Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [4]
“Yes, but I quit, huh? Cold turkey. For my health.”
Rather than argue, she returned inside, lighted a cigarette, and sat at the kitchen table, on which another full ashtray sat. She knew he was right, but she also knew she couldn’t quit. Not in Tel Aviv, where it seemed everyone smoked, maybe to calm the nerves. What was a cigarette compared to a Palestinian suicide bomber?
He continued to sit alone on the balcony, reflecting on better days. Healthier days. “La vecchiaia!” he muttered, followed by a string of obscenities in Italian and Hebrew, cursing having become old.
The flight attendant reminded him to buckle his seat belt as the flight approached its final destination, Newark Liberty International Airport. He’d gone to the lavatory half a dozen times during the flight, painfully making his way up the aisle, grasping the backs of seats for support, and thanking the flight attendants profusely when they helped steady him on his way back.
She took the cane from his lap and placed it on the floor beneath his feet.
“Thank you,” he said. “Grazie.”
“Visiting family?” she asked before leaving him to attend to her pre-landing duties.
He looked up at her with cold, wary eyes surrounded by loose skin, yellowed from the chemotherapy. She was taken aback for a moment; his gray eyes testified to having seen things in his life she’d never seen, nor would want to.
“No, no,” he said. “It is, ah—it is business.”
She wished him well on the rest of his journey, patted his liver-spotted hand, and left. He looked out the window at the clouds through which they descended. He imagined the clouds would support his body and thought it would be nice to be nestled in them. The jet broke free of the overcast and New Jersey was sprawled out below. Louis Russo closed his eyes, picked up the cane, wrapped gnarled fingers around it, and waited for the plane to land.
“Excuse me,” he said to a Delta agent directing passengers to connecting flights. “The train to Washington? The Amtrak train?”
“Yes, sir, it’s… Would you like a cart to take you?”
“Yes, please. That would be good.”
An electric-powered cart driven by an airport employee delivered him to the rail link between the airport and Amtrak. He stood stoically on the platform, leaning on his cane, the small carry-on suitcase at his feet, waiting for the Acela Regional train, which had left New York’s Penn Station a half hour earlier. He’d used the men’s room at the station and considered buying a hot dog and soft drink at a Nathan’s stand, but his stomach was unsettled from the bumpy flight and he thought better of it. He stepped into a phone booth, pulled a slip of paper from a pocket, and dialed the number written on it in large letters.
The train pulled smoothly into the station as Russo completed his call. He showed his business class ticket to the female conductor, who pointed to a car toward the rear of the train. He chose one of the comfortable blue seats at the end of the car, close to the restrooms and the café car, wearily settled into it, and sighed. It had been a long, tiring day.
He’d departed from Israel’s Ben Gurion Airport at dawn, flying to Barcelona and waiting for the Delta flight to the United States. Sasha had packed his medications in a plastic bag and proudly showed him a red-and-blue-striped tie she’d bought for the trip. “You want to look nice,” she’d said. He thanked her and checked that his tickets were safe, swelling the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Don’t forget the yellow pills at lunchtime,” she said as he climbed into the taxi in front of the apartment building. “And call the doctor if you don’t feel well.” His Israeli oncologist had given him the name of a physician at George Washington University’s hospital.
He turned as the cab pulled away from the curb, saw her wave, wiggled his fingers in response, and sat back.
Israeli security forces had stopped them twice at checkpoints. Russo was asked to show them his airline tickets, which he did, and they were allowed to proceed.
Now, as the train pulled from the station on its