Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [95]
“Only according to Russo. That’s all I know.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a phone call. At its conclusion, Jackson rejoined Marienthal, who’d gotten up and was examining the CDs in their racks.
“This is some collection,” Marienthal said.
“My inspiration. So, buddy, what are you going to do?”
“Hole up here, thanks to you. Go to sleep and hope that when I wake up, it’ll all be over.”
A serious cloud crossed Jackson’s face. “You in real danger, Rich?”
Marienthal shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends on who killed Russo.”
“Had to be Mafia. Right? You think they might be after you because of what Russo told you? Making you the only, well, witness to the Parmele thing?”
“Like I said, I don’t know. Maybe by dropping out for a while, I can think a little clearer.”
“Look, dude, I’ve got to catch me some sleep,” Jackson said. “You look like you could use some, too. I’ll go out later and stock the fridge, at least for a couple of days. Meantime, make yourself at home. The place is yours. Use the computer, phones, put on some sounds and relax.”
“Thanks,” Marienthal said.
While Jackson slept in his bedroom, Marienthal put on a Cedar Walton CD at low volume and sat in the kitchen, which opened onto a small patio at the rear of the narrow row house. The first vestiges of dawn provided enough light for him to make out a small round table with four chairs and umbrella. A patch of grass was beyond, ending at a tall stockade fence separating the property from another yard and house. A pervasive sense of loneliness overcame him. He’d never felt so conflicted in his life. Kathryn had a keen sense of how to compartmentalize things, something he’d never been good at. His mind was a sticky cotton-candy mess, everything mushed into one large, confusing panorama. He stared at the kitchen wall phone and considered calling someone, anyone. Kathryn. Mackensie Smith. His father.
An urge to call Geoff Lowe and tell him he was destroying the tapes and notes came and went. Compartmentalize! Sort it out. Russo’s murder was one thing. Stick it away over there. The Widmer hearings? Stash that issue in one of Al Gore’s lock boxes.
The book! No matter what happened with other complications surrounding it, there were all those months of hard work to be considered and salvaged. It was being published as he sat there, and he was pleased that it was. His regret, as the hands on the kitchen clock relentlessly ticked off his life, was that he hadn’t gone forward the way he’d originally intended, written it as a novel based upon Russo’s tales. Geoff Lowe had been instrumental in that decision, too, and he thought back to that lunch with Lowe after having met at the party.
“I’m telling you,” Lowe had said at that lunch, “you’ve got one hell of a best-selling nonfiction book here, Rich. A novel? Waste of time.”
“But it’s based on one man’s word, Geoff, a former mafioso in the witness protection program. I can’t corroborate what he’s told me.”
“You don’t need corroboration,” Lowe countered. “The guy has led the life, walked the walk and talked the talk. His word is as good as anyone’s. It’s not you attesting to the truthfulness of it. All you’re doing is being a good journalist, recounting his recollection of events and filling in some blanks when necessary.”
They discussed it throughout lunch. Toward the end, Lowe said, “Look, I have a good friend at Hobbes House in New York. You know who they are.”
“A publisher. Conservative nonfiction.”
“Exactly. I have a friend there, the top editor, Sam Greenleaf. If you change your proposal to nonfiction, I know Sam will bite.”
“I thought I’d submit it to other publishers, maybe those who liked what I’d submitted to them before.”
“But who didn’t buy what you wrote. Right?” Marienthal had given him a thumbnail sketch of his writing career.
“Right.”
“So why blow a golden opportunity?”
Marienthal’s expression was quizzical.
“Hobbes House. The bird in hand, Rich. Let’s say I can sell it there right away.