by Donald Bain
At a few minutes before two o’clock a black Town Car pulled into a space three removed from Clarence’s panel truck. He watched out of the corner of his eye as a big man with a shaved head, and a smaller slender man with a prominent nose got out, opened the trunk, and the big man removed an obviously heavy cardboard box wrapped in tape.
Hugo and his Mafia colleague carried the box into the lobby where Smythe waited.
‘This is for Mr Smith,’ Hugo told the receptionist. ‘Books.’
‘It’s Smythe,’ Carlton said as he came to the desk. ‘Like in Blithe Spirit.’
Hugo gave him an angry look.
‘Oh, this is for you,’ Smythe said, handing Hugo the envelope in which he’d written the date and time of the blackout.
Smythe carried the box back to his office, shut and locked the door, and used scissors to cut away the tape. His heart pounded and he began to sweat as he pulled back the box’s flaps and peered inside. Beneath a layer of newspaper was the money, neatly bound packages of hundred dollar bills.
Smythe wondered whether he was about to have a coronary. He gasped for air, and placed his hands over his face. When the initial shock had subsided, he closed the box and shoved it beneath the desk, covering it with file folders. His pipe dream, his what-if? had worked. No, he realized, it was working, but he still had a long way to go to bring it to a happy conclusion.
His conversation with Martone the previous night had been sobering. Although he’d known from the outset that getting the money to Argentina would be a challenge, and a big one at that, he’d pushed aside that concern – until now.
What do I do with a million, two hundred thousand dollars in cash?
He spent the next hour formulating a plan. Obviously having all that cash sitting in his rented office was a risk, but what choice did he have? He decided on a course of action, which included taking a portion of the money with him to his pool house office at the rear of his home. In addition, he would have to assume the risk of sending various amounts of it to Gina and her banker friend, using Federal Express and UPS. He went online and got the names of other international shipping companies, including DHL and NEX Worldwide Express. They wouldn’t question what was in the boxes he would use, would they? And if they did, he would say that the boxes contained books. There was no way that he could carry that much cash aboard an aircraft, although his previous experience with transporting thirty thousand dollars in his suitcase and on his person had gone smoothly. After much soul searching, and conjuring approaches, he resolved to do whatever he could and hope that it worked.
As Smythe formulated plans to get the money to Argentina, Clarence Miller continued his vigilance in the parking lot. He’d gotten a photograph of Hugo and his buddy as they came from the building, and had noted the car’s plate number. He was in the process of making notes when a text message came through on his iPad. It was from a private investigator in Buenos Aires, Popi Domingo, with whom Miller had forged an alliance. Miller’s deceased father had established relationships with other investigators around the globe, which his son made good use of. Because Cynthia Smythe had told Miller of her husband’s frequent trips to Buenos Aires, he’d contacted his Argentinean cohort and asked him to be on tap should his client’s husband make another trip there.
Consider it done, the message read.
Inside the building, Smythe dragged the box from beneath the desk, opened it, and began laying out packages of hundred dollar bills in neat piles, and placed small pink Post-its on which he’d written on each. One pile would come home with him and be hidden in the pool house. Other piles were designated for Federal Express, UPS, DHL, and NEX Worldwide Express. He carefully measured each pile to determine how large the boxes must be that he would pick up from the various shipping companies. The final pile would be kept in his rented office until it was time to leave the country. Cash in that pile would travel with him along with what he sequestered at home.
Satisfied, he returned the cash to the box and slid it beneath the desk, trusting that it would be safe for a few days.
He was unaware that he was being followed by Clarence Miller as he drove home. The investigator waited an hour outside the Smythe home until he was relieved by another investigator from the agency, a former Canadian Air Force officer named Janet Kudrow, who would remain there for the rest of the night in the event Smythe left the house.
But Smythe had no intention of leaving that evening. He and Cynthia had dinner together, and settled in after the meal to watch a movie on TV. He’d told her that he’d be gone the next day, a short business trip.
‘Argentina again?’ she’d said, not unpleasantly.
‘No, ah, Philadelphia. Another potential client.’
‘That’s good,’ she’d said.
‘Be back tomorrow night,’ he said.
‘That’s the sort of trip I like to see you take, Carlton, less stressful. Remember, you’re not getting any younger.’
The film, Topkapi, a classic caper movie, came on the screen and Carlton and Cynthia Smythe spent the next two hours silently enjoying it.
No movie was playing in the apartment that Paul Saison shared with his live-in paramour, Angelique. She’d returned from her visit to her sister in Montreal exhausted after the three hundred mile drive, and in a combative mood. She expected Saison to be in his usual testy mood, but was surprised to be confronted by an upbeat, almost gregarious version of the large Frenchman. She immediately noted that he’d showered and shaved, and wore a fresh shirt and pants. He hugged her and said, ‘I am so happy that you are home, ma chérie. Come sit, I make you a drink.’
‘You’re drunk,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘A little, but I am a happy drunk, huh?’
‘You’re always drunk,’ she said.
He did what passed for a pirouette and said, ‘Drunk with love ma chérie, drunk with good fortune.’
‘What good fortune?’ she asked as she sat at the kitchen table, skepticism on her pretty round face, and watched as he poured vodka into a tall water glass, added ice, and presented it to her.
He raised the glass he’d been drinking from and said, ‘Money, Angelique, beaucoup de money.’
‘What did you do, you buffoon, rob a bank while I was away?’
He sat next to her and tickled beneath her chin with his index finger. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you always think the bad things about me, always think that Saison doesn’t know what he is doing, huh?’
‘When did you ever know what you were doing?’
He adopted an exaggerated expression of hurt. ‘You shoot arrows into my heart with that talk.’ He leaned close and said, ‘Maybe you think different about me when I have a quarter million dollars, and more when it is done.’
‘When what is done?’
‘Ah, ha, you would like to know, oui?’ He sat back, a satisfied expression on his face. ‘Well, I am no fool.’
Which was exactly what she considered him.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘You’re a drunk and a crazy man.’
‘No, no, stay. I will tell you, but not too much,’ he said, grabbing her wrist. ‘You call me a crazy man? Hah! You want to know who is a crazy man? I tell you. Smythe, he is a crazy man.’
‘Smythe?’
‘Smythe. He used to be my boss at the plant, remember?’
‘Oh, him. What about him?’
He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘He has come up with a plan that will make me a rich man.’
‘Plan? What plan?’
‘What do you think, that I tell you the plan? Hah! You think I don’t know what I’m doing? I tell you something, ma chérie. You treat me like dirt, huh, like some mangy dog? You will see that Paul Saison, he knows what he is doing.’
She guffawed. ‘Paul Saison knows what he is doing? Paul Saison is a crétin.’
‘Who tells you that? Your sister, the witch?’
‘My sister knows what you are. Why do you think she always tells me to get away from you?�
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‘Ha! Where do you go, huh? Your sister, she is an ugly witch, no man for her.’
‘It just so happens that she has a boyfriend, a wonderful boyfriend, and they plan to be married.’
‘Poor bastard.’
The drink that Saison had just consumed tipped him over the edge from tipsy to drunk. He stood unsteadily, grabbed the edge of the table for support, and clamped his other hand on her breast, which she angrily pushed away.
‘Hey, come on,’ he said. ‘We go make some love, huh?’
‘In a pig’s ass,’ she said. ‘Keep your paws off me.’
Angelique stood and took a step toward the bedroom. ‘You sleep out here,’ she said.
‘No, bitch, you sleep out here.’
‘I’ll be gone in the morning,’ she said.
‘Good. Go to your witch of a sister. I’ll be better off.’ With that he stumbled away, went into the bedroom, and slammed the door.
Angelique cried quietly. She knew that her threat to be gone the next morning was empty, unrealistic. But she would leave one day, of that she was certain. She’d discussed it with her sister, who urged her to get away and to come live with her in Montreal. She would wait until Saison was away for a few days before packing up her belongings, which weren’t much, and escaping the smelly, hairy ape for good.
Buoyed by that conviction, she prepared to toss sheets on the couch and settle in. Before she got up from the table she noticed a scrap of paper under the pepper mill. She picked it up and read: Friday, August twenty-two, nine forty-five pm. It meant nothing to her and she dropped it on the table. But as she scrunched up between the sheets and duvet, she thought of what Saison had said, that he would soon be rich. More drunken braggadocio? For some reason this was different from his usual rants. Why was he in touch again with his boss from a year and a half ago, Mr Smythe? He’d called Smythe a crazy man who had a plan. What could the plan be?
Her final thoughts before drifting off were of her sister and new boyfriend, which made her smile. She loved Celine, and was happy that she’d found the right man. Antoine Arnaud seemed like a nice guy. He wasn’t handsome, but wasn’t bad looking either. He was in his early forties and had never married, although Celine assured Angelique that he’d had plenty of opportunities. Celine appreciated that he was a solid citizen, a responsible fellow who worked as a special agent for the Canada Border Services Agency, the sort of man whom Angelique pledged she would seek once free of Saison. How she ever got involved with him in the first place was beyond her. But no matter. She’d soon be rid of him, and she giggled as she thought of his drunken claim that he was about to be rich.
Celine would get a kick out of that tall tale when they spoke on the phone the next day.
FIFTEEN
Martone had instructed Smythe to take the five thirty am ferry the following morning from the Eireann Quay to the Toronto Islands where the Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport was located. The airport, named after a Canadian World War I flying ace, was home to only a few small, regularly scheduled airlines but was a busy hub for corporate and private aircraft.
The islands were four hundred feet from the quay; it was the shortest ferry ride in North America. Smythe found a rare space in the small, crowded parking lot, unaware that Clarence Miller’s investigator, Janet Kudrow, had followed him and gotten in line to purchase a ticket.
Smythe boarded the two hundred-passenger Marilyn Bell I ferry along with airport workers and early morning passengers, stood at the railing and wondered what the meeting Martone had arranged would be like. It was an overcast day; Smythe could feel rain in his bones – along with fear.
The meeting had been scheduled for Smythe to meet other Mafioso from Baltimore and Philadelphia who were interested in buying the blackout information from Martone. What would they be like? What would they ask him? Would the nervousness he felt be obvious to them and possibly derail the project? He didn’t have much time to ponder these things because before he knew it the ferry had docked and he’d joined the line of people and cars leaving it.
Martone had instructed him to come to a private aviation hangar located at the far end of the airport. Smythe spotted the building in the distance and walked slowly towards it. He hadn’t anticipated having to attend such a meeting when he put his plan into play, and the tension he’d felt earlier now intensified. As he got closer to the hangar he saw Martone standing next to a sleek, white twin-engine jet aircraft without markings. Smythe recognized Hugo and his constant companion, but there were also two other men cut from the same mold. Martone waved to Smythe and motioned for him to pick up his pace.
‘Hey, pal,’ Martone said, ‘I was getting worried. Come on, we got to get moving.’
They boarded the jet. Two pilots sat in the cockpit. One of them came back and pulled up the short stairs and secured the door. ‘All set?’ he asked.
‘Let’s go,’ said Martone.
Smythe sat across a pull-down table from Martone; his ‘associates’ took seats behind them.
‘Is this your plane?’ Smythe asked, not sure whether he should.
‘Mine to use,’ was Martone’s reply. ‘You got the delivery yesterday?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘It was all there?’
‘I didn’t bother to count it. I’m sure that—’
‘I like to hear that. Trust is everything in a business deal. You don’t have trust, you got nothing. Am I right?’
‘Oh, yes, you’re absolutely right, Dom. We’re going to Philadelphia?’
‘Yeah, sort of. Outside Philly. I got my Baltimore associates to come up, save us making two stops. We’ll be back in Toronto in time for the COC fundraiser tonight.’
‘That’s good,’ Smythe said, having forgotten about it.
Kudrow had stood many yards away and watched the take-off. She called Miller, who told her to go home. He would check later with the private aviation company about where the plane was headed. ‘I have to meet with the client this morning,’ he said. ‘Good job, Janet. Get some rest.’
Once at cruising altitude, one of the pilots came into the passenger cabin and broke out Danish pastries, coffee, and juice.
‘Fancy, huh?’ Martone said as he bit into a cherry Danish. ‘Go on, pal, eat up.’
Smythe did as instructed and silently peered through the window at the thick, gray cloud cover below, casting occasional nervous glances at Hugo and his colleagues.
Martone browsed the latest issue of Opera Magazine. ‘Hey, catch this,’ he said at one point, ‘the Chinese are goin’ nuts over Wagner.’ He correctly pronounced Wagner with a V.
‘Interesting,’ Smythe said.
‘I keep thinking I ought to do some business in China,’ Martone said, ‘expand my horizons. One thing for certain, those Chinese sure have the dough.’
After breakfast had been cleared, Smythe said, ‘Dom, about this meeting we’re going to: what do your business associates want to know from me?’
Martone slapped him on the arm. ‘Relax, pal. They just want to see that there really is this guy named Smythe who says he’s gonna make everything go black on the twenty-second.’ He paused and adopted a serious tone. ‘Everything’s going OK, am I right? No hitches?’
‘No, no. Everything is set, Dom. No hitches.’
‘Good. Settle back, pal, grab a nap. We’ll be there before you know it.’
I wish we’d never get there, Smythe thought.
Cynthia had pretended to be asleep when Smythe left before sun-up. She waited until eight to call Miller to say that her husband was gone and that it would be a good time to come to the house.
When he arrived at nine, Cynthia and her mother were waiting. They sat in the kitchen and Miller pulled photos and notes from his briefcase.
‘Is he with another woman?’ Cynthia immediately asked.
‘No, not yet,’ Miller replied, ‘but it’s still early in the investigation. Does he have plans for another trip to Argentina?’
‘None
that he’s told me about.’
‘If he does, let me know right away. My man in Buenos Aires is ready to check his activities once he’s there. Now, let me show you some photos.’
The first one he laid on the table was of Smythe and Saison in the parking lot of the strip club, Bubs.
‘Disgusting,’ Mrs Wiggins said, ‘patronizing a place like that.’
‘He and this other man weren’t in there very long,’ Miller reported. ‘You know who he is?’ He handed Cynthia a magnifying glass through which she examined Saison’s face.
‘No, he’s not familiar to me,’ she said.
‘I think I’ve got his name,’ said Miller. ‘Saison.’
‘Saison? Saison?’ Cynthia muttered. ‘Carlton used to talk about someone named Saison who worked for him at Power-Can. He didn’t like him, said he was a gambler and a drunk.’
‘I have people checking into his background,’ Miller said as he laid the second photo on top of the first. It was of Hugo and his fellow Mafioso coming out of the building where Smythe rented temporary quarters.
‘I recognize them,’ said Cynthia. ‘They work for Dominick Martone.’