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
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
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