“Sure, I’ll write it out after dinner,” Mac said. To Marienthal: “Did you get to see your folks when you were up in New York?”

“Yes, I did. Dad said to say hello.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Pretty good, I guess. He’s slowing down. Doesn’t practice much anymore.”

“I don’t blame him,” Mac said. “Criminal law can take a lot out of you. It can be, well, almost criminal.”

“You should know,” Kathryn said.

“Yes, I suppose I should. I’m sure he had some comments about the murder. After all, your dad represented Russo in the plea proceedings and put you in touch with him.”

“That’s right,” said Marienthal. “He wasn’t crazy about the idea at first, but I guess he realized how much I needed a book like this under my belt.”

“I’m dying to read it,” Annabel said.

“So am I,” Mac said.

“You’ll be among the first to get a copy,” said Marienthal. “I have to thank you again, Mac, for going over the publishing contract so thoroughly with me. I really appreciate it.”

“The least I could do. As I told you, publishing law isn’t my bag, but I was happy to do it.” He shook his head and laughed. “I’d never seen a contract like that, Rich. The publisher-what is it, Hobbes House?-really stacked things in their favor. That returns policy is a license to steal.”

Marienthal laughed, too. “I know,” he said. “The publisher sells books to bookstores on consignment. The store orders, say, ten, sells two, sends the other eight back to the publisher for full credit.”

“How does that impact the writer?” Annabel asked. “I looked at the contract, too, but my bag, as Mac puts it anachronistically, was matrimonial law.”

Mac answered. “From the way I read it, Rich gets paid royalties twice a year, provided he’s earned any beyond the advance. But the publisher has the right, according to the contract, to withhold a big portion of what’s due him in the event there are returns during the next six-month accounting period. It’s a hell of a float for the publisher.”

The peculiarities of the publishing industry occupied the conversation through the end of dinner.

“We’ll have dessert on the terrace,” Annabel announced.

“I’ll help clear,” Kathryn said.

While the women took dishes to the kitchen, Smith and Marienthal went out on to the terrace. The night air was still hot and heavy. A full moon illuminated ripples on the river. The spires of Georgetown University were lighted in the distance. A peaceful setting. Rufus, the Smiths’ great blue Dane, settled down next to Smith’s feet.

“What are the plans to publicize the novel, Rich?” Smith asked. “Will you be doing interviews, book signings?”

“I think so,” he replied. “I don’t think those plans are firmed up yet.”

“Getting late, isn’t it? You say the book is about to be published.”

“Yeah, you’re right. They’d better get on the ball.”

“I didn’t realize Hobbes House did fiction, Rich. I know they publish a lot of conservative nonfiction.”

His comment seemed to make Marienthal uncomfortable. After a false start, he said, “They want to branch out and do fiction. I guess I submitted my novel to them at the right time.”

“Good for you,” Smith said. “The public seems to have an insatiable appetite for novels about organized crime, the Mafia. I’m sure your book will do extremely well.”

“I hope so,” Marienthal said.

“Did Mr. Russo have a family in Israel?” Smith asked.

“No, not really. He lived with an Israeli woman named Sasha.”

Smith fell silent for a moment before saying, “I suppose the prevailing theory is that the mob killed him. You wouldn’t think they’d carry a grudge that long, but they evidently do.”

“Looks like it,” Marienthal said. “Did you represent mobsters when you were practicing law here in D.C.?”

“Not mafiosi. Other gang leaders.”

“Any of them go into witness protection?”

“No. Some copped a plea and did less time as a result. What was it that Russo told you that so captured your imagination? As I recall, you said he was a lower level mobster in New York, not a major player.”

“Well, he-any chance of another beer, Mac?”

“Coming right up.”

Annabel and Kathryn accompanied Mac back to the patio. Annabel carried a platter of fancy cookies bought at the bakery; Kathryn brought a tray holding cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and spoons. Annabel went to the kitchen and returned with a carafe of hot coffee. Once they were all seated, Mac said, “I was talking with Rich about Mr. Russo. It’s pretty evident that his former criminal associates got even with him for having turned against them.” He said to Kathryn, “You know, of course, that Rich’s dad represented Russo during the trial.”

“Yes,” she said. “Rich has told me all about it.”

This led to a discussion of the ethics of cutting deals with members of organized crime in order to put others, usually higher-ups, away.

“I’ve always had trouble with it,” Annabel said. “Some murderer with a dozen killings under his belt cops a plea, turns on his bosses, and gets paid off with a sweet deal, the witness protection program, a new life and identity, money, other perks. I just can’t square that in my mind.”

“Was Russo a murderer?” Smith asked.

“Yes,” Marienthal replied. “Quite a few. Mob stuff, disputes over territory, or matters of discipline-or, as the bosses see it, honor.”

Annabel wrapped her arms about herself, as though it had turned cold. “Gives me the shivers, these people who place so little value on life.”

Smith said, “I’ve always found it interesting and ironic the way organized crime has to operate. It’s a major industry in this country-at least it was-but it can’t resolve business disputes in courts of law as other industries and companies do. So it’s got to solve its differences privately.”

“By killing competitors,” Kathryn said. She’d said little since they’d gathered on the terrace.

“What was Russo’s attitude about having killed people?” Smith asked.

“He was- Oh, I don’t know. He viewed it as a job, I suppose. He grew up in the streets, saw the wiseguys dressed nice and on the arms of pretty women. I know he was a killer, but he could also be a nice guy. At least he was to me.”

“Mellowed with age,” Annabel commented.

“I suppose that happens to everyone,” Marienthal said, “even mob muscle men.”

As they were about to call it a night, Annabel mentioned a newscast she’d seen late that afternoon on which the discovery of the body in Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens had been reported.

“I saw only a portion of it,” she said, “but the reporter indicated the body might have been of the man who shot your Mr. Russo in Union Station.”

Kathryn started to say something, but Marienthal interrupted her. “I didn’t hear that,” he said.

“I’m sure it’ll be repeated,” Annabel said.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Marienthal said. “This evening was really great. The meal was wonderful.”

“That recipe for marinade,” Kathryn reminded.

Smith wrote the recipe on a slip of paper and handed it to Kathryn as they said good night at the door.

When they were gone, and after Mac had helped Annabel straighten up the kitchen and they had walked Rufus, they wound down the evening on the terrace with small snifters of Cognac.

“A nice couple,” Annabel said.

“Yeah, they are. But there’s something strange going on.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. He seems very distracted, reluctant to talk about his book. Ever meet a writer who didn’t want to talk about his work? And Kathryn gives me the impression of wanting to say things but not being able to.”

“Why would that be?”

“I don’t know that either, Annabel. The whole situation is a little bizarre. Rich is put in contact with this former Mafia hit man by his father, who represented the man in his plea deal and entrance into the witness protection program. According to Rich, he interviewed Russo as the basis for his novel, which is being published by Hobbes House.”