by Donald Bain
Smythe looked around before pulling a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket that he’d prepared earlier in the day. He unfolded it and placed it in front of Saison.
‘So what is this, huh?’
‘A drawing of my property.’
‘What, you want to sell me your house?’ His laugh was annoying.
Smythe took a breath to calm himself. ‘I want to show you how and where you will get your money after the blackout.’
‘OK, Smythe, show me.’
Smythe used a butter knife from the table to point to things on the paper. ‘This is a sketch of my backyard. See? Here’s the house and its back door to the yard. Here’s the pool. See over here? That’s a gate that leads into the yard from the street.’
‘So where’s the money, Smythe?’
‘OK,’ Smythe said, sitting back as their wine and food was delivered. When the waiter walked away, Smythe leaned closer to Saison again. ‘Here’s what I’ve worked out, Paul. On the night of the blackout there will be a party at my house. I’ll be there. But you mustn’t come to the house. You understand?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘A few minutes before nine forty-five I’ll go out and unlock the door to the pool house.’ He pointed to it again with the butter knife. ‘Your money will be just inside the door in a box with your name on it. You come into the yard through the back gate, go to the pool house, open the door, take the box with the money, and leave immediately. Right?’
‘You go to a party the night we do this?’ Saison said, incredulous.
‘Yes, of course. If I were to leave Toronto before the blackout, people would suspect that I had something to do with it. I plan to leave a few days later.’ His First Class airline reservation to Buenos Aires was for Sunday, two days after the blackout.
Saison dug into the crepes and escargots as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Smythe watched with disgust as the French-Canadian dribbled juice on the paper with the sketch, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Have some, Smythe. Good escargots, best in the city.’
Smythe half-heartedly ate. The waiter reappeared to take their order for entrées, filet mignon for Saison, salmon for Smythe.
‘Let’s go over it one more time, Paul,’ Smythe said. ‘You create the blackout at nine forty-five. You come to my house, park on the road, come through the gate into my yard, open the pool house door, take the box with the money, and leave immediately. Right? Compris?’
‘Sure, sure, I understand. You don’t speak good French, Smythe.’
‘Just as long as it’s clear to you.’
Saison put the sketch in his pocket and they finished dinner, with Saison topping it off with crème brulee and a shot of aquavit.
‘Careful driving home, Paul,’ Smythe said as they stood in the parking lot.
He watched Saison drive from the lot and disappear down the street. ‘Don’t let me down, Paul,’ he said aloud as he got behind the wheel and headed home. ‘Just don’t let me down.’
Janet Kudrow had followed Smythe to the restaurant. She took telephoto shots of the two men saying goodbye in the parking lot, and had photographed Saison’s license plate. She watched Smythe pull into his driveway which snaked around the house, and park next to a blue Jaguar. She called Miller, who told her to send him the pictures and to go home, which she was glad to hear. A favorite show was on TV that she didn’t want to miss.
TWENTY-FIVE
Toronto’s Richard Bradshaw Amphitheatre at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts was aglow on Thursday night for the premiere of Mozart’s Don Giovanni. As Cynthia and Smythe entered, he immediately saw among the throng of opera-goers Dominick Martone chatting with a half-dozen people, with Hugo and his skinny pal standing guard. He’d hoped that the Mafia don wouldn’t be there that night, but since he was he had no choice but to acknowledge him.
‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Smythe,’ Martone said as they approached. ‘A special night in Toronto.’
‘Good evening, Mr Martone,’ Cynthia said, accepting his outstretched hand. Smythe, too, shook hands with him.
‘How are you, Mr Smythe?’ Martone asked.
‘Me? Oh, I’m fine, just fine. And you?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
‘Is Mrs Martone with you?’ Cynthia asked.
‘Unfortunately not. Maria is feeling under the weather.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. ‘Besides, Don Giovanni isn’t her favorite opera.’ He laughed. ‘She hates the character of Don Giovanni so much that the last time we saw it I was afraid she’d jump on the stage and personally rip out his immoral, cheating heart.’
Cynthia laughed. Smythe swallowed hard
Cynthia was called away by another board member.
‘Everything set?’ Martone asked Smythe in a tone that promised terrible things if it wasn’t.
Smythe nodded. ‘Yes, Dom, everything’s set. Excuse me.’
He went to the men’s room where he thought he might throw up. He splashed cold water on his face before finding his wife, who was being interviewed by a local music critic about future plans for COC. He waited until she was finished and accompanied her into the theater where choice seats were reserved for board members.
‘Are you still talking with Dominick Martone about doing business with him?’ she whispered in his ear.
‘Ah, no, not anymore.’
‘Good. I don’t think he’s the sort of man you should be involved with. Not that I don’t adore him for his support of COC. It’s just that—’
The lights dimmed and the orchestra began its overture.
Sitting through an opera about the rapist, murderer, thrill-seeking, morally bankrupt Don Giovanni, who allowed his sexual drive to corrode his soul, was excruciating for Smythe, and when the vile cad was stabbed in the heart by a woman he’d sexually abused, then thrown out a window and accompanied to Hell by the rotting corpse of someone he’d murdered, Smythe felt that he was about to faint.
The audience jumped to its feet and gave the cast a rousing ovation. Smythe remained in his seat until Cynthia punched him on the shoulder and gave him a withering look.
A lavish cocktail party followed the production, and the evening would be extended back at the Smythe household for a select group of friends. Voices rang out throughout the house as wannabes did their version of operatic karaoke. By the time Smythe got into bed it was after two, and he wondered when he woke up whether he would be stabbed in his heart, then tossed through the window into the garden, where Cynthia and her mother waited with hatchets. That nightmare continued throughout the night, and he awoke the next morning, Friday, August twenty-second, drenched in sweat.
TWENTY-SIX
Senator Miles Quinlin, frontrunner in the Democratic primary for president, rolled into Manhattan Friday morning with his entourage. It would be a day packed with fundraising events, culminating with a dinner at the Hilton Hotel that would add a few million dollars to his campaign coffers.
While Quinlin and his staff settled in their suite on the twelfth floor, Tengku and his small band of assassins ordered room service to their suite one floor below.
It was a bright, sunny day in New York City.
The forecast for that evening was for clear weather.
The weather forecast in Toronto for Friday, August twenty-second was for overcast skies, with an eighty per cent chance of showers and thunderstorms later in the day and into the evening.
For Carlton Smythe the forecast was for hurricane-force winds of anxiety and a deluge of emotions.
He went through the motions of helping Cynthia plan for that evening’s party. He was pleased with the rainy forecast. It would keep guests from straying out into the gardens where Saison would be showing up to collect his money.
At noon, Smythe ran by his rented office where he picked up the box with Saison’s name on it and brought it to the pool house, using the gate to enter the yard so as to not be seen by Cynthia or others in the main house. Afte
r locking the pool house door, he spent the rest of the afternoon doing what he could to ready the house for the arrival of guests. The caterers showed up at five and took over the kitchen, while Cynthia made multiple forays to issue last-minute instructions about the food and how she wanted it presented by the two uniformed waitresses.
Smythe was showered and dressed by six. Cynthia descended the staircase at six forty-five wearing a new purple-and-white dress she’d bought while shopping with her mother. Mrs Wiggins occupied the largest chair in the living room where she read that day’s newspaper, half-glasses perched low on her aquiline nose, her eyes peering over them now and then to check on progress.
Guests began arriving at seven fifteen, greeted by Smythe and Cynthia at the door. A CD compilation of famous arias oozed from speakers in every room, and the volume of chatter increased with each arriving couple. It took every ounce of willpower for Smythe to assume a pleasant, relaxed demeanor, and to not look at his watch every thirty seconds.
The time passed with agonizing slowness.
Paul Saison’s shift at Power-Can started at four that afternoon and ran until midnight. He arrived at work late, having stopped at a dive bar outside the plant to fortify himself with shots of vodka. Until that day he hadn’t allowed the seriousness of what he was about to do, and the potential ramifications, to set in. Now, the only thing that kept him moving forward was the thought of a quarter-million dollars sitting in the pool house in back of Carlton Smythe’s home.
Although he’d contemplated leaving Toronto and flying to Paris once he’d tripped the right switches to cause the blackout, he hadn’t made any concrete plans and realized that he’d better do it now. Without a credit card – his Visa and MasterCard accounts had been closed for lack of payment – making an advance reservation would be difficult, if not impossible, so he decided simply to go to the airport once he had the money and take the next Paris flight, carrying with him only the bare necessities. He wouldn’t tell Angelique that he was leaving. The hell with her. He, Paul Saison, deserved better, and he envisioned himself lounging in bed with Parisian paramours who knew how to treat a man, and who would appreciate his many charms.
Before leaving the apartment, he’d checked his watch against the time on his alarm clock. It was running two minutes slow, and he adjusted it to coincide with the bedside digital clock.
By nine o’clock the party at the Smythe house was in full gear. Liquor flowed freely, and conversations were spirited, and loud.
‘You still have that client in Argentina?’ Smythe was asked by a partygoer.
‘Yes, I do. Keeps me hopping, that’s for sure.’
The questioner’s wife said, ‘It must be exhausting traveling there so often. I know that Cynthia misses you when you’re away.’
‘And I miss her, but business is business.’
A sudden clap of thunder caused everyone to stop talking and to look through windows.
‘The weather forecasters got it right for a change,’ someone said.
‘Looks like it’s about to pour any minute,’ said another. ‘I hope we don’t lose power.’
‘Lose power?’ Smythe said, startled. ‘Oh, yes, let’s hope that doesn’t happen. Will you excuse me?’
He moved slowly in the direction of the kitchen and its back door leading to the yard. He didn’t want to go to the pool house in a downpour and have to explain why he was wet. Mrs Kalich saw him enter the kitchen but said nothing as she continued helping the catering staff prepare platters to be passed. He reached the door, waited until he was certain that no one was paying attention, opened it and slipped outside. A brilliant flash of white sky-to-ground lightning preceded another explosion of thunder as he stepped off the patio and made for the pool house. He stopped after only a few steps. A couple embraced behind a tall bush.
‘Oops,’ Smythe said as he skirted the bush and continued to the small structure at the far end of the pool. He removed the key from his pocket, unlocked the door, stepped inside, used his foot to push Saison’s box of money closer to the door, exited, and ran back to the house just as the rain came down in torrents.
‘You’re wet,’ Mrs Wiggins said when he rejoined the guests.
‘What? Oh, yes, I am. I ah … I wanted to check on the outdoor furniture in case the wind gets strong. You know how these storms can cause high winds.’
He looked at his watch.
Nine fifteen.
Other wristwatches were checked up and down the east coast.
In New York City, members of Vinnie Tourino’s crime family had been dispatched to a half dozen sites – three jewelry stores, a check-cashing establishment, and two small branches of larger banks.
The Baltimore crime syndicate had selected four targets once the electricity went off: two casinos and two high-end jewelry stores known to have millions in uncut diamonds on hand.
The Philadelphia mob had pinpointed two illegal gambling operations run by its rival gang, two fancy restaurants, a high-end jewelry store, and two suburban bank branches.
The major crime families in these cities, and others, had ‘sub-licensed’ knowledge of the time the blackout would occur to various lesser gangs in order to recoup their investments.
In Manhattan, the man called Tengku also kept an eye on the time. Four of his followers had positioned themselves along the route that Senator Quinlin would take on his way from the ballroom to his waiting car outside the hotel. As a leading candidate, he would be flanked by Secret Service agents assigned to keep him safe, but Tengku was convinced that the sudden blackout would cause enough confusion to allow his men to overpower the agents and kill Quinlin. If they died in the attempt, so be it. They would be giving their lives for a greater good. All those virgins.
Back in Toronto, Dominick Martone played a video game with one of his grandchildren in the den of his house while his wife, Maria, put the finishing touches on her grandson’s favorite dessert, biscotti dei fantasmi – ‘ghost cookies’ – shaped into ghost faces with a cookie cutter and decorated with a sugary icing, chocolate chips the final touch for eyes. She’d already whipped up biscotti with almonds, butterscotch chips, and bourbon for her husband. An orchestral version of La Boheme played softly in the background.
Martone, too, checked his watch, but not because he had members of his crime family dispatched in Toronto ready to cash in on the blackout. The Toronto crime boss had already made a large profit on his investment by selling franchises to others, and had no intention of committing criminal acts that night. He left that to the lesser species of crime bosses, the imbeciles for whom he had little or no respect.
It was nine thirty up and down the east coast of the United States and Canada.
And then it was nine thirty-one.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Hey, Paul, you look like hell,’ a younger, long-haired co-worker seated next to Saison said as the large French-Canadian stared blankly at the bank of computer screens on which vital data was displayed.
‘You don’t look so good yourself,’ Saison said.
His colleague laughed. ‘You been winning at the track lately?’
‘Crétin à crinière,’ Saison muttered, calling him a long-haired twit.
‘What’s that mean, Paul?’
‘You don’t want to know. Just shut up, huh. I’m thinking.’
Saison’s ‘thinking’ involved going over and over in his mind what he had to do to initiate the blackout. ‘First I do this, then I do that. This must be done before that is done. Seven steps. Do this, then …’
He got up and walked from the room in the direction of the master control room where the switches he was to manipulate were housed. ‘First this, then that, then …’
He checked his watch: nine twenty-five.
The control room was vacant. Would he continue to be the only person in the room when the time came to act? He hoped so. He hadn’t thought of that until then. His bargain with Smythe didn’t call for him to have to become physically violent in ord
er to accomplish his mission. He made a decision: he would not attack anyone. If others came in and thwarted his plan, he would leave, go to Smythe’s home anyway, and collect his money.
He looked at his watch: nine thirty-one. He pulled the scrap of paper Smythe had given him with the time and date: Friday, August twenty-second, 2014. Fourteen minutes to go.
His supervisor walked in. Saison shoved the paper back in his pocket.
‘Everything OK, Paul?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, everything is A-OK.’
‘You pick up any problems on the computers?’
‘Nah, no problems. Everything hunky-dory.’
‘Well, I saw you in here and—’
‘Nothing wrong,’ Saison said, realizing he’d begun to sweat. ‘Going back now.’
His boss watched him lumber from the control room and thought what he always thought when talking to Paul Saison: Maybe he’ll quit. God, please tell him to quit.
Saison settled back in his chair in front of the monitors and looked at the paper again. He checked his watch: nine thirty-one.
Five minutes later, he looked at his watch again: nine thirty-one.
His eyes returned to the computer screens in front of him.
Smythe left the crowd in his living room and found a secluded corner away from the party. He looked at his watch: nine forty-four.
Dominick Martone checked the time: nine forty-four.
Tengku’s band of assassins’ watches read nine forty-four.
Everyone’s watches along the north-eastern coast of North America said nine forty-four.
At Power-Can, Paul Saison’s watch still read: nine thirty-one.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A pianist accompanied singers at the Smythe’s Steinway grand, including Cynthia, who performed her favorite aria, Celeste Aida. It was nine forty-five, and her husband tensed as he waited for the lights to go out and their expensive gasoline generator to kick in.