Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia

by Donald Bain

  They were interrupted by the board members.

  Martone said to his big bodyguard, ‘Hugo, give Mr Smythe my card.’

  Hugo pulled a business card from the lapel pocket of his ill-fitting suit jacket and handed it to Smythe.

  ‘Always happy to speak with a good listener who has a business proposition,’ Martone said. ‘Give me a call.’ He flashed a wide smile, gave Smythe another slap on the arm, and turned to greet the others.

  ‘I will, Dom,’ Smythe said. ‘Thanks. You’ll hear from me.’

  He held his breath as he walked away, afraid he’d burst out in a giddy giggle. It had been so easy. Martone hadn’t shown skepticism, hadn’t summarily dismissed him, hadn’t pierced his inner thoughts with his black eyes. They’d spoken as though they were old buddies. He’d slapped him on the arm – twice!

  Later that night, after dinner with friends at the 360 Restaurant atop the CN Tower, Carlton and Cynthia returned home. He emptied his tux pockets on the kitchen table before heading upstairs and she spotted Martone’s card.

  ‘Why do you have that?’ she asked.

  ‘What? Oh, Dom’s card? We talked a little business tonight.’

  ‘Business? With Dominick Martone?’

  ‘Yes. I thought that because he has his hand in so many businesses he might have need for a consultant.’

  ‘Carlton,’ she said in the tone of a teacher admonishing a student, ‘Dominick Martone’s businesses don’t need an electrical engineer.’

  ‘You’re probably right, but I figured nothing ventured, nothing gained. Anyway, he invited me to call him and get together. I know how much you hate my being away so much, and I thought that—’

  ‘That’s sweet,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘It would be wonderful if you could find clients closer to home. But Dominick Martone? You know what he really does for a living?’

  ‘I’ve heard the rumors.’

  ‘They’re more than rumors,’ she said. ‘Want to cuddle together tonight?’

  ‘I, ah … Sure, Cynthia. That would be nice.’

  EIGHT

  Smythe summoned the courage to call two days later.

  ‘Martone Enterprises,’ a woman said.

  ‘Hello. My name is Carlton Smythe. Mr Martone is expecting my call.’

  ‘Oh? Mr Smythe? Can you tell me what this is in reference to?’

  ‘Ah, we had a conversation a few nights ago at the opera house – my wife is on the board – and I mentioned something to Mr Martone and he suggested that I call.’

  ‘Please hold.’

  Martone came on the line. ‘Hello there,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry it took me a few days to get back to you but I’ve been busy. I was hoping we could get together sometime soon.’

  ‘How’s today look for lunch?’

  ‘Today? I, ah, yes, I think I can make that. Yes, lunch today would be fine.’

  ‘Good. Twelve thirty at my restaurant, Martone’s, on St Clair Avenue. You know it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Twelve thirty, you say?’

  ‘See you there, pal.’

  Smythe had made the call from his newly-rented office. He sat back, feet up on the desk, and contemplated what he’d put into motion.

  To this point, it had been easy, too easy. Now – and the realization caused his stomach to knot – he was about to put into play what had been nothing but a pipedream, a Walter Mitty moment transformed into reality by his love for Gina Ellanado.

  He gazed adoringly at her photograph. Buoyed by the fire in her eyes, he again rehearsed the pitch he would make to Dominick Martone.

  Toronto has five different areas of the city known informally as ‘Little Italy’. Martone’s restaurant was located in one of them, west of Bathurst, on St Clair. Smythe had been dispatched to the area a few times by Cynthia when she wanted authentic Italian delicacies for a dinner party, although he’d never stepped foot inside Martone’s. He had peered through the window, however, and it appeared to him to be nothing more than a large glorified pizza parlor.

  Dressed in what he considered to be his power outfit – navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie – he arrived a half hour early and strolled along the opposite side of the street from the restaurant, pretending to window shop. At twelve fifteen, a black Town Car pulled up in front of Martone’s and its namesake got out, accompanied by the two men often seen with him at public functions. A cold chill struck Smythe. Would they be present at the lunch? If so, did he dare outline his proposal with others listening? He’d have to play that by ear, he decided, as he waited until the three men disappeared into the restaurant.

  Smythe checked himself again in a store window. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, clenched it between his teeth, and took another look at himself. Perfect.

  At precisely twelve twenty-nine, he crossed the street, drew a deep, prolonged breath, and opened the door. The odor of garlic hit him hard, along with the bright fluorescent lighting and noise level. Most of the Formica tables were occupied, and two middle-aged waitresses scurried among them. A half-dozen people stood at the counter waiting for takeout orders.

  Smythe looked for Martone. There was no sign of him, or his colleagues. He wasn’t sure what to do, or who to ask. Eventually he went to a man wearing chef’s whites who appeared to be in charge. ‘Excuse me,’ Smythe said, ‘I’m looking for Mr Martone.’

  The man frowned and looked at Smythe as though he had a smear of tomato sauce on his face. ‘He knows you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s expecting me for lunch.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Smythe. Carlton Smythe.’

  The man went to a door at the rear of the restaurant and knocked. After a brief conversation with the Martone bodyguard Smythe now knew was named Hugo, the chef motioned for Smythe. The young, skinny Mafioso and Hugo took in Smythe from head to toe and he wondered whether he would be patted down. They now focused attention on his briefcase. Smythe made a move to open it for inspection but they stepped back to allow him to enter. He took tentative steps into the room where Martone sat at an elaborately-set table for two. The contrast with the pizza parlor area was profound. Subdued lighting was provided by two huge, ornate, gold-leaf chandeliers. The room’s carpeting was blood-red. Floor-to-ceiling murals of scenes from popular operas covered the walls. Smythe recognized an aria from Puccini’s Madam Butterfly oozing from unseen speakers. The men who’d allowed Smythe to enter retreated to a small table in the corner of the room far from their boss.

  ‘Ah, Mr Smythe,’ Martone said, getting up and extending his hand. He wore a shiny black suit; the high collar of his white shirt was clearly defined above his jacket. A gray silk tie was neatly knotted and secured to his shirt with a diamond tie tack. Black patent leather shoes with tassels completed the Mafioso’s ensemble.

  ‘Right on time,’ he said. ‘I like that in a businessman. Sit down, sit down. Be comfortable.’ He said to one of his bodyguards, ‘Tell Paulie to get in here.’

  Paulie, the man in whites who’d directed Smythe to where Martone waited, appeared in the doorway. Martone looked at Smythe. ‘Red, white, a beer, whiskey?’

  ‘Whatever you’re having is fine,’ Smythe replied.

  ‘A bottle of red,’ Martone told Paulie, ‘and an antipasto platter, hot. So,’ he said to Smythe, ‘what did you think of Carmen the other night?’

  ‘Oh, I liked it a lot. Very fine performance.’

  ‘I thought the soprano was weak on the Habanera. Other than that, I thought it was pretty good.’ He sat back, hands folded on his midsection, closed his eyes, and said, almost sang, ‘Love is a rebellious bird that no one can tame.’ His eyes opened. ‘I love that line, huh? So true. What about you, Smythe? How’s your love life?’

  Smythe was startled by the question. He fumbled before saying, ‘Pretty good … Dom.’

  ‘Good to hear. You’ve been married a long time, huh?’

  ‘Thirty years.’ He wondered whether Martone expected him to ta
lk about his mistresses. Instead, the mob boss said, ‘I believe in marriage, Smythe. Family!’ He slapped his hand on the table. ‘Family is everything!’

  ‘I agree,’ Smythe said, realizing that his unlit cigar was still wedged between his teeth.

  ‘You smoke those things?’ Martone asked, grimacing. ‘Not good for you. I gave ’em up years ago.’

  ‘I just have a … well, I’m about to give up the habit, too.’ He removed the cigar from his mouth and shoved it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  Paulie arrived with the wine and platter of hot antipasto. He poured the wine into the two glasses on the table and asked if Martone wanted to order lunch.

  ‘In a minute,’ Martone said, waving his hand. ‘We’ve got business to discuss.’

  The mob boss raised his glass in Smythe’s direction. Smythe returned the gesture.

  ‘So, pal, what’s this business you want to talk to me about?’

  Smythe’s nerves had been on edge since leaving the house. It had been so unexpectedly easy to set up the meeting with Martone, a casual chat at the opera and a short, simple phone call. But this was the moment of truth. Smythe’s biggest problem in rehearsing for the meeting was how to broach the subject of offering a criminal proposal without indicating that he knew that Martone was not only a criminal, but was also the head of a powerful crime syndicate. After all, the man didn’t hand out business cards with ‘Mafia Boss’ printed on them. He’d established himself in eastern Canada as a prosperous businessman and patron of the arts. Most people knew, of course, about his connection with organized crime but were willing to ignore that in return for his largesse. Now, Smythe was about to say in effect, I know that you’re a Mafioso, Mr Martone, and here’s another way for you to add to your illegal fortune.

  He’d been grappling with that all morning and hadn’t come to a satisfactory conclusion, hadn’t formulated the right way to put it. But as he sat across from the smiling Martone a sense of wellbeing and confidence swept over him. He’d come to the restaurant with a solid proposal, one that could conceivably earn Martone’s crime family millions of dollars. With Gina’s smiling face hovering over the table, he pulled the cigar from his pocket, clenched it between his teeth, sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and said in a well-modulated voice, ‘I’m here to offer you a franchise.’

  Martone came forward, his smile a memory. ‘What is this franchise thing?’ he asked. ‘Some chicken shack or pizza joint? I’ve got all the pizza I can eat.’ He used his hand to indicate where they were. ‘You want to sell me a franchise?’

  Smythe nodded and widened his smile. ‘No chicken, no pizza, Dom,’ he said. ‘This is a brand-new franchise idea that’ll make you millions.’

  Martone shrugged and sat back, flipped a hand in the air. ‘Go ahead, pal, tell me about this million-dollar franchise idea of yours. But make it short, OK? Get to the point. I’m hungry.’

  Smythe drew a breath and said, ‘It’s simple, Dom. I can offer you a date, time and place.’

  ‘Yeah? That doesn’t sound too exciting, Smythe.’

  ‘Oh, but it can be … Dom.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘A date, time and place: when the entire eastern seaboard will be without electricity – everything black up and down the coast and here in Canada. Precise. You can set your watch by it. Simple and clean, the way I’m sure you prefer your business deals.’

  Smythe sensed that Martone was beginning to lose patience and decided to be more direct. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘let me lay it out for you in simple terms. I tell you when all power will go off up and down the east coast and here in Canada. You can use that knowledge any way you wish – here in Toronto. I’ll be selling that same information to others like you.’ He paused to see whether Martone took offense at being lumped in with others. He didn’t seem to be, so he continued. ‘That’s why I call it a franchise. Everybody who pays me for the information receives his own exclusive franchise for a particular part of the affected area. What they do with the information is their business. The same goes for you.’

  It started as a low rumble before turning into a full-fledged belly laugh, which annoyed Smythe. He felt as though he was being laughed at, dismissed as someone who’d arrived with a bad joke. Martone sensed his reaction. He held up his hand as he brought his laughter under control. ‘Hey, no offense, pal, but what you’re telling me is … well, it’s different, huh? I mean, I’ve been in business a long time but I never heard of anything like this.’

  As suddenly as the laugh had erupted, it vanished, replaced by a hard stare from the Mafioso. He pointed his index finger at Smythe and said, ‘What you’re telling me sounds like it’s not legit, you know, dishonest, not kosher. I’m a legitimate businessman, Smythe, always above board, no games. How do you expect me to react to this – what’s the term the Jews use, cockamamie? – this cockamamie scheme you’ve come up with.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have wasted your time,’ Smythe said, picking up his briefcase from the floor and standing.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, calm down, my friend. Like I said, no offense. Sit down. We’ll eat a good meal and maybe it’ll help me digest this thing you’re talking about. We digest a good meal and then I digest this franchise thing.’

  It occurred to Smythe that it would be wise to make amends with Martone, or at least to not upset him. He wielded considerable power with the opera company. To alienate him wouldn’t be fair to Cynthia – or taken lightly by her.

  ‘Sure, Dom,’ Smythe said, glancing at Martone’s two bodyguards who seemed disinterested in what was going on at their boss’s table. He resumed his seat and flashed a smile at Martone. ‘I know that what I’m offering sounds a little farfetched, Dom, but not only will it work, it’ll generate millions for anybody who signs on.’

  Martone ignored the comment, called for Paulie, and ordered for both. ‘We’ll have the veal parm,’ he said. ‘The veal nice and thin, and tender.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Mr Martone.’

  ‘Ziti on the side, red sauce, and salads, house dressing.’ To Smythe: ‘Another bottle of red?’

  ‘No, thanks, I think not.’

  ‘Good for you. Keep the mind sharp. So, let’s talk opera.’

  An hour later they shook hands as Smythe prepared to leave.

  ‘Thanks for your time and for hearing me out,’ Smythe said.

  ‘Hey, I’m always interested in new ideas. You just pitched it to the wrong guy.’ He leaned close to Smythe’s ear. ‘I’m gonna forget that you thought I might be interested in something illegal, Smythe. It stays right here in this room, huh?’

  ‘Of course.’ Smythe opened his briefcase and took out a file folder containing copies of the charts he’d created that spelled out the potential return on an investment in his franchise. He handed it to Martone. ‘I’ll leave this with you, Dom. I know you’re not interested in what I’m offering but maybe you’ll find the numbers interesting.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Thanks. See you at the next production.’

  Smythe was happy to be gone from the room and from under Martone’s looming presence. At the same time he left with a strange, undefined sense that it hadn’t been a wasted lunch. For some reason he thought that despite the Toronto crime boss’s initial displeasure with the project, he hadn’t totally dismissed it.

  He was right.

  Martone called the following afternoon.

  NINE

  ‘Smythe, Dom Martone here. Tomorrow morning, eleven sharp. Take the ferry over to the islands. We meet at the Franklin Children’s Garden, Pine Grove, by the Franklin-the-Turtle sculpture. Got it?’

  ‘By the—?’

  ‘Eleven sharp. Dress casual. Ciao!’

  Smythe hastily scribbled on a pad what he remembered of Martone’s instructions. Meet at the Children’s Garden? Dress casual? Was the Mafioso joking? Couldn’t be. One thing was certain. Martone hadn’t set up the meeting to dismiss Smythe’s franchise idea. He was obviously interested.

/>   But despite this positive sign Smythe was gripped with conflicting emotions.

  Martone’s parting comment after lunch the previous day – ‘I’m gonna forget that you thought I might be interested in something illegal’ – stayed with him. He’d basically accused the Mafioso of being just that, a thug, someone who dealt in illegalities, and wondered whether Martone would want him dead once the deal was finalized, put a hit on him in gangster parlance, send him to sleep with the fishes.

  But if that was Martone’s intention it wasn’t about to happen that day. The Mafioso wouldn’t plan an execution in the middle of a kids’ playground. He would have suggested a night meeting at some abandoned warehouse along the waterfront.

  Eleven in the morning? The Children’s Garden? Lots of dirty little ones racing around while their mothers looked on adoringly? Then Smythe had a revelation and smiled at the conclusion to which he’d come. This Dominick Martone was one clever guy. Who would ever guess that he was meeting in a children’s playground to discuss a major criminal undertaking? Don’t underestimate him, Smythe reminded himself. Don’t get cocky. Keep your cool and stand your ground.

  Content that he hadn’t been summoned to his own murder, Smythe left the office and swung by their travel agent’s office to pick up his airline ticket for the next trip to Buenos Aires. He was scheduled to leave in three days, which put on the pressure. He not only had to suffer three days of Cynthia’s complaints about his being away again, he felt the need to close the deal, to be able to tell Gina that he would soon be worth millions and free to spend the rest of his life with her.

  It was a lovely sunny day in Toronto the following morning, the sky blue, the temperature moderate. Smythe hadn’t slept well and was up far in advance of his alarm’s buzz. Cynthia was still in bed when he left the house. He drove to a municipal parking garage near the ferry terminal on Queen’s Quay, between Bay and Yonge Streets. He’d heeded Martone’s order to dress casually. He chose tan slacks, a blue button-down shirt, a lightweight yellow V-neck sweater and coffee loafers sans socks. He’d had the feeling during lunch with Martone that the Mafioso disapproved of the length of his hair and had considered getting a haircut, but ran out of time.