Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [32]
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