Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (12 page)

‘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?'

‘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.

M
artone 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.'

‘The Mafia chief?'

‘I hesitate calling him that,' Cynthia said. ‘Why did you take
their
picture?' she asked.

‘They carried a big box into the building where your husband rents an office.'

‘Rents an office? Carlton?'

‘Seems like it, Mrs Smythe. They went in carrying the box but came out without it.'

He placed the next picture on the pile, this of Smythe exiting Martone's restaurant. ‘Seems like he and Mr Martone are pretty friendly,' the investigator said.

‘Carlton said he'd been talking to him about a possible business deal,' Cynthia said.

‘I'll be finding out more,' Miller said. ‘One of my other investigators followed your husband this morning when he left the house.'

‘He said he was going to Philadelphia to see a potential client.'

‘He went to the Billy Bishop airport on Toronto Islands, took off with some men in a private jet.'

‘What men?'

‘My colleague didn't recognize any of them. She didn't have a chance to grab a photo without being observed. I'll swing by the airport when I leave here and see what I can come up with.'

‘Is there anything else?' Mrs Wiggins asked.

‘Not at the moment, ma'am, but we'll stay on it.'

Cynthia smiled. ‘I'm relieved,' she said.

‘Why?' her mother asked.

‘I don't know what Carlton is up to these days – it must have to do with business – but at least there isn't another woman.'

‘How can you say that?' his mother said. ‘He's obviously depraved, perverted, visiting one of those sewers called stripper clubs. Disgusting!'

‘Yes, ma'am,' Miller said. ‘Remember to let me know if he plans another trip to Buenos Aires. I'll be back in touch.'

The jet descended through the dense cloud cover and into clear air. Smythe looked out his window in search of an airport and a city, but saw only verdant rolling hills. The pilot turned sharply to the left, snapped the aircraft back into straight-and-level flight, and proceeded to do what Smythe could only describe as a dive. He clenched his teeth, fiercely gripped his armrests, and his stomach tightened as the ground rapidly came up outside his window. Moments later the plane slammed down on the runway, bounced up, then settled as the pilot reversed his engines' thrust and applied the brakes.

Smythe saw nothing but green hills until the plane turned off the runway and taxied. Now what looked like a castle, an imposing two-story stone building with turrets on either end, came into view.

‘Where are we?' he asked Martone.

‘The place where we're meeting my business associates.'

Smythe watched through the window as the plane came to a stop a hundred yards from the building. The door opened and two men stood on the long stone porch that ran the width of the house. The jet's engines shut down and the co-pilot came from the cockpit to lower the stairs. Hugo and another Mafioso left the plane, followed by Smythe, then Martone, with the remaining two bodyguards bringing up the rear. As Smythe stood at the foot of the stairs, other men exited the house and joined the original two.