Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia

by Donald Bain

  He boarded the next departing boat and arrived on Toronto Islands more than an hour early for the meeting. He passed the time at the lakeside until his watch said ten fifty-five. It took only a few minutes to walk to the Children’s Garden where he saw Martone standing next to the Franklin-the-Turtle sculpture, based upon the Paulette Bourgeois children’s book of the same name. Martone had abandoned his suit for a pair of jeans, a white cable-knit sweater draped over his shoulders preppy-style, a pink shirt, and sneakers. He looked out of place in the playground, but Smythe reasoned that if you didn’t know what Martone did for a living you wouldn’t come to that conclusion. Hugo sat on a bench and glared.

  The Mafioso waved to Smythe to join him. Martone nudged Smythe in the arm with his elbow and pointed to a boy of about six or seven who ran in circles around a bear sculpture. A young woman, whom Smythe assumed was the nanny, stood near him.

  ‘He’s a real pistol, huh?’ Martone said.

  ‘Who? That kid?’

  ‘My grandson, Dominick. Named after me.’

  Had Martone invited him there to admire his grandson? He answered his own question. Having his grandson with him gave cover.

  ‘He’s cute,’ Smythe said.

  ‘Full of piss-and-vinegar like his grandfather. Let’s take a walk.’

  ‘You can leave him alone?’

  ‘He’s got the nanny with him. Come on. We’ve got things to discuss.’

  They found a bench a hundred yards from where the child played. ‘Like I told you at lunch, Smythe, I needed to digest this thing you’re talking about.’

  Smythe drew a breath and waited.

  ‘So I did. Digest it. Gave me heartburn.’ He laughed. ‘A couple of Tums took care of it. So, I digested it and made a decision.’

  Smythe maintained his silence.

  ‘The way I figure it,’ Martone said, ‘this scheme of yours is no different than insider trading on the stock market, like knowing when a company’s about to buy another because you’re an insider and you tell your friends about it and they buy the stock of the company being taken over. I mean, all I’m getting from you is a date and time, which I pass on to somebody else. Am I correct?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it in those terms, Dom, but you make sense. Of course in this case I sell that information to someone else.’

  ‘So I’m maybe interested in going in on it. You want a partner, right?’

  ‘Ah … yes, I suppose that’s what I’m looking for. A few partners.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of partners, Smythe. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t. You come off to me like a straight-shooter. Am I wrong?’

  ‘If you mean can I be trusted, the answer is no, you’re not wrong.’

  ‘Good, good. But I’ve got a problem with this.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘See, you tell me that you’ll take me in as a partner for Toronto, but that you’ll look for other partners in other places.’

  Smythe nodded.

  ‘The problem, Smythe, is that you don’t know the sort of businessmen who might be interested in getting involved.’

  He was right. Smythe had launched his plan with someone he already knew through Cynthia’s involvement with the opera company. He had no idea who he might approach next in different cities, and had realized from the beginning that this represented a potential flaw, a big one. What Martone said next was music to his ears.

  ‘Here’s what I’m suggesting, Smythe. I know lots of people who might want to buy what you call a franchise. They’re friends of mine. You might say we’re in the same business.’

  He didn’t have to spell it out. He was talking about other Mafia bosses.

  ‘The way I see it, Smythe, you need me for more than just Toronto. You need me as a full partner, somebody who can reach the right people with the right kind of money to invest. You follow?’

  ‘I follow, Dom.’

  ‘The question is, how do we put together this partnership of ours? What do you want out of it? Fifty-fifty?’

  Smythe hadn’t prepared for this sort of conversation. He’d made numerous projections on his computer about how much the scheme might generate, but it was all predicated on identifying and selling a dozen or more franchises to mob leaders in other cities. Martone was right. Making contact and selling the idea to other Mafioso was daunting at best.

  How much did Smythe want?

  He pulled numbers out of a hat.

  ‘A million for the information, Dom.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘And a piece of the action over a million.’

  ‘A million from me,’ Martone said. ‘You want a million just to sell me the info?’

  ‘If that’s too steep I can—’

  Martone patted his arm, like a father comforting a son who’s gotten involved with the wrong girl. ‘Here’s the deal, Smythe. I give it to you once, just once. You take it or we never discuss it again. Capisce?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We become partners,’ Martone said. ‘I pay you a million bucks, half upfront, half after the deal is done. I sell the franchises to my friends and keep the first two million. After that we split, seventy-thirty, seventy to me, thirty per cent to you. How’s that sound?’

  ‘It sounds good, Dom, but I need expense money, too.’

  ‘Whoa, what are you saying? What expenses?’

  ‘It’ll cost me money to pull this off, to create the blackout.’

  ‘You can’t cover it out of the million?’

  ‘I could,’ Smythe said, hoping he hadn’t made a tactical error by asking for more, ‘but I need to clear a million dollars. I need another two hundred and fifty thousand on top of the million.’ Martone’s facial expression didn’t indicate that he was about to balk, so Smythe decided to go for broke. ‘How about this?’ he said. ‘I need money in advance for another business deal I’m pursuing. Give me a million, two hundred and fifty thousand and you can keep all the proceeds after that.’

  Did I blow the deal? he wondered.

  ‘You strike a harder bargain than you look, Smythe. OK. You’ve got a deal.’

  Martone extended his hand. Smythe took it. ‘To me, Smythe, a handshake is as good as any legal paper any lawyer could draw up.’ He looked at Smythe with cold, coal-black eyes. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘give me the info.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The info. The date, time, whatever.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Dom, why should I give it to you before I get paid?’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’ Smythe countered.

  Martone paused, then laughed.

  Smythe returned it with a smile. A pervasive sense of control came over him. He met Martone’s stare, unflinching, challenging.

  ‘OK,’ Martone said. ‘We arrange for the swap, the money for you, the info for me. Tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I need more time to put things into place.’

  ‘How much time?’

  ‘I’ll be out of town for a few days. I need … I need three weeks. It’s not easy to set this thing up.’ He fought to contain his glee at how easily things had fallen into place, and decided to press the money issue. ‘I need some start-up funds, Dom. Can you advance me a couple of hundred thousand against the million two-fifty?’

  Martone laughed. ‘I figured you’d want some seed money, Smythe.’ He motioned to Hugo, who left the bench and came to his boss’s side. ‘Give him the envelope,’ Martone said. Hugo handed Smythe a thick number ten envelope and walked away.

  ‘There’s fifty Gs in there,’ Martone told Smythe. ‘I’ll deduct it from what we agreed on.’

  ‘Thanks, Dom,’ Smythe said as Martone’s grandson threw himself into his grandfather’s arms.

  ‘Hey, big guy, easy, easy. Say hello to Mr Smythe.’

  The boy grimaced and stuck out his tongue at Smythe. ‘You suck,’ he said.

  Martone put the kid on the ground and delivered a sharp slap to his rear end. ‘Hey, I told you, you don’t talk fresh,�
�� he said.

  His grandson burst into tears and ran back to where the nanny now sat with Hugo.

  ‘Kids,’ Martone said. ‘They don’t learn respect these days. You go ahead, Smythe, leave. I’ll stay awhile with the kid.’

  Smythe walked away, a smile on his face. It was falling into place. He’d have a million dollars to take to Buenos Aires and enough to pay Saison.

  Now all he had to do was decide what that date would be, and that meant meeting again with the big French-Canadian.

  TEN

  Smythe was told when he called Power-Can that Saison had taken a personal day off. The Frenchman answered the phone at home.

  ‘Hung over?’ Smythe asked pleasantly.

  ‘Too much wine, too much of the bitch. What do you want?’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘So go ahead and talk.’

  ‘Not on the phone. I assume Angelique isn’t there?’

  ‘Gone to work. She should stay away.’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Paul. I’ll be there in an hour.’

  Saison’s apartment was a third-floor walk-up. The pungent odor of cooking, wine, and cigarette and cigar smoke greeted Smythe as he ascended the stairs. He found the aroma pleasant. Cynthia had an obsession about odors and their home smelled antiseptic, as though constructed of HEPA filters. Elaborate air-cleaning machines housed in decorative wood shells silently cleansed the air in every room.

  Saison answered Smythe’s knock. He looked as bad as he’d sounded on the phone. Smythe’s call had obviously wakened him. His hair went in a dozen different directions and he hadn’t shaved in days. He wore a stained white sleeveless undershirt, red boxer shorts, and sandals. His eyes mirrored his pain. Smythe declined an offer of a drink and sat at the small table in the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes; a skinny black-and-white cat slept soundly in sun streaming through the window.

  ‘You remember that thing we talked about at lunch?’ Smythe asked.

  Saison rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘That crazy idea of yours?’

  ‘Right, that crazy idea of mine. It’s not just a crazy idea any more, Paul. I’m going to do it.’

  ‘You’re going to do it?’

  ‘You told me to do it. I’m doing it – with you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Smythe.’

  Smythe stared at him. ‘You’re backing out?’

  ‘No, no, but I thought maybe you were kidding, like daydreaming.’

  ‘It started as a daydream but now it’s about to become a reality. Maybe I was wrong to think that you agreed to be part of it. I thought you wanted the money but it looks like I was wrong.’

  Smythe stood.

  ‘No, Smythe, sit down. I’m, ah, I’m just waking up, you know, a little fuzzy. Tell me again about this idea of yours.’

  Smythe slowly and carefully outlined the plan. At a specified day and time Saison was to create a glitch in Power-Can’s generators. This disruption needed to last only a few seconds before the power company’s antiquated mechanical switches, overwhelmed by the power surge, began to shut down the grid that provided power from Toronto southward and westward, cutting off the flow of electricity to Chicago and Cleveland, Buffalo, Boston, New York, Washington DC, and Baltimore. The sudden blackness would be instantaneous. Smythe estimated that it would take a minimum of six hours for engineers up and down the grid to trace the cause back to the Power-Can plant, probably longer if past blackouts were any gauge.

  ‘Make sense?’ Smythe asked when he’d finished going over the plan.

  Saison had listened intently, his only interruptions an occasional belch or grunt. He got up from the table, went to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of French table wine and two glasses. Smythe watched with amusement as Saison filled both glasses and handed one to him. ‘How much you say for me?’ Saison asked.

  ‘That depends on how many franchises I can sell,’ Smythe lied.

  On his way there he’d considered giving Saison a lower figure than the quarter of a million dollars he’d originally offered. The drunken Frenchman would probably be happy with half that amount. But Smythe also knew that as much as he found the Frenchman personally offensive, he needed him. Everything depended upon having someone inside Power-Can with enough knowledge of the complex electrical system to cause the blackout.

  There was another dimension to Smythe’s thought process regarding money. Now that he had a commitment from Martone for a million, two hundred fifty thousand, he’d begun to question whether it was enough to finance his escape to Argentina and to support the sort of lifestyle Gina would expect. Every additional dollar he could squeeze out of the deal would be that much more he had to finance the luxurious lifestyle he envisioned for himself and his lovely Argentinean lover.

  ‘A hundred thousand,’ Smythe said.

  Saison glared at him. ‘You said more, a quarter of a million.’

  ‘That was before I made my deal with the money man, Paul. He cut down on what I get, so I have to pay you less.’ Saison started to protest but Smythe added, ‘Hey, Paul, when was the last time you saw a hundred thousand dollars in cash? Think about it. You can pay your debts, dump Angelique, and find a new and better place to live.’

  Saison growled and pouted.

  ‘All right,’ Saison said, ‘I’ll make it a hundred and twenty-five thousand. All cash, upfront, in your pocket. That’s a good payday for tripping a couple of switches.’

  Another grunt from Saison.

  ‘OK,’ Smythe said, ‘I’ll sweeten the deal. The money man is paying me a percentage of the profits once they reach a certain level. Between you and me, Paul, I plan on leaving Toronto once the blackout occurs. You can have my percentage of the profits.’

  ‘How do I get that?’

  ‘I’ll tell the money man who you are and have him pay my share to you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘That’s a secret.’

  ‘You’re leaving your wife?’

  ‘Let’s just say that I’ll be starting a new life. Enough talk. Do we have a deal or don’t we?’

  Saison brought his glass down on the table with enough force to cause half its contents to spill over the top. ‘No, Smythe. You said a quarter of a million. You want me to put my neck on the line for less? No deal, Smythe. What good is what you say this money man will give me after it’s over? You think you’re the only one who’ll take off, be gone? You think I’d be stupid enough to stay around. I’m not stupid, Smythe. You give me what you promised or you find somebody else for this crazy plan.’

  Two things crossed Smythe’s mind at that moment.

  The first was what he knew from the beginning that without someone like Saison inside Power-Can there would be no blackout. He knew others who worked there but none of them were likely to go along with the scheme. Saison’s discontent with Power-Can – with almost everything for that matter – and his perpetual state of being broke due to his gambling habit, gave him the right incentive. Two: Saison now knew of Smythe’s intentions. If he became disgruntled enough he might decide to tell someone at Power-Can of the plot.

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, Paul,’ Smythe said through an exaggerated sigh. ‘All right. A quarter of a million it is.’

  ‘What about the piece of the action from the money man?’

  ‘That, too.’ Agreeing to that was easy. Smythe would be long gone before it became an issue.

  Saison replaced what had spilled from his glass and raised it to Smythe. ‘You’re a crazy man, Smythe, really crazy. But so am I, oui? Here’s to becoming rich. A votre santé, Smythe. Cheers!’

  ELEVEN

  Two days later, Smythe boarded a flight to Buenos Aires. Cynthia had complained about his taking another trip, and her mother weighed in, too, but Smythe kept his cool and avoided an outright argument with either woman.

  Prior to leaving he’d taken the bills Martone had given him and divided them into groups of ten. Twenty thousand dollars was stashed in a small safe
he’d purchased which he’d secured beneath his desk in the rented office. He put ten of the bills in his wallet and separated the remaining twenty thousand into two batches, each wrapped in clothing in the suitcase he’d be using for the trip. He knew that he was taking a chance on airport security personnel deciding to go through the suitcase but didn’t see any other option. He’d never been singled out before at the airport, nor had Customs officials in Buenos Aires red-flagged him for a more thorough examination. He always dressed nicely for the flights, and his nondescript appearance, along with official-looking but out-of-date correspondence from the Argentine power authority inviting him to make a presentation meant that he’d never had any trouble. He knew that in the future he’d have to make other arrangements, but for now he would take his chances.

  He’d sailed through security at JFK Airport, and was asked only a few cursory questions by Customs in Buenos Aires before being waved through. He’d instructed Gina to hire a car service and to meet his flight, which she did.

  Seeing her waiting for him as he walked off the flight sent his heart racing. They engaged in a long embrace and sensuous kiss, much to the delight of other passengers, and were soon on their way to the Four Seasons Hotel where Smythe had reserved his usual executive suite. He couldn’t keep his hands off her during the ride, causing her to giggle and to push him away, indicating the driver as her reason for warding off his advances. ‘Later,’ she cooed, ‘later.’

  But once ensconced in the suite, she welcomed his pent-up passion and they made love, first on the bed, and then when Smythe insisted that they throw caution to the wind, on a chaise longue on the balcony.

  Back inside, Gina stood naked in front of a full-length mirror and complained that she was gaining weight. Smythe came up behind her and kneaded the modest roll of her belly. ‘I love every inch of you, mi angel de amor. I worship every inch of my Gina.’

  They dressed and ordered room service. The waiter uncorked a bottle of 2004 Noeima de Patagoina, the most expensive red on the wine list, and poured two glasses before backing from the room. Smythe raised his glass to Gina and said, ‘To my wife soon to be, Mrs Carlton Smythe.’ With that, he opened his suitcase, extracted the twenty thousand dollars in cash and tossed the bills into the air above her head.