by Donald Bain
‘No, I don’t, Mr Martone. You and Mr Smythe flew to outside Philadelphia where a gang war broke out. People were killed. Do you—?’
‘Wait a minute, Detective,’ Martone said, holding up his hand. ‘Gang war? There was no gang war. I was there having a meeting with business associates and some punks decided to shoot up the place. I had Smythe with me because I thought that maybe if things worked out at the meeting he’d have a job. I was doing the guy a favor. His wife, a terrific woman, is on the board of the Canada Opera Company. You ever go to the opera?’
‘No.’
‘Any time you want to go, just let me know. I’m a big supporter of COC. I’ll comp you.’
The interview ended as the detectives assumed it would. Dominick Martone was untouchable in Toronto, and had his bases covered. One of the detectives told his partner after they’d left that his wife had always wanted to go to the opera. ‘Maybe I’ll take the old guinea up on his offer.’
In Buenos Aires, the team headed by Luis Cortez had intercepted the packages containing cash that Smythe had sent to Guillermo Guzman. When they discovered that the packages contained large amounts of money, Bill Whitlock in Washington ordered them to record the amount of cash in each package, carefully reseal them, and allow the delivery to go through with the goal of identifying those to whom Guzman distributed the funds.
Gina Ellanado hadn’t heard from Smythe since the email he’d sent before fleeing Toronto. Had she been a woman who was interested in world news she might have heard reports about the blackout and the ongoing investigation into whether one Carlton Smythe had been involved. But her TV watching habits included soap operas and old movies, and she seldom read a newspaper. The news depressed her and so she avoided it.
She’d spent most of her time at the cottage she’d rented with the money Smythe had given her, adding decorative touches, stocking the bar with expensive liquors, and bringing what she termed a ‘femenino tacto’ to the surroundings. She bought luxurious bedding, colorful tapestries to hang on the walls, and a compact CD player on which she played tango music.
She called Guzman repeatedly to see whether the money had arrived, to be told that it hadn’t but that it should be there any day. On this day when she called, he had good news. ‘The money is here, Gina. I’m taking my commission and depositing it in my private bank. No sense losing interest while we wait for your friend Mr Smythe to arrive.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that would be good.’
Guzman hung up and looked at Luis Cortez and two plainclothes officers from the Buenos Aires Provincial Police who sat across his desk from him.
‘Satisfied?’ he said.
‘You did good, Guillermo.’
Guzman sneered. ‘The money’s a private investment from a client of mine. You’ve got no right coming in here and threatening me. It’s a legitimate transaction.’
‘Not if it’s money gained through a criminal act,’ Cortez said.
‘Who says it is?’ Guzman asked defiantly.
‘We do,’ Cortez replied. ‘We’ll keep the money safe until our investigation is over. In the meantime stay away from Señorita Ellanado. If she calls again tell her the money is invested and waiting for Smythe to arrive. And keep your mouth shut. We don’t have to take you in to be sure you don’t talk about this, do we?’
‘Take me in for what?’
Cortez shrugged. ‘Money laundering, running a criminal enterprise, maybe fraudery.’
‘Fraudery? What the hell is that?’
‘What we’ll accuse you of. Have a good day, and thanks for your cooperation.’
In a suite at the Alvear Palace in Buenos Aires, arguably the city’s most expensive hotel – with Cartier across the street and Hermes next door – Cynthia Smythe and her mother, Gladys Wiggins, sat in the living room while the personal butler provided to every guest room meticulously unpacked their luggage in the master bedroom. They’d just arrived and were weary from the trip.
‘What do we do first?’ Cynthia asked.
‘First we nap, dear. Then we have an appointment with Mr Miller’s colleague here, Mr Domingo. We’ll decide what to do after that, depending upon what he tells us.’
‘I—’ Cynthia welled up.
‘What’s the matter, dear?’
‘I’m afraid to confront Carlton.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I—’
‘Go on, say what’s on your mind. Don’t snivel.’
‘I know that he’s cheated on me, and that he’s a wanted man because they think he was behind the blackout, but he’s been a good husband in so many ways that—’
‘He’s a scoundrel!’
‘But after you caught Daddy cheating you stayed married to him.’
‘A pragmatic decision.’
‘What if Carlton sees how wrong he’s been and begs me to stay with him?’
‘I seriously doubt that will happen, Cynthia, but we shall see. In the meantime let’s nap and browse Cartier before seeing Mr Domingo. It’s so convenient.’
THIRTY-THREE
Smythe, his suitcases and carry-on at his side, watched from the deck as The Bárbara entered Rio’s Guanabara Bay and approached one of the Port of Rio’s multiple wharfs at the foot of the downtown area. As it nuzzled up to the Gamboa Wharf and lines were secured, he was consumed with parallel, conflicting feelings.
Until that point and for the past fifteen days his life had been easy; he hated to see it end. At the same time a sense of anticipatory joy overtook him. He was on the final leg of this unlikely journey, and he wondered how he’d managed to survive the ordeal.
Kerry had instructed him to have his luggage with him on deck and to not join the other passengers when they disembarked and went through Customs and other document verification stations. He was to wait until she personally escorted him from the ship.
After an hour had passed he began to wonder whether she would show up. She did fifteen minutes later. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Say nothing. Just follow me.’
She led him to an older uniformed government inspector who stood far removed from the main area through which passengers passed. She handed the man an envelope. He grunted, slipped it into his pocket, and nodded. Kerry and Smythe passed his checkpoint and came around the side of a warehouse.
‘Welcome to Rio,’ she said, smiling.
‘That’s it?’ he said.
‘Did you expect a samba band to welcome you? You’re safely in Brazil now. I wish you nothing but the best.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he said.
‘No need to,’ she replied. With that she wrapped her arms about him and kissed him as she had fifteen nights ago, on the lips, firmly, longer this time.
‘You’re very sexy,’ he said when they’d disengaged.
‘Thank you. You’re kind of cute yourself. Go now, and good luck.’
He lugged his luggage past a succession of warehouses until he emerged from the pier into streets that led to the city’s thriving downtown. He found a botequin, a coffee café, with a few outdoor tables. He took one, but an employee told him to buy a chit from the cashier and take it inside where he would be served his cafezinho, a tiny cup of strong, black coffee. Smythe had the counterman add milk, before taking his drink back outside where he sipped, watched the parade of well-dressed people, and thought.
He knew that the completion of his trek was near, but it seemed impossibly distant at that moment. Despite the help he’d received from Kerry and her husband, his sense was that the sooner he left Brazil the better. His obvious move would have been to catch a flight to Buenos Aires, but he was still reluctant to chance going through airport security. From what research he’d done, he decided that his best bet was to take a bus, a forty-five-hour trip. The thought of sitting on a bus for that length of time was anathema to him, but there didn’t seem to be a sensible alternative.
As he finished his coffee, a boy selling newspapers, both Brazilian and English language editions, hawked h
is wares to customers in the outdoor café. Smythe motioned for him and took the paper that was in English, handing the newsboy a ten dollar bill. ‘Keep the change,’ he said. ‘Por usted.’ The boy thanked him profusely before continuing down the street.
Smythe took the paper with him to read on the trip. He asked a woman for directions to the bus station and she directed him to the Novo Rio Bus Station on Avenue Francisco Bicalho, adding that it was only a short walk.
He reached the terminal and went to a ticket window where he was told that there was a bus leaving for Buenos Aires in four hours.
‘Is it really a forty-five hour trip?’ Smythe asked.
‘Si, señor.’
‘How can the driver drive that long?’
The clerk, who spoke good English – everyone in Rio seemed to – smiled and said, ‘We have two drivers on the bus, and a small place for them to sleep. But I make a suggestion to you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Many people who take this trip go only halfway on the first day. They spend the night in a hotel at Foz de Igauzu, a very beautiful place with a waterfall so big it is three times larger than the Niagara Falls. If you like, I can make a reservation for you at the Hotel das Catartas, a very nice hotel, good restaurants, beautiful scenery. If you do this, there will be a bus in the morning that will take you for the rest of your journey to Buenos Aires.’
Smythe thought for a moment. The contemplation of spending forty-five consecutive hours on a bus was painful.
‘Yes, I would like to do that,’ he said.
With ticket in hand and a slip confirming his hotel reservation, he stopped in a bookstore and bought two murder mysteries from the English language section, then found another sidewalk café where he told the beautiful waitress – every woman in Rio was beautiful, he decided, each a model for the song ‘The Girl From Ipanema’ – that he wanted to drink and eat things that were typically Brazilian. She recommended the country’s national cocktail, caipirinha, made with sugar cane rum, sugar and lime juice, and a shrimp dish, vatapa, served with cashew peanut sauce. He ordered both, and by the time he was due to board the bus he’d consumed three of the drinks and was tipsy.
It was a double-decker bus, sleek and shiny, with a toilet area, a mini-bar and snack kiosk, and wide, comfortable, reclining seats, which made napping easy. He’d purchased a leito ticket, First Class, and was impressed with the amenities. With the buzz from the drinks numbing his senses, he happily settled into his assigned seat, stretched and yawned, and promptly dozed off.
He awoke an hour later and started reading one of the novels he’d purchased. He soon lost interest in the story and pulled the newspaper from his carry-on. The first four pages contained news of goings-on in Rio de Janeiro and the nation of Brazil. Pages five and six provided a recap of news from around the world. The item from Toronto, Canada, immediately grabbed his attention.
The headline read: Blackout Culprit Dies.
Ontario, Canada. The French-Canadian man suspected of causing the massive blackout that paralyzed the east coast of the United States and Canada, Paul Saison, an employee of Power-Can where his alleged sabotage took place, has died. The cause was heart failure. Mr Saison had implicated a former employee of the plant, Toronto citizen Carlton Smythe, who is currently being sought by authorities.
But the senior prosecutor assigned to the Smythe case stated in a press conference that because of Mr Saison’s mental incapacity following his arrest and prior to his death – he was the only witness against Mr Smythe – the government has decided to drop charges against Mr Smythe, whose whereabouts is still unknown.
A moment of sincere sadness at hearing that the big, bumbling, obnoxious Saison had died was soon replaced by elation. Could it be true? It had to be. He, Smythe, was no longer a suspect? Charges had been dropped?
He let out a yelp that caused others to turn to him.
‘Sorry,’ Smythe said. ‘I’ve just had good news.’
He read the article multiple times, searching for a word or phrase that would temper his joy. He didn’t find one. He wondered about the transporting of large sums of money out of the US to another country, falsely claiming the packages contained books. Had that broken the law? Probably. But it was a minor concern compared to having been fingered as the brains behind the blackout. At least that was the way he processed it as the bus roared down the highway taking him to Buenos Aires – to Gina.
He was in an expansive mood as he stepped off the bus in Foz de Igauzu and checked in to the hotel. His room was handsomely decorated and comfortably appointed. He stepped out on to the balcony and was awed by the majesty of the falls. Despite the twenty-hour bus ride, he felt invigorated and energized. ‘Life is good,’ he said aloud a number of times as he prepared to go downstairs for a drink and dinner, and that upbeat mood didn’t abate even after so many caipirinhas that he lost count. Before going to bed he decided to break his silence on the Internet and emailed Gina, saying that they would be together again in a few days, together forever. ‘When I come to the door of our love cottage, my darling, it will be the first day of the rest of our lives. I will make us martinis and we will toast our good fortune. Yours forever, Carlton.’
The first half of the trip had gone by quickly. Now, in the home stretch, each minute seemed an eternity, and he wanted to go to the driver and urge him to drive faster. Eventually the bus pulled into the huge central bus station in the heart of downtown Buenos Aires. Smythe collected his two large suitcases from where they had been stowed in a compartment beneath the bus and made his way toward the exit. But he had to go to the bathroom and went into a men’s room. He looked at himself in the mirrors above the sinks and didn’t like what he saw. He was disheveled and weary, his clothing wrinkled, his face sallow and with a day’s growth of gray beard. He couldn’t arrive at the cottage in that state, and made a decision on the spot to delay seeing Gina until he presented the right image.
‘The Four Seasons hotel,’ he told the taxi driver.
The suite in which he usually stayed was available. After a shower and shave, he consulted the concierge: ‘Where is the best men’s clothing store?’
The concierge recommended two, Sir Greyton for the best dress shirts, and James Smart for suits. Smythe liked their British-sounding names and headed for Sir Greyton with a spring in his step. After purchasing two of the shop’s most expensive shirts and three silk ties, he went to James Smart where he told the proprietor that he needed the best suit in the shop, and had to have it expertly tailored by the end of the day. The proprietor said that would be impossible, but when Smythe said he would pay double the suit’s cost, a tailor suddenly appeared from the back of the shop and Smythe was fitted.
‘You will have your suit in an hour,’ the proprietor said.
At six, Smythe picked up the suit and returned to the hotel where he tried it on, and selected a shirt and tie to go with. He checked his email. There was nothing from Gina, which didn’t concern him. He debated going to the cottage but thought better of it. It was evening. Best to wait until the following day when he would be rested and ready for love. He emailed her that he would be arriving at the cottage the next day and asked that she wait there for him, saying that he wasn’t sure what time he would arrive.
He relived that fateful evening when they’d first met by going to the Le Dȏme bar and having a glass of cerveza, the same brand she’d drank, and a bottle of Malbec. For dinner in Le Mistral he ordered the same dish he’d enjoyed that first night, a New York strip steak with the thick herb sauce, chimichurri. The harpist’s lovely melodies completed the reenactment.
He went to his suite, sated, tired, and supremely happy. He would have a full night’s rest before dressing in his new clothes and arriving at the cottage.
He hadn’t realized how tired he’d been and was surprised when he slept until nine the following morning. After a shower and multiple checks of his appearance in the mirror, he descended to the lobby carrying only the suitcase containing
the cash. The doorman hailed a cab for him.
‘Before we go to my destination,’ Smythe told the driver, ‘I must stop at a florist, a very good one.’
Ten minutes later Smythe emerged from a shop carrying two dozen red roses. He got back in the cab and gave the driver the address of the cottage.
‘That is a long trip,’ the driver said.
‘It doesn’t matter how much it costs,’ Smythe said. ‘Here.’ He handed a hundred dollar bill over the driver’s seatback. ‘And if the meter says it is more I will pay it, and add a generous tip.’
The ride took a half hour. During it, Smythe silently rehearsed what he would say when Gina opened the door. He had a whimsical vision of her being naked when she did, which brought a wide smile to his face.
‘Life is good!’ he said aloud, causing the driver to turn his head.
‘I am a happy man,’ Smythe explained.
The driver laughed. ‘Good for you, amigo,’ he said.
They pulled up in front of the cottage and Smythe immediately spotted a car parked off to the side. He’d encouraged Gina to rent a car and was glad that she had. With a final payment to the driver including the large tip he’d promised, Smythe watched the taxi drive off. It was a sunny day, the breeze gentle and refreshing. He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and approached the front door. Should he knock or simply walk in? He decided to knock. He cocked his head as he heard the rustle of someone approaching the door.
He pulled himself to his full height, held the roses perfectly upright in an offering position, and was poised to mouth the words that he’d been practicing.