Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [96]
Marienthal’s eyes rolled up into his head.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know she’s a loony, off the wall, but her books make all the best-seller lists. There’s Bill O’Reilly. Hannity.”
“Geoff,” Marienthal said, “you’re dredging up the wrong examples. I’m not a conservative. I don’t like those people. I’ve been a liberal all my life.”
“I’m willing to forgive that,” Lowe said with a deep chuckle. “It doesn’t matter what you are, Rich. Like I said, all you’re doing in this case is being a good journalist.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Marienthal said.
“You do that. In the meantime, come up with a nonfiction proposal I can send to Sam Greenleaf. No obligation. You can dismiss whatever comes of it. But at least it will give you an idea of what the market will bear. You have an agent?”
“No.”
“Great, then I’ll be your agent, at least with Hobbes House. No commission. The truth is, Rich, I really like you—despite your being a liberal. I think we have a lot in common. I’d like to be helpful, that’s all.”
Lowe paid for lunch and they parted ways. A week later he called with an offer from Hobbes House. It was structured in such a way that the advance would go up as certain events fell into place, with the largest increase occurring when and if Louis Russo agreed to testify before the Widmer-chaired committee. The contract and all the other information released about the project would say it was to be a novel, a work of fiction, in order to preserve secrecy about its real form until it was time for the book to be published.
Marienthal discussed it with Kathryn.
“I’m thrilled for you,” she told him, “but what about the political fallout? This will be devastating to President Parmele. You don’t want to do anything to hurt him, do you?”
“That’s not my concern,” he replied.
“But what if what Russo says isn’t true?”
“That’s not my problem, either. Geoff says I’m just a journalist reporting on an eyewitness to history. Think of what happened when journalists had their say at book length with Nixon, with Clinton, with Kissinger and all. Think of the journalistic reputations and money made with such books. Geoff is right. I think I really lucked out meeting him, Kathryn. He’s a terrific guy, a top aide to Senator Widmer. He got me the offer from Hobbes House and he doesn’t want a cent for doing it. I’m telling you, this is the break I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”
She realized her arguing was fruitless and not very supportive to boot. She kissed him, and they celebrated with an expensive dinner at Bistro Bis in the Hotel George, where they drank too much wine and fell into bed intending to make love, but too fatigued and elated to summon the energy.
Thinking back to that evening as he sat in Winard Jackson’s kitchen, the soft sounds of Just Friends in the background, he realized that evening had been celebratory in every sense of the word. He had his first book contract, and judging from the enthusiasm of the publisher and his editor, Sam Greenleaf, it had best seller written all over it. The struggle was over.
But on this morning, months later in a friend’s basement apartment, his mood was hardly one of celebration. He’d been so blinded by ambition that he hadn’t taken a moment to step back and see what was really going on, the use he was being put to, the manipulation of him by others with their own self-serving agendas. Kathryn had seen it. His father had seen it. The only one who hadn’t seen it was Richard Marienthal, and he was too wrapped up in his pursuit of glory and money to listen to them.
Louis Russo had been murdered because of him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against that painful truth. The old mafioso had killed men in his criminal career, but didn’t deserve to be gunned