by Donald Bain
‘What is this?’ she asked gleefully, snatching bills as they floated down.
‘The beginning of our new life together,’ Smythe said. ‘Listen to me, Gina. I have brought with me twenty thousand dollars US. At today’s exchange rate that is more than one hundred thirty thousand Argentine pesos.’
‘You bring it with you on the plane?’
‘Yes. I brought it for you – for us. I must return home in a few days, but while I am gone I want you to find us a lovely home to rent in which we can live as man and wife, something in a pretty area with nice views, vistas, si? Maybe you can find something on a lake or a river, or the ocean. It must be on a hill and have large windows, very large windows to shine light on you. Later we will buy a home together.’
‘You want me to do this?’
‘Yes. This money is only a small amount. But I will eventually bring for us a large amount of money, a million dollars.’
Her already large brown eyes widened. ‘A million dollars?’
‘Yes. Si. I have been reading about buying property here in Argentina. The right real estate agent will not ask questions about where you have gotten the money.’
‘I have a friend in real estate,’ she said. ‘I will call him.’
‘Good. We will also need a bank in which I can deposit funds. Take some of this twenty thousand dollars and open a joint checking account in both our names.’
She nodded and touched his hand. ‘I have a friend,’ she said, ‘who is president of a small bank here in Buenos Aires, a private bank.’
‘“Private bank?”’
‘Yes. He will do what I say.’
‘Good,’ Smythe said, wondering how close she was to these ‘friends’ and wishing they weren’t men. The thought of her being intimate with another man was excruciating.
‘I will come back with the million dollars. We will use what we must to purchase our dream house, and will have the rest to live together in bliss, sheer bliss. Do you understand?’
She nodded, but then pouted. ‘You have your divorce?’
‘Not yet, but it’s in the works.’
What was ‘in the works’ was the scenario that Smythe had concocted regarding Cynthia. The way he’d figured it, once he’d left the country Cynthia would naturally file for divorce, which he would easily grant from Argentina. The fury that his escape would fuel in her – and in her mother – wasn’t pleasant to contemplate, but he would be far enough away to not suffer the brunt of it.
‘You will do it?’ he asked Gina.
‘Yes, I will do it.’ She broke into a long, hearty laugh, threw herself onto his lap, and kissed him. ‘You are a crazy man, Carlton Smythe, loco, muy loco.’
‘And I am a man madly in love with Gina Ellanado. Let’s go out and celebrate, the best restaurant, the best wines, and if you wish we will tango into the wee hours.’
While Smythe laid out his plans for Gina and their life together in Argentina, a conversation of a different sort was taking place in Toronto, Canada.
‘I can’t believe that you’re saying this, Mother,’ Cynthia Smythe said. ‘Carlton having an affair? That’s preposterous. Carlton is not the sort of man who would do that. I mean, look at him. He’s hardly what you would call a lady killer, a Casanova.’
Mrs Wiggins bestowed upon her only child a condescending smile that mirrored what she was thinking, that her daughter was naïve and not terribly bright.
‘You must trust me, dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I have only your best interests at heart. I might also tell you that I speak from experience.’
It took Cynthia a moment to process what her mother was saying. ‘What experience?’
Mrs Wiggins sighed deeply and played with her wedding ring which she’d never removed after her husband’s death. ‘I’ve never told this to anyone, Cynthia, but I feel that considering what you are going through it’s my duty to be straightforward in the hope that it will bring you to your senses. I shall be blunt. Your father had an affair during our marriage.’
‘No!’
‘Oh yes, my dear. Your father was – well, let me just say that he succumbed to what most men do, what the psychologists and psychiatrists call a “mid-life crisis”. You know what I mean. They see less hair on their heads, and their waistlines expand along with their egos. They feel the need to reassert their masculinity by attracting a different woman than the one to whom they are married and have pledged life-long fidelity. It’s very sad really, truly tragic, but it is built into their genetic make-up I fear.’
‘Daddy had an affair?’
‘Yes, he certainly did, with a floozy who worked in one of his offices, one of those young women lacking any sense of morality but certainly not lacking obvious feminine charms. Your father took up with her on a business trip; he took so many business trips that I suppose the temptation was too great for him to overcome, like that salesman Willy Loman in the play.’
‘What was her name?’ Cynthia asked.
Mrs Wiggins waved away the question. ‘It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that she enticed your father into a compromising position in some hotel room, and continued until I put a stop to it.’
‘You confronted Daddy about it?’
‘Oh, did I ever. When I began to suspect that his business trips involved more than business, monkey business, I hired a private investigator.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘Of course I did. My honor was at stake, as well as my marriage.’
‘Why didn’t you leave him? I would leave Carlton if I found out that he was seeing another woman.’
Another patronizing smile from her mother. ‘My dear, sweet Cynthia, you have such a romantic view of marriage, which is fine when you’re younger, but hardly practical after the years pass by. I was not about to leave your father and the pleasant lifestyle he’d provided for me. I’m no fool, Cynthia.’
‘But you said you’d confronted him.’
‘That’s right, I did, once I had the report and the photographs from the private investigator. I laid them on the table and said nothing, simply waited to hear what he had to say in defense of himself.’
‘Did he … defend himself?’
‘He tried. When he was finished jabbering away like a schoolchild caught with his fingers in the cookie jar, I took the report and photographs, tore them in half, and tossed them into the fireplace.’
‘That was it?’
‘Yes, aside from telling your father that if he ever strayed again I would personally tear out his eyeballs with my fingernails, and take pleasure in doing it.’
Cynthia winced at the visual.
‘And so, my dear, my instincts tell me that your husband with all his so-called business trips is seeing another woman. I feel it in my bones, and my bones never lie to me.’
There was nothing for Cynthia to do but cry.
Mrs Wiggins ignored her daughter’s tears and said, ‘I’ve already contacted the son of the private investigator who handled my case. His father, dear soul, is no longer with us, but his son is equally capable, I’m sure. I’d like you to think seriously about this overnight, Cynthia. Once you’ve overcome your natural reluctance to believe that your husband is cheating on you, I’ll put you in touch with him.’
Cynthia spent a sleepless night picturing Carlton in bed with another woman. By the time she arose the following morning she’d made her decision.
‘I want to meet with the investigator, Mother. I want to do it as soon as possible.’
‘I knew that you’d come to that conclusion, Cynthia. But I must give you a very important word of warning. Until the investigator has done his job and reported his results, you must not let Carlton know of your suspicions, not a word. He must be oblivious to it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Good girl. I’ve noticed that some of your clothing is out-of-date. What I suggest is that we go on a shopping spree, mother and daughter, like we used to.’
‘That sounds wonderf
ul,’ Cynthia said. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
TWELVE
Smythe was a bundle of nerves when he left Buenos Aires and flew back to Toronto. He’d managed to mask it from Gina, but once on the plane a sense of dread that had been building came out in full flower for this formerly law-abiding, mild-mannered, peace-loving, pocket-protected engineer.
He’d tried to calm his nerves by drinking more than he usually did on a flight, and applying a slide-rule approach to problem-solving. He was minimally successful on both counts.
Since the moment that Dominick Martone had agreed to the scheme, Smythe had been haunted by the question of why the Mafioso chief would agree to turn over a million dollars to a man he barely knew, and without any written agreement. The answer was obvious of course. You don’t draw up contracts for a criminal enterprise. Besides, Martone didn’t need a written agreement or a lawyer to protect his million dollar investment. He had Hugo and a hundred other Hugos to make sure that Smythe held up his end of the bargain. Bargain! He’d made a pact with the Devil, and even if he wanted to back out of the deal he knew that it was too late.
He was also increasingly concerned that the people Martone would recruit to pay for information about the blackout would not hesitate to hurt others if necessary, and made a mental note to insist to Martone the next time they met that no one be injured, at least not physically.
The possibility of going to Martone, returning his money, and saying, ‘I changed my mind’ came and went, but Smythe knew that he could never abandon the project. What Martone’s response would be was grim enough. But he was doing it for Gina, and the thought of losing her was more frightening than broken kneecaps, pulled fingernails, and decapitation-by-chainsaw.
Who were these other men that she knew, the real estate agent and the banker? Were they former lovers? Current lovers? He groaned at the thought and decided that he had to speed up the process, shorten the time it would take to leave Toronto with a million dollars and begin life anew with his Gina, his belleza delirante, his deseo de mi corazon: terms of endearment he’d learned from his Spanish-English dictionary.
His arrival home was surprisingly warm. Cynthia kissed him with more passion than she had in years, and asked whether his trip had been pleasant and successful.
‘Successful, yes,’ he said. ‘Pleasant? My client seems to think that he owns me, demands my presence day and night.’
‘Oh, poor dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us a drink.’
‘No, I’ll make them,’ he said.
‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘You always put too much vermouth in my martinis, but I’ll make yours just the way you like it.’ Smythe’s martini-making skill was one of many sources of conflict between them. No matter how little vermouth he put in hers it was always too much. Once, he didn’t put any vermouth in her drink and she still complained. When he told her what he’d done she refused to believe him.
‘Here’s to having you home, Carlton,’ Cynthia said, raising her glass.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘My pleasure,’ she said through a sweet smile.
Smythe stayed at the house his first day and evening back in Toronto as a gesture to Cynthia, although he was anxious to get to his rented office where he could think more clearly. The next afternoon he said he needed to meet with a potential Toronto client and would be having dinner with him. Cynthia said that was fine; she was having dinner with board members from the opera company. Her demeanor hadn’t changed. She was unfailingly pleasant, even loving, and told him that she was pleased he was seeking clients who wouldn’t involve as much overseas travel. ‘It’s too much wear-and-tear on my honey,’ she said.
Smythe went to his rented office the next day and called Paul Saison at Power-Can. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Sure I can talk. What do you think I am, Smythe, stupid? I went to school, didn’t I?’
Smythe ignored the Frenchman’s hearty laugh and said, ‘We have to get together. What time do you get off?’
‘An hour, not soon enough.’
Saison suggested meeting at a bar in which he hung out but Smythe nixed it. ‘It’s too close to Power-Can,’ he said.
‘Close is good,’ said Saison. ‘The salope has the car. The witch. She goes to visit her worthless sister.’
‘How were you going to get home?’
‘The way I came to work, huh? The taxi.’
‘We’ll go someplace away from the plant.’
‘Whatever you say, Smythe.’
‘I’ll meet you at the corner where that Chinese restaurant is, you know, in that small shopping center?’
‘That’s six blocks, Smythe. Long walk.’
‘And far enough away from the plant,’ Smythe said, and hung up.
Smythe’s next call was to Dominick Martone, whose secretary told him that Martone was out of the office. Smythe left a message giving his cell phone number, but asked that Mr Martone not return the call after ten.
He pulled up in front of the Chinese restaurant and looked for Saison. He’d run fifteen minutes late because of an auto accident and he hoped that Saison hadn’t decided to grab a taxi and leave. He was about to call the Frenchman’s cell phone when he saw him exit the restaurant. Smythe blew the horn, and Saison lumbered in his direction, opened the passenger door, and piled into the seat, his body odor preceding him.
‘What were you doing in there?’ Smythe asked as he pulled away from the parking lot.
‘What do you think I do in a Chinese restaurant, Smythe? It was a long walk. Two beers. Nothing else to drink in a Chinese restaurant, huh? They make lousy drinks, and Chinese wine is une douche. Everybody knows that. Where are we going?’
‘Someplace quiet we can talk.’
Fifteen minutes later, and after Saison had worked on the contents of a pint bottle of wine he carried, they came to a stop sign in front of a building with the sign ‘Bubs: A Gentleman’s Club’.
‘Hey, Smythe, we go in there, huh?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the matter with you? The bitch, she’s with her sister. I need a pretty woman, some inspiration, huh?’
‘No,’ Smythe said, and stepped on the gas.
Saison grabbed his arm. ‘This is the place I want to go, Smythe. We go here or you take me home.’
Smythe was in no mood to argue. Besides, maybe this was a good place to have their conversation, somewhere dark and quiet. He sighed and turned into a parking space.
As they entered the club through soiled red velvet drapes, Smythe was assaulted by dizzying red-and-blue strobe lights and rock-’n-roll music cranked up to ear-splitting level. He blinked repeatedly as he tried to acclimate to the audio and visual chaos.
Two topless buxom young women, one white and one black, danced on a small stage, twirling about vertical poles and assuming classic sexy poses.
‘Let’s go,’ Smythe told Saison.
The Frenchman ignored him and headed to seats at the edge of the stage, directly in front of the dancers. Smythe didn’t move.
‘You coming in or what?’ a big man in a suit said.
‘What? Oh, yes, I’m coming in but we’re not staying.’
Smythe made his way to where Saison sat ogling the dancers, and took a vacant seat next to him. ‘Why did you pick this place?’ he asked.
‘You don’t like it? What’s wrong with it? The girls, they are madone, huh?’
‘What? I can’t hear you.’
Saison leaned closer and yelled, ‘The girls, they are beautiful, oui?’
‘We have to talk, Paul. Let’s get out of here.’
Saison ignored him and waved over a waitress. ‘Beer, Smythe? Wine?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Come on, Smythe, we celebrate, huh? Pretty soon we be rich, huh?’ He slapped Smythe on the back and said to the scantily-clad waitress, ‘Two Kronenbourgs, OK?’
‘I don’t want a beer,’ Smythe said.
One of the dancers came close
, squatted down in front of Smythe, blew him a kiss and undulated her large bare brown breasts inches from his nose.
Saison laughed. ‘Hey, she likes you, Smythe. Give her a tip.’
‘What?’ Smythe said, pulling back from her.
‘Like this.’ Saison pulled a Canadian dollar banknote from his shirt pocket, leaned toward the girl, and slipped the bill into the top of her G-string. ‘Come on, Smythe, she dances for you.’
The combination of the loud music, flashing lights, the whoops and hollers of drunken men, and the heavy odor of cheap perfume made Smythe dizzy.
‘You know what you need, Smythe?’ Saison shouted in his ear. ‘You need a mistress, huh? Us French, we know how to live.’
Smythe thought of the naked Gina and a wave of nausea came and went. She was more beautiful than the girls performing in front of him, and she had class. She proudly showed off her gorgeous naked body only for the man she loved – him – me, he thought. Dancing near-naked for money disgusted him and he averted his eyes from the stage.
Their beers were delivered. Saison poked Smythe with his elbow. ‘Pay the pretty lady,’ he said.
‘What? Oh, yes. How much?’
‘Thirty,’ the waitress said.
‘Thirty? Dollars?’
She glared at him.
‘All right,’ he said as he pulled out his wallet, fished bills from it, and handed them to her. She counted the money and intensified her glare, a hand on her hip.
‘Hey, Smythe, a tip for the jolie fille.’
‘I already paid her thirty dollars,’ Smythe protested loudly.
‘This is all?’ the waitress said, looking at the bills in her hand.—
‘I already paid you plenty,’ Smythe said.
‘Smythe,’ Saison said. ‘Don’t be cheap, huh? She’s a working girl.’
‘She can take her tip out of the thirty dollars I just gave her.’
A man sitting to Smythe’s left wearing a red and yellow checkered flannel shirt and a Toronto Blue Jay baseball cap on backwards, said, ‘Hey, what’d you do, stiff her?’