Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [107]
“I know, Mac,” Marienthal said, “and I’ve been meaning to call. It’s just that—”
“No excuses, Rich. When we’re through with this conversation, I’ll put your father on.”
“Okay.”
“Now, care to tell me where you are?”
The moment Smith said it, the possibility of his phone being tapped struck him. He was happy when Rich replied, “Not yet. Kathryn has been urging me to talk to you, Mac. I’ve resisted it because—well, because I suppose I’m not ready to take advice from someone else. What it comes down to is that I am very confused at this point.”
“I’m glad you called. Now that the book is out—your father brought a copy with him, and the media is all over its publication—your tape-recorded interviews with Louis Russo take center stage.”
“I know.”
“You have them, I assume.”
“Sure I do.”
“And I assume you’re pondering what to do with them.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think this is the sort of decision to be made while under pressure, Rich. If you are seeking my advice, I urge that we all meet—you, me, and your father—and that you bring the tapes. We can decide what to do with them under calmer circumstances.”
Marienthal hesitated. “I know you’re right, Mac. Let me give it a little more thought. But you are right. Kathryn said you were the one to handle this.”
Handle this? Smith thought. All he wanted to do was effectuate a meeting between father and son, and let them decide what to do with the tapes.
He’d silently speculated during dinner that there were three possible options as far as the tapes were concerned: turn them over to Senator Widmer’s committee; pass them on to the White House; or destroy them. But as he spoke with Richard, a fourth option emerged in his thinking. The tapes could be placed under seal at some disinterested institution such as the Library of Congress or in a school like his own George Washington University, perhaps not made available to researchers and other interested parties until a specific date, long after President Parmele was out of office.
He was acutely aware that while the immediate concern was the well-being of Rich Marienthal, the broader political ramifications were potentially huge. The book was bad enough. Although it preached to the already converted, who would wave it about as “proof” that the president was unfit to hold the nation’s highest office—and his defenders would dismiss it as nothing more than braggadocio from a demented former Mafia hit man—it would do damage. But with the tapes played before a Senate committee, and played over and over on radio and TV newscasts, the hit man’s actual words would provide gravamen to the charge against Parmele and throw his bid for a second term into turmoil, the need to defend himself overwhelming the presentation of more meaningful political positions. A familiar plight for modern candidates or officeholders.
“I’m going to put your father on now, Rich,” Smith said. “Before I do, I suggest you not wait much longer to decide what to do with the tapes. You may end up losing your ability to determine their fate. I might have an idea for you if you’ll agree to meet. Hold on.”
He brought the phone to Frank Marienthal at the dining room table. “Rich wants to talk to you, Frank. Take it in my office. You can use this phone or the one on the desk.” He handed the cordless to Marienthal, who slowly got up and left the room, disappearing behind the door to Smith’s office.
The conversation between the elder Marienthal and his son consumed ten minutes. During it, Mac filled Annabel in. Frank Marienthal’s voice was occasionally heard, the words unintelligible, the tone unmistakably angry. When he emerged, he said, “I think I finally talked some sense into him. He’s promised to call again tomorrow.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“He didn’t say. I could use a drink. Scotch if you have it. Neat.”
“Sure.”
“If he only realized what this is doing to his mother, his name splashed all over TV and the