by Donald Bain
‘She’s a knockout,’ someone said.
‘So he has good taste in women,’ Whitlock continued. ‘No evidence of any involvement with drug dealers in Argentina, but this is of interest. We started tracking him just before that photo was taken, and we’ve kept tabs on him in Canada. Catch this. Yesterday he flies on a private plane to a Mafia safe house outside of Philly. Guess who he was with: Dominick Martone, the don of Toronto.’
‘That is interesting,’ someone said.
‘Where the turf war broke out yesterday?’
‘Yup. Arnaud in Canada got the information from the outfit that charters flights out of Toronto. Seems the plane returned with a couple of bullet holes in its fuselage.’
‘So what the hell is this guy Smythe doing flying to a mob confab with Martone?’
‘Good question,’ said Whitlock. ‘As far as we know, Martone is one of those old-school Mafioso who stays out of the drug business. We’ve been tracking him for years. No drug involvement that we know of.’
‘Which doesn’t mean that some of his lower level goombahs follow the rule.’
Whitlock shook his head. ‘I can’t see this Smythe getting involved in the drug trade,’ he said. ‘His wife’s rolling in dough, big house in a fancy part of town, expensive cars – she drives a Jag – entrenched in Toronto society. Doesn’t make sense for Smythe to get down and dirty.’
‘What about this lady friend of his in Buenos Aires?’
‘Not much on her, although our people there are doing some checking. All we have is that she’s some sort of consultant to perfume companies.’
‘Do the Philadelphia police know about Smythe and Martone attending that mob sit-down?’
‘If they do, it didn’t come from us. We don’t need some local police department getting in the way. We’ll take a closer look at this Carlton Smythe. Meantime let’s move on to the next name on the list.’
Dominick Martone woke up that morning in a foul mood. His seemingly nonchalant reaction to the fracas outside of Philadelphia did not accurately reflect what he was really thinking and feeling. His view of the other two Mafia leaders at the meeting was less than sanguine. As far as he was concerned, the heads of other crime families, especially in the States, were buffoons: crude, uneducated men lacking in social graces and appreciation for the finer things in life – the arts, soaring symphonies, great paintings, classic literature, and, of course, opera, especially opera. Having to do business with them was distasteful for this aria-loving godfather.
Not that those working for him were any better, leg-breaking goons who wouldn’t know Callas from Lady Gaga. He needed them, of course, but preferred the company of Toronto’s more genteel set and sought it whenever possible. Recently he’d been considering quitting. He didn’t need the money; he was filthy rich. The problem was that he had no one to whom to pass the baton. His two children prudently avoided any connection with their father’s real business, although they knew that his many legitimate businesses depended upon his darker side. Martone’s wife, Maria, a gourmet cook whose dishes surpassed those found in any Italian restaurant, was the rock in his life, and he often gave thanks to God for having found her.
Maybe it was time to quit he decided that morning as he showered and shaved to a recording of Maria Callas singing the difficult aria Una Voce Poco Fa from Rossini’s The Barber of Seville that came through twin speakers in his palatial marble bathroom, one of six in his home. He moaned with pleasure at particularly poignant moments in the aria, and had to wipe tears from his cheeks during an especially moving section.
Maria had prepared a large breakfast for him, as she always did, and he sat in a glass-enclosed atrium at a table draped with a fresh white linen tablecloth. Gleaming silverware was precisely lined up on his napkin, and a vase of freshly cut roses from their greenhouse added a splash of color.
‘What do you have planned for today?’ Maria asked as she poured them fresh-squeezed orange juice, and filled their coffee cups.
‘Meetings,’ he said, ‘always meetings. Do you have a nice day planned?’
‘I’m visiting Julia and the children.’ Julia was married to Robert, their elder son, who managed Martone Import-Export on the outskirts of the city. ‘And I must make two batches of butterscotch biscotti for the women’s club.’
Martone laughed and smacked his lips. ‘Save a few for me,’ he said. Maria made the cookies, a variation on the basic Italian biscotti, with almonds, butterscotch chips, and bourbon. They were Martone’s favorites.
After breakfast, Martone and Maria spent a half hour admiring plants and flowers in the greenhouse before Hugo and his ferret-faced companion activated the electric gates and pulled into the circular driveway. Martone kissed Maria goodbye and said he’d be home in time for dinner, a rarity.
Martone and his gang drove to a vacant warehouse in a complex he owned where some of his men had arranged a table and chairs, and a second table containing a fruit platter, Danish pastries, coffee, and a bottle of Limoncello, which Martone had specified because Vinnie Tourino, head of one of New York’s five criminal families and Martone’s guest that morning, was particularly fond of it.
Hugo and four others took up positions outside the warehouse. Ten minutes later a black Town Car pulled up and Tourino and three of his protectors got out.
‘He’s inside,’ Hugo told Tourino. ‘I got his weapon.’
Tourino hesitated before handing his handgun to an associate.
The New York crime chief entered the warehouse where Martone stood by the food table nibbling on a pastry. ‘Hey, Vinnie,’ he said, dropping the pastry and coming to greet his guest.
‘You eat that stuff you get fat and soft,’ Vinnie said. He was a rugged-looking man with square features, a head of thick black hair, and a scar that ran from the corner of his right eye down to his mouth. He wore a gray suit tailored for him in London, and black tasseled loafers.
‘Fat? Yeah. Soft? Never. Come, sit down. The others’ll wait outside. That OK with you?’
‘Sure it’s OK,’ Tourino said, taking a chair, crossing his legs, and pinching the already razor-sharp crease in his pants between a thumb and index finger.
‘Something to eat, drink?’
‘No.’
‘I got Limoncello ‘specially for you.’
‘Let’s get on with it, Dom. I got to get back to New York. I got a plane reservation in three hours. So what’s this so-called deal of a lifetime you’re selling?’
Martone took the second seat and fixed Tourino in a hard stare. What he saw across the table from him was the Duke of Mantua, undoubtedly one of opera’s most infamous villains as created by the composer Verdi in his opera Rigoletto. Vinnie Tourino’s reputation was that of a sadistic, barbaric enforcer, who’d worked his way up from beating payments out of loan shark debtors to head of the family.
‘All right,’ Martone said, ‘here’s the deal.’
He explained it quickly and without embellishment. When he was finished, Tourino smiled. ‘You really think this guy can pull this off, flip a fucking switch and kill all the juice from here to DC?’
‘If I didn’t think that, Vinnie, I wouldn’t have put up a million bucks myself. What do you think I am, a chump?’
Tourino went through a series of stretching exercises, twisting his neck, clamping his hands behind his head, and taking deep breaths, as though they were part of his decision-making process. Martone said nothing, his thoughts vacillating between butterscotch biscotti and wanting to blow Tourino away.
‘OK,’ Tourino finally said. ‘A half-mil.’
Martone laughed. ‘Like I said, Vinnie, I’m no chump. It’ll cost you a million, cash up front. Otherwise, no deal. Hey, Vinnie, I’m being generous am I not? I don’t need New York money. I already got another five or six cities come in on the deal. So, take it or leave it. I appreciate you coming up here to listen, and no hard feelings if you pass.’
‘How long the lights’ll be out?’
‘My
expert says maybe a day, but sure as hell six, seven hours, plenty of time to hit a dozen places, more.’
‘All right, Dominick, I’m in.’
‘Good. You send the money through the usual channels and I give you the date and time. Nice, clean, easy deal, the way business should be.’
As Martone walked him to the door, Tourino said, ‘I got a bad feeling about this, Dominick.’
Martone slapped him on the back. ‘Hey, Vinnie, relax and leave everything to Uncle Dominick. Believe me, you’ve never made such easy money.’
While Martone and Vinnie Tourino cut their deal, Carlton Smythe passed through Customs and was in Gina Ellanado’s arms in the Buenos Aires passenger terminal.
‘You call me last minute,’ she said as they walked arm-in-arm to baggage claim. ‘You come back so soon.’
‘I had to,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stand to be away from you another minute.’
He tried to mask his anxiety as he waited for his suitcase to come tumbling down the moving carousel. He’d hidden forty thousand dollars in amongst his clothing and prayed that it wouldn’t be picked up by security machines – or dogs. He’d read that some airport security agencies used dogs not only to sniff out explosives, but cash as well. He’d sprayed the money with cologne before leaving, hoping that would screw up their scent. As his bag came into view he drew a sigh of relief. There were no dogs, and his suitcase didn’t appear to have been opened.
Now that his heart had stopped racing, and he’d mopped perspiration from his brow, they went to where a row of taxis waited. Neither was aware that a man with a tiny camera had been snapping pictures of them since Smythe came off the plane. His name was Popi Domingo, and he worked for Clarence Miller III’s agency in Toronto. He’d been told that Smythe always stayed at the Four Seasons, and told the next cab in line to take him there.
When Smythe and Gina arrived at the hotel, another person stood casually reading a newspaper. His name was Luis Cortez, and he worked for Bill Whitlock at the DEA. As the taxi driver pulled Smythe’s luggage from the trunk, the man started photographing them and continued until they’d passed through the doors and were inside the Four Seasons.
The paparazzi had nothing on them.
SEVENTEEN
‘I would like to meet your friend, the banker,’ Smythe told Gina after he’d given her the forty thousand dollars and they’d made love in his suite.
He’d fixated on the ‘private banker’ Gina had mentioned during their last time together. Actually, he’d fixated on a number of things during the flight to Buenos Aires. The strain of the past few weeks had taken its toll.
He knew that in launching his adventure with Gina and Martone he was acting like an impetuous schoolboy, living for the moment and never stopping to consider the ramifications. As much as he tried to rationalize his actions – getting revenge on his former employer, bailing out of a loveless marriage, seeking pleasure that he’d decided he was due – the reality was that he’d put into motion a criminal act, which made him no better than Martone and others like him.
His betrayal of Cynthia weighed heavily, and he worried while flying home from his latest tryst with Gina that he might be carrying a venereal disease to his wife during their infrequent moments together in one bed to ‘cuddle’, her euphemism for making love. He’d never used protection with Cynthia because she was infertile, and it didn’t matter anyway because she was the only woman he’d been with since their marriage – until Gina. He hadn’t had any condoms with him the first few times they’d made love, not that they would have been put to use. Their passion was so powerful and sudden that there wouldn’t have been time to slip one on. He debated using a condom later in their affair but decided it would no longer matter. Gina provided her own birth control, and the idea that this perfect female creature would transmit a venereal disease was absurd.
What would the fallout be once the blackout was a reality and he’d left Cynthia and Toronto for good? The good name of Walter Wiggins would be a laughing stock when word got out about what he’d done.
Carlton Smythe, adulterer, liar, schemer, criminal, fraud, weasel: those names and worse would be forever attached to Cynthia and by extension to her prestigious family. And there was his own family who would also suffer disgrace, although his father had long been dead. His mother resided in a dementia facility and didn’t know what day it was, let alone be able to react to the news that her only son was a regular John Dillinger.
But while these unpleasant thoughts swirled through his head, he kept coming back to this so-called private banker. He had two concerns about him, the least of which was whether he could be trusted with the money that Smythe, via Gina, would place in his hands. Smythe’s biggest fear was that Gina and this banker were in some way romantically and sexually involved. That would be a crushing blow.
‘Why do you want to meet Guillermo?’ Gina asked as they sat naked in bed following their lovemaking.
‘Oh, no special reason,’ Smythe said. ‘But if he’s going to be handling our money, I think I should at least get to know him. Guillermo. That’s his name?’
‘Yes. Guillermo Guzman.’
‘Guillermo Guzman,’ Smythe repeated. ‘Yes, I would like to meet him.’
‘You will one day.’
‘I’d like to meet him now – while I’m here,’ he said, surprised that he’d stated his demand so forcefully. ‘Maybe we can have dinner together. I have to leave tomorrow. I was hoping that you’d found a house to rent for when I’m here permanently.’
‘I have been so busy,’ she said, ‘but I promise I will begin looking tomorrow.’
She got out of bed and walked naked to the closet, pulled out one of the hotel’s robes, slipped it on, and went to the living room where she made a call. Smythe stood in the doorway and listened as she spoke with the banker in rapid-fire Spanish; he understood only a word or two. She hung up and said, ‘He will meet us for dinner tonight at Casa Coupage. It is a very fine restaurant in the Palermo district.’
‘That sounds good,’ Smythe said. He came up behind and wrapped his arms around her, but she moved away and disappeared into the bathroom. He pondered why she’d seemed reluctant to call the banker, but soon forgot about it after they’d made love again and dozed off, her head on his bare chest, one leg splayed across his torso.
Later, they took a taxi to Solero Street in the Palermo district of the city. Following them were two other cars. Clarence Miller III’s man in Buenos Aires, Popi Domingo, occupied one, the DEA agent Luis Cortez the other.
Casa Coupage was what’s known in Argentina as a ‘closed door’ restaurant, patterned after the paladares in Havana, family-owned restaurants located within private homes. The stone marble building, set in a block of equally expensive homes, didn’t have a sign on the door. Smythe knocked and the heavy wooden door was opened by a uniformed waiter
‘Señor Guzman has a reservation,’ Gina said in Spanish.
‘Si, si,’ the waiter said. ‘Please come in.’
He led them to a lovely patio garden flanked by two small dining rooms.
‘Señor Guzman has not arrived yet,’ they were told. Another waiter appeared with two glasses of Champagne. ‘While you wait,’ he said.
‘Beautiful place,’ Smythe said to Gina.
‘Yes, very lovely.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘A few times.’
‘With Mr Guzman?’
‘Yes. It is one of his favorite restaurants in all of Buenos Aires.’
‘You’ve talked to him about the money you will be getting from me?’
‘Yes. You do not have to worry. He is a good man.’
The good man arrived a few minutes later. Smythe had the same visceral reaction as he always had with Dominick Martone: envy. Guillermo Guzman was movie-star handsome. His swarthy features, dark brown eyes – bedroom eyes as they used to be called – were large and had a dreamy quality to them. He was six feet tall and had a full head of bla
ck hair tinged with gray at the temples. He wore a white linen sport coat, teal silk shirt open at the collar revealing a tuft of black chest hair, three thin strands of gold around his neck, multiple rings, and a gold earring in his ear. Smythe had never seen teeth quite that white. Faces of famous Latin-American movie stars came and went – Ricardo Montalban, Andy Garcia, Ricky Martin, Antonio Banderas.
‘Ah,’ Guzman said, ‘I finally get to meet the famous Mr Carlton Smythe.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Smythe, whose bony hand was lost in Guzman’s larger one.
‘Gina talks about you constantly,’ Guzman said. ‘You have made quite an impression on her.’
‘And she on me,’ said Smythe.
Guzman was brought his glass of Champagne. He toasted, ‘To my new Canadian friend – and to the beautiful Gina.’
As they went to one of the dining rooms, Smythe noted that there were only four tables. Three were occupied. Lovely original oil paintings dominated the walls. The table was elaborately set with the finest napery and utensils. As he sat, he also noticed that built into the table was a light source.
‘To read the menu better?’ he asked.
‘No, to better see the color of the red wine when it is served,’ Guzman explained. ‘Some stupid tourists come here and keep flicking the lights on and off.’
‘I promise I won’t do that,’ Smythe said.
Guzman laughed heartily. ‘I am certain that any man Gina falls in love with would never be guilty of that.’
Smythe laughed along with him, pleased to hear those words.
Guzman offered suggestions from the menu: ‘I recommend the calamari to start, then trout which they serve with apples and sauce – magnifique! – then the sirloin steak with a wonderful thick cheddar sauce, the white salmon, or the veal. I am sure that you will find any of those choices to be to your liking.’
It was salmon for Gina, veal for Smythe, steak for Guzman, accompanied by a bottle of Argentinean pinot noir, which soon became three bottles.