Murder at Union Station

by Margaret Truman

  “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 bac
k 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

  Marienthal 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.

  “Hello, son. Glad you could find the time to spend a few hours with us. Been a while.”

  Marienthal held back from reaching over and offering an awkward embrace of his father, who immediately drove away from where he’d parked and headed for the family home in the prosperous enclave of Bedford.

  “How’s Mom?” Marienthal asked.

&nb
sp; “All right, although I’m worried about her. She seems befuddled from time to time. Not as sharp as she used to be.”

  Marienthal looked at his father, whose eyes never left the road, his patrician features clearly displayed against the dark window behind. He wore his requisite sharply creased chinos, blue button-down shirt, short, supple brown leather jacket, and perforated driving gloves. He hadn’t aged in Rich’s eyes; he seemed always to have looked this way.

  “How long can you stay?” the father asked as he turned up a long, winding dirt road leading to the house.

  “Just a couple of hours. I have to get back to Washington.”

  A smile crossed his father’s thin lips. “You make it sound as though the White House is expecting you,” he said, his voice pinched, nasal.

  Rich let the comment pass and turned to take in the passing greenery. Two Hispanic gardeners working on the property waved as the car passed; his father returned the greeting with a flip of a finger.

  “José still work here?” Rich asked.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’s well compensated and loyal.”

  Is he saying I’m disloyal? Rich wondered. It didn’t matter. There undoubtedly would be many such comments to consider.

  They pulled into a circular gravel drive and came to a stop. Rich revised his earlier observation that his father never aged. Out of the car, he looked older, slightly stooped; Frank Marienthal had always been proud of his erect posture. As they approached the front door of the 1860s colonial-style home, its white clapboard and antique green shutters and door immaculately painted, the flowering shrubs on either side of the walkway manicured and healthy, he also took note that his father’s gait wasn’t quite as assured as it had been in past years. Still, he exuded presence and purpose. That hadn’t changed.

  Rich dropped his knapsack on the granite floor and followed his father into the kitchen, where Rich’s mother, Mary Marienthal, a short, slender woman with carefully coiffed white hair and a rosy complexion, worked alongside a black woman in a white uniform.