Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [31]
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