by Donald Bain
‘No, Mother, you haven’t. But Carlton wrote that lovely note and—’
‘You never should have read it,’ Mrs Wiggins said sharply. ‘A lot of meaningless pap.’
‘I wish the police had let me keep it. It was mine, written to me.’
‘I’m glad they didn’t.’
Cynthia wept.
‘Oh, stop it, Cynthia. You’re acting like a pathetic teenager. Go dry your eyes and think about what you’ll pack.’ Her acid tone changed to a sunny one. ‘Going to Argentina will be like a vacation, two girls on a holiday. Doesn’t that sound nice?’
‘Yes, Mother, it does,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Then it’s settled. We are going to Buenos Aires!’
THIRTY-ONE
Kerry had been right when she told Smythe that his cabin aboard The Bárbara would be small. But its dimensions pleased him, providing the first sense of security he’d felt since going down the path of criminality. There was something comforting about the confined space, as though the walls had been constructed around him as a shield against the terrible things he imagined were lurking in the shadows, waiting to condemn him to Hell for what he’d done.
The space consisted of bunk beds, although he would not be sharing the cabin; a tiny desk and wooden chair; a closet just large enough to hold a halfdozen hangers – an orange lifejacket was on its sole shelf; a yellow wicker two-drawer chest; and two lamps, one on the desk, the other over the bed. A single porthole afforded a limited exterior view. The cramped bathroom held the requisite sink, toilet, and a shower stall whose dimensions would allow him to use it provided he contorted himself. Most important to him was that everything was spic-and-span, including two glasses and a pitcher on the desk.
A folder on the lower bunk contained information about shipboard life, the times meals would be served, safety instructions in the event of an emergency, and a one-page set of suggestions on how passengers were expected to comport themselves. The final line read: ‘Although we strive to make our passengers as comfortable as possible, this is a cargo ship, not a cruise liner, and the needs of the crew involving its cargo must always take priority.’
‘Fair enough,’ Smythe muttered as he went up the short ladder and tested the upper bunk. That would be where he would sleep, he decided. As a child he’d always wanted to sleep in a top bunk.
He got down and tested the door’s lock, which worked. He went into the narrow hallway and tried the key. That, too, worked. Satisfied, he unpacked his belongings. After checking into the motel the night before, he’d ventured out to a strip mall and purchased another suitcase, as well as additional clothing from an adjacent shop. He checked the ship’s instructions and was pleased that there was a laundry room on board, as well as a passenger lounge where a variety of board games could be found. Maybe not all the comforts of home but certainly without the tension.
The suitcase containing the cash was shoved beneath the lower bunk, and he draped a few pieces of clothing over it. A steward would clean passenger cabins and change linens once a week, which suited Smythe. On the day when the steward arrived, he would find an excuse to hang around to ensure that the cash-laden suitcase wasn’t touched.
Aided by a tugboat, The Bárbara departed the Port of Quebec a few minutes after four. Feeling its motion filled Smythe with pleasure, and hope. Of course he would have to figure out how to navigate the authorities once the ship reached Brazil, and would then have to make his way to Argentina. But the days at sea would provide time to formulate plans, hopefully ones that would work.
He was surprised at how pleasantly decorated the dining room was, and how nicely the tables were set. The ship’s crew occupied most of the room; the small group of passengers had their own section, although they were invited to mingle with off-duty members of the crew.
His biggest surprise, however, was when he arrived there. Kerry, the lovely woman who’d arranged his passage, was at the door functioning as hostess.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Welcome aboard. Did you get settled in your cabin?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is small as I told you but—’
‘Oh, no, I like it very much. It’s cozy, everything neat as a pin.’
She smiled broadly. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said. ‘Come and meet your fellow-passengers.’
The ship’s five other passengers were a lively bunch, with the exception of a man with a perpetual scowl who billed himself as a novelist but who’d never had anything published because of ‘those crass publishers who wouldn’t know a literary classic from amateur pornography.’ (Smythe pledged to avoid him whenever possible). There was also a dour young woman who said she was aboard because it was the cheapest way for her to travel to Brazil where her fiancé had recently relocated because of his job; a heavy-set, jolly older man with a full white beard who told the others that after the death of his wife he’d decided to see the world, and doing it as a passenger on a tramp steamer seemed the most glamorous; and an older couple, both retired teachers.
After dinner, the married couple asked Smythe if he played bridge.
‘I used to,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how.’
‘We’ll teach you,’ said the wife. ‘You’ll pick it up again in no time.’
They were right. Smythe soon found himself immersed in the game which took place in the passenger lounge, a small but nicely furnished space where Kerry tended bar. The man with the white beard rounded out the foursome. He made frequent trips to the bar between hands, his play becoming more erratic with each drink. That didn’t matter to Smythe. He enjoyed the companionship, and was more relaxed than he’d been in days. When asked at dinner why he was traveling by tramp steamer he said simply, ‘I’ve been through a difficult divorce and thought sailing to South America on a ship like this would clear my head.’
The game eventually broke up and Smythe was alone in the room with Kerry, who was busy locking up the bar’s bottles and glassware. He was again aware of how attractive she was. The skinny black top she wore exposed plenty of breast, both cleavage and on the sides. There was a sensuous aura about her, earthy; he thought of the actress Colleen Dewhurst. He liked her smile, and her perfume was inviting. He took one of two stools at the bar.
‘Would you like a drink before I finish closing up?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you, I’ve had enough.’ He’d nursed two vodka-and-tonics throughout the evening. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m done,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t take long.’
‘Where did you learn to be a bartender?’
‘I never did. Serving a few passengers doesn’t take much knowledge. Calling it a night?’
‘I suppose I should but I’m wide awake, thought I’d take a stroll around the ship.’
‘Sounds like a good idea. Mind company?’
‘No, I’d like that.’
There wasn’t much of a deck to stroll, but being outside in the invigorating night air, a full moon’s light flickering off the ocean’s swells and whitecaps, was sublimely pleasant. They eventually took a couple of chairs to the edge of the deck and sat, their feet propped up on the railing. She’d slipped out of her sandals; even her red-tipped toes were sexy.
‘What is this ship carrying?’ Smythe asked, more to make conversation than wanting to know the answer.
‘Airplane parts for Embraer.’
‘The Brazilian aircraft maker? They make good small passenger planes.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. I’ve never flown on one.’
‘Is that what this ship usually carries?’
She laughed. ‘We never know what we’re being asked to transport. It’s a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing with a tramp ship. We don’t have any regular routes like the big ships do. We got this assignment because Embraer needs the parts, and none of the larger ships sailing out of Quebec were scheduled to leave for Brazil for a week or two.’
‘It must be exciting spending
your life sailing the world,’ he said.
‘Exciting? I wouldn’t call it that. It’s a living.’
There was a lull in the conversation until she asked matter-of-factly, ‘You’re running away from something, aren’t you?’
Her comment took him aback. When he’d regained his composure, he said deliberately lightly, ‘I guess we’re all running from something. As I told you when I booked passage, the thing that I’m running from is a bad marriage and divorce.’
‘What was wrong with your marriage?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, lots of little things, I guess. Isn’t that usually the case?’ He laughed. ‘I know you’ll find this silly but we always fought over how to make martinis. Cynthia – that’s my wife – she says I put too much vermouth in them. Stupid thing to argue about.’
‘Not stupid to her, I suppose.’
‘Have you been married?’ he asked, feeling comfortable asking it because she’d raised the topic.
‘I am married. Karl – he’s the captain of this ship – and I get along just fine,’ she said. ‘He’s easier to get along with these days after his operation.’
‘Cancer?’
‘Yes. Prostate. They removed it. He’s not the animal he used to be.’
‘Oh.’
There was silence until she said, ‘Tell me about the blackout.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The big blackout that happened a few days ago.’
He didn’t know how to respond, so said nothing for a time. Nor did she. Finally, he asked, ‘What do you know about that blackout?’
She sighed and adjusted herself in the chair so that she faced him. ‘I know that the police are looking for you, Mr Smythe. I know they say that you caused the blackout and—’
‘No, I didn’t cause it.’
‘Not directly from what I’ve heard on the news. The man they’ve arrested is a French-Canadian, so naturally there’s been a lot written about him and on TV in Quebec. He claims that the idea was yours. I knew the name was familiar when you first approached me but it took me some time to know why. Carlton Smythe. That’s the name.’
Smythe got up. ‘You’re making a mistake,’ he said, unable to control the quaver in his voice. ‘I—’
‘Mr Smythe, please sit down. I’m not your enemy. You’re not the first passenger to travel on this ship because he’s wanted by the law.’
Smythe placed his hands on the railing and peered out over the vast Atlantic Ocean. For a moment he considered throwing himself from the ship and ending this saga on his terms. He thought of Gina waiting for him in Buenos Aires.
‘Come, sit,’ she said.
He did, falling back into the chair like a deflated, flattened balloon. She reached across the narrow gap between them and placed her hand on his arm. ‘You don’t have to worry about me knowing,’ she said. ‘I’m not about to turn you in to anyone.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Let’s just say that I’m sensitive to why people sometimes get in trouble and need to escape. It’s happened to me. To Karl, too.’
‘Karl?’
‘The captain. My husband. We’ve both had our share of troubles, so we’re sympathetic to others who find themselves in a jam. Don’t get me wrong, Mr Smythe. May I call you Carlton?’
‘May you? Yes, sure.’
‘You seem like a nice man who made a mistake and is in trouble for it. I sensed that the minute you showed up. I’ve developed a pretty good sense of people over the years working on the ship, and I knew I was right about you. Then, when I remembered the name of the man on the TV, I knew. You don’t have to worry, Carlton. We’re supposed to report the names of every passenger traveling with us to another country, but I didn’t report you, or register your passport. I’m sure no one except you, me, and Karl know that you’re on The Bárbara.’
‘Why did you do that?’
She shrugged and wrapped her arms about herself against a sudden, stiff breeze. ‘We’ve done it before,’ she said, ‘and we can arrange for you to enter Brazil without the authorities knowing about it. Of course, that takes money. It may sound crude but the authorities we work with expect to be compensated. So do we.’
Strangely, Smythe felt relieved. Had she said that she was doing it out of the goodness of her heart, he would have been skeptical, and pessimistic how it would turn out. But she wanted money, which put it on a pragmatic level. He’d read in thrillers that the only good reason to accept someone who wants to become a spy is money. Alleged love of country, or hatred for a government, doesn’t cut it with experienced handlers of turncoats. Only a need for money is an acceptable motivation.
‘How much?’ he squeezed out.
‘I don’t think that twenty thousand would be unreasonable considering the situation you’re in.’
Smythe was faced with a dilemma. The amount she’d cited was perfectly acceptable. He would have gladly paid twice that amount to clear his way into Brazil. The problem was that if he handed over that much money in cash, she would know that he was traveling with lots of money and might attempt to steal everything he had.
Like so many things that had occurred to him recently, he was left without much of a choice. On the one hand, he was being held up by this lovely woman and her husband for twenty thousand dollars. On the other hand, it was his good fortune to have ended up on a ship with people with larceny in their souls who offered a solution to the huge problem of entering Brazil without having to go through Customs and other stumbling blocks.
Would they deliver on their promise to grease the skids for him to enter Brazil?
Would the rest of his money be safe after he handed over twenty thousand in cash?
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the money and bring it back to you.’
‘You won’t be sorry,’ she purred.
Ten minutes later he handed over the packets of cash.
‘Do you want to count it?’ he asked.
‘No. I think you’re an honorable man who made a mistake. You’re not the cheating type.’
With that, she wrapped her arms around him, pressed her ample body against his, and kissed him hard on the mouth.
‘Sleep tight,’ she said. ‘See you at breakfast.’
THIRTY-TWO
Had he not wanted desperately to reunite with Gina, Smythe would have been content to spend the rest of his life on The Bárbara. The ship had a shelf of dog-eared paperback novels, and he whiled away his days at sea reading, napping, eating, playing bridge, and breathing in the salty ocean air. It was idyllic, and he discovered an inner peace that had long been absent.
He was introduced to Karl, the ship’s captain and Kerry’s husband, and spent time on the bridge, as did the other passengers. Karl was a beefy Brazilian of few words and a gruff demeanor, although he was not unpleasant. A jagged scar across his forehead and a cocked eye testified to his life not having been without incident. The only conversation of substance Smythe had with him was on the last day at sea.
‘Kerry will take care of everything,’ he said. ‘You talk to her and you do what she tells you to do. Once you are in Rio you’re on your own. Our job, it is finished. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ Smythe said, ‘and I want to thank you for being … well, for being understanding and for helping me.’
‘Why not?’ Karl said. ‘Good luck.’
Kerry’s kiss the night he’d delivered the money to her had lingered on Smythe’s lips and in his memory for the duration of the journey. He had the feeling that if he pursued it she might be willing to go to bed with him, and the contemplation was appealing if not ego-building. But he fought the urge. He was not about to run foul of her husband. More importantly, he would not be unfaithful to Gina.
And so as the trip approached its end, he read books and sat in the sun and dreamed of what life would be like with Gina in their lovely little cottage, the two of them, madly in love and united against the world.
As The Bárbara transported Carlton
Smythe to Rio de Janeiro, Paul Saison looked out the window of his Toronto hospital room and did what he’d been doing ever since being transferred there from his jail cell after complaining of chest pains. He cursed Smythe over and over – ‘Imbécile!’ ‘Téte d’epingle!’ ‘Balourd!’ ‘Bandit!’ ‘Cinglé!’ ‘Arriéré!’ – in between bouts of crying.
‘Maybe we should increase his medication?’ one of the psychiatrists said to a colleague when discussing Saison’s condition. They’d been brought onto his case by the cardiologist who’d become concerned about his patient’s mental state. When Saison was granted one call to Angelique, she told him to drop dead, which resulted in a tirade about women that generated blushes from the nurses and necessitated his being restrained.
‘Probably,’ the second psychiatrist concurred. ‘The prosecutor in his case isn’t happy. The lawyer assigned to defend him is claiming that he’s mentally deficient and isn’t fit to stand trial.’
‘Not our problem. Let’s increase the dosage and see if it does any good.’
It didn’t.
Dominick Martone could have used a cardiologist the night things went awry at Power-Can. He was livid, and the irate calls from the other Mafia leaders up and down the East Coast didn’t help. Had Smythe been home when Martone and his ‘associates’ arrived that night, the police might have been investigating a murder instead of a blackout.
But by the time the police interrogated the Toronto crime boss, he’d calmed considerably. He’d worked out a repayment of the franchise fees he’d been paid, and an uneasy peace had been reestablished between the families.
‘Look, Mr Martone, we’re not accusing you of anything, but we do know that you and Mr Smythe had been spending time together,’ one of the two detectives said. ‘Smythe’s wife says that you were involved in some sort of business deal.’
‘We discussed it,’ Martone said, nonchalantly draping an arm over the chair. ‘It didn’t work out.’
‘What sort of business was it?’
Martone glanced at the two lawyers who’d accompanied him to headquarters before answering. ‘Smythe’s an engineer, you know, a slide-rule kind of guy, numbers and figures and things like that. He wanted me to hire him for one of my enterprises but he didn’t have anything that I needed.’ He came forward and adopted a sincere expression. ‘I can’t believe the guy would pull a stunt like this, paying some bum inside the plant to pull the switch on the electricity. Good thing I have a generator. You have a generator?’