, since graduating with a degree in English literature from New York University eight years ago. His first job, writing press releases for a public relations firm in Manhattan, had lasted three years, and he’d hated every minute of it. His dream was to become a successful serious novelist, and he toiled nights and weekends on a novel he’d started while a student.

He completed it just before leaving the PR firm, and on the good days hadn’t the slightest doubt it would be gobbled up by a major New York publisher, establishing him as a bright star on the literary horizon.

Publishers to whom he submitted the manuscript were not accommodating. Rejection slip followed rejection slip, eventually eighteen in all, some with encouraging words added to form rejection letters, others lacking even that modicum of encouragement.

Money was tight; he often fell behind on the rent on his tiny fifth-floor walk-up studio apartment in the East Village. Occasional freelance copyediting jobs helped, but only barely. He started a second novel but soon lost interest in it. There were moments—but only moments—when he considered returning home and living in the house in which he’d been raised. That was out of the question. Accepting rejection of his novel was defeat enough; skulking back home would be even worse.

It was at this nadir in his young life that a college friend, who’d moved to Washington following graduation for an entrance-level job with a lobbying firm, called and suggested Marienthal move there, too. “You can bunk with me,” his friend offered, “until you get set up.”

Rich took him up on the offer and moved south. Within a month, he’d landed another PR job, this with an aerospace manufacturer’s D.C. office, where again he ground out press releases lauding the company’s achievements, putting a spin on its less-than-successful ventures, and praising the company’s management and its contributions to the nation’s security. That job lasted two years—until a man named Louis Russo entered his life.

He walked into the splendidly redone Grand Central Station and checked the electronic departure board for Metro North trains to Bedford Hills. The next was scheduled to depart in an hour. He bought a round-trip ticket, had a beer and salad at the bar at Michael Jordan’s steakhouse overlooking the vast terminal, then went to gate 29 and boarded.

The hour trip passed quickly, as though it hadn’t happened. He’d slipped into a trance state, oblivious to people in the car, sights through the window, and the train’s motion itself. His mind was assaulted by images past and present. Although he hadn’t seen Louis Russo’s lifeless body in Union Station, he could see it as though he were standing over it. That image kept melding into a kaleidoscope of scenes: sipping sweet tea with Russo and Kasha in their Tel Aviv apartment; getting drunk with other students in a jazz joint near NYU; falling off his bike as a kid and opening a gash on his forehead requiring stitches at an emergency ward; Kathryn, naked and enticing him from the computer to the bedroom; Russo’s face rimmed with blood; Greenleaf’s arm around his shoulder; Pamela Warren’s stern, unsmiling face when he first met with her at Hobbes House; the Twin Towers on 9/11; spectacular explosions in Baghdad; scenes from
The Sopranos;
Kathryn cooking spaghetti in their kitchen; his mother comforting him after the stitches; his father lecturing him on what it takes to be a success.

“Bedford Hills,” the conductor announced over the train’s PA system.

Marienthal looked out the window and saw his father’s black Mercedes parked near the entrance to the small, suburban train station. The car’s tinted glass shielded a view of the man behind the wheel, but Marienthal didn’t need to actually see him to know the expression that would be on his face.

“Hi, Dad,” Marienthal said, opening the front passenger door and slipping onto the tan leather seat.