Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (17 page)

Gina dreamed of going to one of the city's many fine universities – she excelled at math in high school – but her father's premature death and her mother's developing dementia rendered that dream impossible. Her brother, Juan, four years older, had no interest in higher education. At twenty, he traveled to the city of Rosario where he hooked up with members of the infamous Sinaloa drug cartel which specialized in setting up meth labs and distributing their potent product, mostly to the United States. He'd been there less than a year when a war broke out between rival gangs and he and two other Sinaloa gang members were gunned down on the street. His violent death destroyed what was left of his mother's already fragile mental state and she was confined to a government-financed assisted living facility in a Bahia Blanca suburb.

Gina had been told by many, including a college student who took her virginity during her senior year, that she was pretty enough to be a model. When she turned eighteen she answered an ad run by a Buenos Aires modeling agency, rode the bus to Argentina's largest city, and auditioned. It turned out that the agency was more interested in finding beautiful women to appear in its pornographic films than in hiring models. Gina didn't succumb to their promises of big paydays and continued to seek out legitimate modeling agencies. One, run by an older woman whose face had once graced the covers of leading fashion magazines, matched Gina with a cosmetics firm that began to use her in ads. But although that company ran into financial difficulties and closed its doors, Gina had enjoyed enough exposure to be retained by a competitor, not as a model but as a consultant to its product line. It wasn't steady work or pay, nor did it provide enough money to splurge except on special occasions. But it had been sufficient to sustain what would be considered by most to be a modest, albeit comfortable lifestyle.

And then she met Carlton Smythe.

Carlton Smythe.

A man with enough money to support her as she advanced in years.

‘Good to see you again, Gina,' Schott said after she had walked into his real estate office and they'd exchanged preliminary pleasantries, including kisses on the cheek. ‘It's been a while. Please, sit. What brings you here this morning?'

‘I am looking to rent a house.'

‘Your apartment getting too cramped?'

‘Yes, that's it. I would like something bigger.'

‘How about a bigger apartment? I have some wonderful deals here in the city, some with balconies.'

‘No, no, I would like a small house, a cottage, something outside of the city.'

He sat back, folded his hands on his chest, and said, ‘This is for you and your American boyfriend?'

‘
Qué?
'

‘This American you've been seeing.'

‘He is … he is a Canadian. A very nice man.'

‘Yeah, I'm sure he is. American, Canadian, all the same.'

‘How do you know about him?'

‘Guillermo called me this morning, said that you and your boyfriend went tango dancing last night.'

‘It is none of your business what I do.'

He came forward and extended his palms. ‘OK, OK, let's see what I have that's available.'

He opened a large book containing photos of properties he represented, found the page he was looking for, and showed it to her. ‘Real pretty little place, a half hour outside of town.'

The two color photographs were of a white stone cottage with red shutters, a red door, and a small, neatly tended rose garden in front augmented by window boxes overflowing with purple and yellow flowers. The cottage sat on a rise; the pictures had been taken on a pristine day, the vivid blue sky and a few puffy white clouds dressing up the setting.

‘It looks beautiful,' she said.

‘It
is
beautiful,' he said, ‘small but certainly larger than your apartment. You ah … you have enough money for upfront rent and a security payment?'

‘Yes, of course I do. Is it also for sale?'

He nodded. ‘You can rent it with an option to buy, or you can buy it outright.'

‘I would like to rent and maybe buy one day.'

‘Good. Want to see it?'

‘Very much I would like to see it.'

‘Then let's go.'

They drove east in his metallic green BMW convertible, the top down, the rushing air and sun on her face. Behind them in a nondescript gray sedan was Popi Domingo, Clarence Miller III's man in Buenos Aires. He'd followed Gina to Schott's office that morning and had decided to devote the day to keeping tabs on her.

After a half hour, Schott turned onto a narrow road lined with tall, graceful trees and came to a stop in front of the cottage. Popi continued past them until his car was no longer visible. He parked, got out, and sat on a stone fence from where he could just see the cottage's front door through the trees in the viewfinder of his camera.

‘It is even more pretty than in the pictures,' Gina told Schott while taking photos with a small point-and-shoot camera.

‘I knew you'd like it. Come on inside. I have the key.'

The cottage's interior was every bit as lovely as the exterior, and was larger than it had seemed from outside. Windows at the rear in the two bedrooms afforded an unencumbered view of hills against the horizon. The kitchen featured updated appliances, and a sizable dining area held a long French pine table with six cane chairs.

Schott led Gina out a rear door to a covered brick terrace with table and chairs, and a small barbeque grill. Gina took a series of pictures of the terrace and the views from it.

‘What do you think?' Schott asked.

‘It is beautiful,
muy hermoso
. How much each month?'

Schott flashed a wide smile. ‘For you, sweetheart, only six thousand Argentine
pesos
.'

‘In Canadian money?'

‘Let's see, about twelve hundred a month. Three months' rent in advance, two months' security, and my commission.'

‘Your commission? The owner, he does not pay you?'

‘I get it from both sides, Gina. Hey, a guy has to make a living. Why do you ask about Canadian money? Your Canadian sugar daddy is paying for this?'

‘I will pay in that money,' she said angrily. ‘Cash.'

His eyes widened. ‘Sure, but mind if I ask where you came up with all this
cash
?'

‘It is none of your concern.'

‘OK, I get it. Come on. We'll go back to the office and do the paperwork.'

On their way back through the cottage he attempted to pin her against a wall and kiss her, which she resisted.

‘Can't blame a man for trying,' he said, not pressing the issue. ‘Your love life with the Canadian must be good these days.'

‘My love life is very good,' she said. ‘Drop me off at my apartment. I will get the money and bring it to you at your office.'

‘It's a deal,' he said. ‘Sure you don't want to try out the bed, sort of christen it, you know, like a bed warming, for old times?'

‘I will bring you the money, Joseph. And do not touch me again.'

They rode in stony silence back to Gina's apartment where Schott dropped her off. A half hour later she emerged from her building and hailed a taxi. Popi Domingo dutifully followed. After leaving Schott's building with the signed lease in-hand, she went to a car rental service and rented a two-door Subaru on a monthly lease. Now that she had the cottage, she intended to spend as much time there as possible, making the car a necessity.

She was feeling good.

Gina had accompanied Smythe to the airport that morning for his flight back to Toronto. She assured him that she would look at houses to rent once he was gone, and that she would send pictures of what she'd found.

As he sat in First Class of the 747 and drank a glass of Malbec red wine and nibbled on beef empanadas with black bean dipping sauce, he was surprised at the foul mood he'd taken to bed with him the night before, and that had lingered into this new day. He tried to sort out his negative feelings, to identify the reason for them. What was most upsetting was that he harbored them in the first place.

He knew of course that the evening spent with Gina's handsome friend, Private Banker Guillermo Guzman, was at the root of his discontent. Although he had been the one to ask to meet the private banker, sharing Gina with him had been tortuous at best, especially at the tango club where they seemed to be putting on a show of lust while dancing. Sure, he knew that the tango was a sensual dance and that maybe he was overreacting to their passionate embraces on the dance floor. What counted was that it was he, Carlton Smythe, who'd shared the bed with her when the night was over.

Still …

He'd considered asking Gina that morning whether she'd ever slept with Guzman but didn't, afraid that it would paint him as insecure. But the unstated question had lingered with him since waking. He couldn't shake it.

He also became consumed as the flight winged northward about packaging and getting the money to Gina. He would have preferred to deal only with her, but knew that he needed someone with knowledge of Argentina's banking system. That Guzman was, as he put it, a ‘private' banker said to Smythe that he was probably engaged in shady financial dealings, which was, after all, what Smythe was engaged in himself. He had to trust Gina and her smarmy go-between. He didn't have a choice.

He decided that the next day he would collect boxes from the various shipping services and send off the bulk of the money – and keep his fingers and toes crossed that it would end up with its intended recipient. It was another choice over which he had no control.

Becoming a criminal wasn't easy.

T
engku, the well-dressed gentleman from Malaysia who'd paid for the blackout franchise for Queens, NY, sat in his suite at a New York hotel with four other men. He was in an expansive mood.

‘That stupid man, Tourino,' he said in his cultured, somewhat exaggerated accent. ‘A baboon. It was so easy to get what we wanted from him, like taking candy from a baby.'

‘Yes, a baboon,' someone said through a laugh.

‘Queens he sold us,' someone else said, also laughing. ‘Queens!'

‘You have the report from Awrang in Washington?' Tengku asked a colleague.

‘Yes, Tengku. I spoke with him an hour ago. It is better than we even imagined.'

Tengku ordered one of the men to open another bottle of white wine that had been brought to the suite by room service. An assortment of Chinese delicacies had also been delivered from a nearby restaurant. It had all the appearance of a celebratory party, which it was.

Tengku had been born in Malaysia's capital Kuala Lumpur but received his secondary education in London. He returned home to start an export business and became wealthy, shipping tin, rubber and palm oil around the world. His family was Muslim – over fifty per cent of Malaysia's population practices that faith – and Tengku's mother and father were deeply religious. Tengku was, too, in his youth, but as he grew older his involvement with religion became more political than spiritual. He grew increasingly rabid about Israel and its treatment of Palestinians, and began to thrust himself and his views into Malaysia's political life. It wasn't enough for him that the Malaysian government refused to recognize Israel and did not have diplomatic relations with the Jewish state. Tengku railed against the Jewish settlements and harsh laws impacting Palestinians, and supported a worldwide jihad. He became a vocal thorn in the side of Malaysian leaders and their British-styled parliamentary form of government which ensured freedom of religion for all citizens despite its Muslim majority.

Fed up with what he considered his government's too moderate stance, he took the millions he'd made through his company and returned to London where he became active in recruiting young Arabs to his philosophy. After the British authorities placed him under scrutiny, he moved again, this time to New York City where his views, and money, were welcomed by a small group of like-minded Islamists who'd formed an enclave in the borough of Queens.

‘Tell me what Awrang says,' Tengku said.

Awrang, a young, well-educated Arab-American, was a staffer in Washington for New York Senator Miles Quinlin, the frontrunner in the Democratic primary currently underway. Quinlin was an ardent supporter of Israel, championed its stance in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and backed any bill that provided increased military aid. That he might become the Democratic candidate for president, and probably win the White House, was anathema to Tengku.

Quinlin had to be stopped.

‘Awrang says that Senator Quinlin will be in New York on the twenty-second for a fundraiser at the NY Hilton Hotel. I have his itinerary.'

The colleague handed it to Tengku, who smiled as he read it. Miles Quinlin, among many attributes, was known to be a stickler for organization. He was never late to events, and each one was meticulously planned, the schedule mapped out to the minute.

‘He speaks in the ballroom at eight forty-five,' Tengku read from the sheet of paper, ‘and is scheduled to conclude his remarks at nine ten. He will spend forty minutes shaking hands with those in attendance, and then be escorted to his car at nine forty. Perfect!'

‘Yes, perfect,' his colleagues agreed.

For Tengku, assassinating Senator Quinlin had progressed from a fervent wish to reality after meeting Angelo, Vinnie Tourino's capo. Once Tourino had decided to buy into the deal through Dominick Martone, he'd charged Angelo with seeking out others to whom they could sell pieces of the New York franchise. Tengku and Angelo had become friendly through a bar they both frequented – although Tengku still considered himself a Muslim, he enjoyed his wine.

One night, Angelo told his Malaysian friend that there was a ‘business opportunity' in which Tengku might be interested. Tengku listened carefully as Angelo sketched out for him in general terms what was involved. Tengku had no interest in using the blackout to rob anyone, but he did see it as presenting an opportunity to carry out his assassination of Senator Quinlin. Eventually he agreed to buy into the franchise by paying for the exclusive right to the borough of Queens. Queens! What he cared about was midtown Manhattan and the Hilton Hotel where Quinlin would be attending the fundraising dinner.