Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [59]
“Yeah, something like that. Cigarette?”
“Thank you, yes.”
She gave him her phone number at the end of the evening, and he promised to call. She forgot about it until a week later when her phone rang. He asked her out to dinner, and she accepted, but not without reservations. Her previous experience with men had not been positive; it had left her gun-shy and distrustful. Still, a harmless dinner with this amusing older American man couldn’t hurt, a pleasant evening out, nothing more.
They dined on Dizengoff Street at a Chinese restaurant: “This Jewish food ain’t to my liking,” he’d announced when he told her where they’d be eating. She wore chino slacks and a white sweater to dinner. He wore a suit and tie, which set him apart from every-one else in the bustling, informal restaurant. It was like a continuation of their conversation at the bar the previous week. Russo was a natural-born storyteller, regaling her with stories of his youth in New York, his life on the streets, his parents, his friends, the wiseguys he knew, cop stories, trips he took to Miami and Los Angeles and Chicago, the celebrities he’d met: “I knew Sinatra pretty good,” he’d said. “I used to pal around with Don Rickles and—”
“Who’s he?”
“A famous comedian. I always had front row center when Sammy and Dino were in Vegas. One night—”
His life had certainly been an interesting one, colorful and unpredictable, but with a hint of danger, and she wondered whether he’d been involved in some sort of criminal activity. She’d read about the Mafia in America and had seen the Godfather movies. Had this funny man seated across from her, fumbling with his chopsticks, dressed so formally and with such exaggerated good manners, been like one of those men she’d seen in the movies and read about in books? She’d wanted to ask but was afraid to, so she accepted his claim of being in construction and had subsequent dinners with him, an occasional movie, a few drives to the seashore on sunny weekends. By this time, she found herself looking forward to seeing him, even missed him between their times together.
She didn’t know where he worked in Tel Aviv, or even if he did. When asked about it, he’d reply only that he was exploring business opportunities and hadn’t found the right one yet. He lived in a residence hotel, which she’d never visited, and always seemed to have money. And he was unfailingly polite, opening doors for her and standing whenever she approached the table, pulling her chair out for her, lighting her cigarettes, and never failing to introduce her as Miss Sasha Levine.
Loneliness on both their parts eventually closed the gap between them. Unpleasant memories of her failed marriage back in Budapest faded, and after many discussions in Tel Aviv’s cafes and restaurants, she agreed that they should begin living together. For Russo, this woman named Sasha Levine offered a refuge of sorts in a strange land in which he didn’t speak the language, practice the religion, or like the food. And so they moved into her apartment on Basel Street and had lived there in relative happiness over the ensuing years.
It was shortly after they’d started living together that Sasha learned who Louis Russo really was and why he was in Israel.
They’d been sitting on the balcony at sunset, sipping wine and discussing their respective days. She’d had a stressful experience at the import-export firm and commented that one of the partners had been making suggestive comments to her for the past few weeks. Although she’d witnessed an occasional flash of temper in Louis, his reaction this time was extreme. He stood and paced the terrace, swearing in English and Italian and demanding to know where the partner lived. “I’ll take care of the bastard tomorrow,” he snarled.
“No, no, Louis,” Sasha said, trying to calm him. “Don’t make such a tzimmes.”
“What the hell is that?”
“A fuss. It’s no big deal. He’s stupid, an ugly little man.”
“I’ll kill the bastard, he lays a hand on you.”
“Please, Louis, I’m sorry I mentioned it.” Her thoughts were on the revolver he’d brought