Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [86]
“So, Gertrude,” he said, “why am I here?”
“Have you had dinner?”
“As a matter of fact, no, but I wouldn’t want to put a strain on Justice’s budget.”
She motioned for the waitress to return with menus. She opened hers and almost immediately closed it. “A Cobb salad, oil and vinegar on the side.” She cocked her head at Stripling, who hadn’t opened his.
“Might as well make it the same,” he said.
“So,” he said when the waitress had left them alone, “I’ll ask again. Why am I here?”
He noticed her makeup, nicely applied.
“An assignment,” she said. “A very sensitive one.”
“An assignment,” he repeated with exaggerated awe. “Sounds absolutely spooky.”
“Mr. Stripling, the attorney general—”
“Wait a minute, Gertrude,” Stripling said. “Let me get this straight. What’s your job with the AG?” When he received no reply, he continued. “What do they do, keep you in a frumpy suit during working hours, then tell you to drag out your prom dress and mascara and have clandestine meets with people like me? You look good.”
Her expression was vacant, nonresponsive.
The waitress brought rolls and butter.
“No offense,” he said.
“I took none. If you’re finished with your snappy dialogue, Mr. Stripling, I can get to the point.”
“I can’t wait.”
She glanced down at blood-red nails on one of her hands before speaking. “I don’t like you, Mr. Stripling. I find you offensive. For the record.”
“I take that as a compliment,” he said, settling back in the booth and crossing his arms on his chest. “For the record.”
She beckoned him closer with her index finger, and he obliged. She, too, leaned forward. Her voice was low but clear. “That said,” she said, “I also understand that when certain tasks must be accomplished, we can’t always deal with those people we like.”
“Go ahead, Gert. I’m listening.”
If his pointed use of her first name rankled, she didn’t show it.
“You are aware, Mr. Stripling, that we are in the midst of a war against terrorism.”
“Yeah, I heard something about it. How’s it going?”
She ignored his flippancy. “Significant progress has been made under President Parmele’s leadership.”
“Is this a pitch for a campaign contribution? Who do I make the check out to?”
Her face reflected her first moment of pique since he’d entered the bar. It caused him to smile. He said, “Let me see, Gertrude, I was told to drive over here to Tysons Corner to receive a personal briefing on the war against terrorism. I really appreciate it, but I had other plans for the evening. You mentioned an assignment. What is it?”
Her answer was delayed by the arrival of their salads. He wished he’d ordered something more substantial, a burger or a rack of ribs. Once the waitress had departed, she said, “I have other plans this evening, too, Mr. Stripling, so I’ll get to the point. I’ll talk, you eat—and listen. When I’m finished, please leave.”
“Good,” he said, spearing a forkful of salad. “You’re on. You’ve got until I finish this salad, which should give you about six and a half minutes.”
Seven minutes later, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, took a healthy swig of water, and said, “Nice presentation, Gertrude. You must make the attorney general proud. I’ll get on it right away.”
She started on her salad.
“When I find the stuff you’re looking for and the guy, I’ll let you know.”
“Through your usual channels. We never had this meeting.”
He placed a small piece of paper on which he’d been taking notes into the breast pocket of his shirt, laughed, and slid from the booth. “Believe me, Gertrude,” he said, looking down at her, “I’ll find it easy to forget I ever saw you.”
Now, back in his apartment, he finished his ice cream and reviewed the notes he’d taken during his meeting with Assistant Attorney General Gertrude Klaus. He’d written on the paper the names Frank Marienthal (New York mob attorney, father of Richard Marienthal, represented Russo), and Mackensie Smith (family friend, former criminal lawyer in D.C., prof at GW, vetted Marienthal’s publishing contract), and took another look at a picture of Richard Marienthal he’d taken from the