Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (10 page)

‘I don't want a beer,' Smythe said.

One of the dancers came close, squatted down in front of Smythe, blew him a kiss and undulated her large bare brown breasts inches from his nose.

Saison laughed. ‘Hey, she likes you, Smythe. Give her a tip.'

‘What?' Smythe said, pulling back from her.

‘Like this.' Saison pulled a Canadian dollar banknote from his shirt pocket, leaned toward the girl, and slipped the bill into the top of her G-string. ‘Come on, Smythe, she dances for you.'

The combination of the loud music, flashing lights, the whoops and hollers of drunken men, and the heavy odor of cheap perfume made Smythe dizzy.

‘You know what you need, Smythe?' Saison shouted in his ear. ‘You need a mistress, huh? Us French, we know how to live.'

Smythe thought of the naked Gina and a wave of nausea came and went. She was more beautiful than the girls performing in front of him, and she had class. She proudly showed off her gorgeous naked body only for the man she loved – him –
me
, he thought. Dancing near-naked for money disgusted him and he averted his eyes from the stage.

Their beers were delivered. Saison poked Smythe with his elbow. ‘Pay the pretty lady,' he said.

‘What? Oh, yes. How much?'

‘Thirty,' the waitress said.

‘Thirty?
Dollars?
'

She glared at him.

‘All right,' he said as he pulled out his wallet, fished bills from it, and handed them to her. She counted the money and intensified her glare, a hand on her hip.

‘Hey, Smythe, a tip for the
jolie fille
.'

‘I already paid her thirty dollars,' Smythe protested loudly.

‘This is all?' the waitress said, looking at the bills in her hand.—

‘I already paid you plenty,' Smythe said.

‘Smythe,' Saison said. ‘Don't be cheap, huh? She's a working girl.'

‘She can take her tip out of the thirty dollars I just gave her.'

A man sitting to Smythe's left wearing a red and yellow checkered flannel shirt and a Toronto Blue Jay baseball cap on backwards, said, ‘Hey, what'd you do, stiff her?'

‘I already paid for the beer and—'

Another man seated at the stage apron asked his friend, ‘What'd he do?'

‘He stiffed Monique.'

‘What?' He leaned across his friend and snarled at Smythe, his words slurred, ‘What are you, a troublemaker?'

‘No, I—'

Smythe was gripped by the sudden tension, and decided to beat a hasty retreat. He didn't need to become involved in a fracas in such a dive; the thought of the police being called knotted his stomach. ‘Let's go,' he told Saison.

Smythe stood, but the Toronto baseball fan clasped a large hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat.

‘Get your hand off me,' Smythe said.

Saison got between Smythe and the man in the baseball hat and said to him, ‘
Imbécile!
Ours puant
!'

‘What'd you call me?' the baseball fan said as he got to his feet.

‘Please, Paul, let's go,' Smythe implored.

Saison was shoved in the chest. ‘What'd you call me, you fucking Frog?'

Saison shoved back. Now he was confronted by the two customers.

Smythe grabbed Saison by the sleeve and yanked, but the big Frenchman didn't budge.

‘Son-a-bitch didn't tip Monique.'

‘Excuse my friend,' Smythe said, flashing a smile and trying to sound like the voice of reason, a diplomat. ‘He's had a little too much to drink and—'

The large man in a suit who'd greeted Smythe as he entered the club suddenly appeared. ‘You have a problem?' he asked Smythe.

‘What? I can't hear with this music.'

‘The young lady did something wrong?' the man asked.

‘What?'

The manager turned to Saison. ‘Get out ‘a here,' he bellowed. ‘You stink to high heaven.'

‘He didn't tip me,' the waitress said.

‘That's right,' Saison said. ‘My friend forgot to give her a tip, huh?' He said to Smythe, ‘She wants her tip.'

‘But I already paid her thirty dollars,' Smythe said. ‘For two beers.'

‘The young lady works for tips,' the man said.

‘That may be true, but thirty dollars for two beers? That's outrageous.'

A second man in a suit approached. ‘Problem?' he asked.

The first man said, ‘He's complaining about the price for the beers and won't tip Monique.'

‘Just a mistake,' Smythe said, a sheepish grin on his face. ‘Everything is fine, just fine.' He elbowed Saison in the ribs. ‘Let's go.'

The appearance of the two burly men cut into Saison's bravado. ‘Some money for her, Smythe,' Saison said into his ear. ‘Give her some money.'

Smythe handed Monique a five dollar bill, which seemed to satisfy her and her bosses. They stepped aside and allowed Smythe and Saison to leave.

Smythe said as they walked to his car, ‘I've never seen anything like that. What a way to run a business. Why do you come to a filthy rattrap like this, Paul?'

‘The girls, Smythe, the girls. Hey, what are you now, some sort of sissy boy, huh?'

‘Disgusting,' Smythe said. ‘Absolutely disgusting.'

‘What is?'

‘That … that place.'

Saison shrugged, leaned against the car, took a swig from his pint bottle and lit a cigarette. ‘So, why do you want to see me tonight?'

‘I'll drive you home and tell you when we're there. You're sure Angelique won't be there?'

‘No, she stays with her sister overnight. Two witches. OK, we go home and you tell me what's on your mind, huh?'

They sat at Saison's kitchen table. Saison poured himself a glass of wine, Smythe declined the offer. He said slowly, in a low tone, ‘It's time, Paul.'

‘What's time?'

‘To put our plan into action.'

Smythe pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to the Frenchman. Saison opened it and his eyes widened.
‘Qu'est-ce que c'est?'

‘Five thousand dollars, Paul. A down payment.'

‘Is all?'

Smythe kept his annoyance in check. ‘Two weeks from this Friday night, August twenty-two, at nine forty-five,' he said. ‘That's when you pull the switch, not a second before or a second after. We'll meet again next week to finalize the plan. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, of course I understand. What do you think I am, some
Borné?
Some moron?'

‘Of course not, Paul. It's just that … well, it's just that this is the most important thing you or I will ever do in our lives. It can't fail. Everything must be done perfectly, no mistakes, no slip-ups. I'm depending on you, Paul. I have faith in you.'

Saison grinned at the compliment. ‘Hey, Smythe, you can count on me. You know that, huh?'

‘Yes, I know that, Paul. You have to be sure that you're scheduled to work that night, change your schedule if necessary. I also suggest that you not drink.'

Saison adopted an exaggerated look of hurt. ‘Why you have to tell me that, Smythe? What do you think, that I drink too much?'

‘No, not at all, Paul, but you'll have to be thinking extremely clearly that night. Just that night, Paul. Once you've shut down the plant you can leave Toronto, go to Montreal or Paris, go anywhere in the world you want to, drink and make love to pretty women, enjoy your life. But on Friday night, the twenty-second, you must be sober. Understand?'

‘OK, OK, Smythe.'

‘Good.' Smythe pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, wrote on it, ‘Friday, August twenty-two, nine forty-five pm,' and handed it to Saison. ‘Just a reminder,' he said.

The hulking Frenchman tucked the paper in his shirt pocket, refilled his glass, and started to pour into the empty glass in front of Smythe. ‘Come on, Smythe, drink up. We celebrate.'

Smythe stood and said, ‘No, I have to be going.' As he headed for the door his cell phone rang.

‘Smythe? It's Dom Martone. You called?'

‘Oh, yes. Thanks for getting back to me. I, ah, I really can't talk now.'

‘That's OK, pal. I want you to come to the restaurant.'

‘The one we met in before?'

‘That's the one, pal. A half hour. Can you make it?'

‘Yes, I'll be there.'

Saison laughed after Smythe had ended the call. ‘A lady calls you, huh?'

‘Ah, yes, Paul, a lady. I'll be in touch again soon.'

S
mythe arrived at Martone's restaurant at a little before nine. The pizza parlor in front was virtually empty; only two tables were occupied. As Smythe came through the doors the faint sound of a tenor voice singing an aria from a familiar opera came through the brick back wall. Smythe tried to identify the opera but couldn't come up with the name. The pizza parlor manager approached. ‘A table?' he asked.

‘No. I'm here to see Mr Martone. He's expecting me.'

The manager went to the rear door and knocked. Hugo answered. The manager whispered something to him. Hugo squinted at Smythe to verify that he was a familiar face. He motioned, and Smythe entered the back room where the music was now louder. Hugo shut the door and retreated to the corner where his skinny partner sat.

Martone was seated at the table. A white napkin was tucked into his shirt collar, and he sang along with the recorded aria. Smythe took the second chair.

‘You know this opera of course,' Martone said.

‘Oh, sure, of course I do.'

‘
Rigoletto
,' Martone said. ‘Verdi.
La donna e mobile
.' He picked up where he had left off and accompanied the tenor in a voice that surprised Smythe. He sounded as good to him as anyone he'd heard sing at the musicales at the house. The aria ended and Martone laughed while surreptitiously dabbing at one eye.

‘So, what's up?' Martone asked.

‘I'm ready to move with our project.'

‘Good, good, like to hear that.'

Smythe looked back at Hugo and his colleague before saying to Martone, ‘Could we talk someplace more private?'

‘These are my associates, Smythe. Don't worry about them.'

Smythe nodded. ‘OK,' he said. ‘The date is set.'

‘Good. What is it?'

Smythe extended his hands palms-up, like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
.

Martone grinned. ‘Yeah, yeah,' he said, ‘You want the money.' He abruptly stood and waved his two bodyguards from the room.

‘OK,' he said. ‘Now we get down to brass tacks as they say. You have the date the lights go out. I have the million bucks for that information.'

Smythe corrected, ‘A million, two hundred fifty thousand.'

Martone laughed. ‘Yeah, yeah, I wasn't shorting you, Smythe. A million two fifty
less
the fifty Gs I gave you.'

‘Of course. I haven't forgotten that. Do you have the money with you?'

Another laugh from the Mafia boss. ‘Oh, sure, Smythe. It's in my pocket. You know what I think?'

‘What?'

‘I think that you may be some sort ‘a genius, setting up this blackout and all, but you're also dumb as hell.'

Smythe said nothing.

‘You know how big a bundle a million bucks makes? I'd say it's around four cubic feet.' He gestured with his hands to indicate how high and wide that was. ‘It maybe weighs twenty, twenty-five pounds. You think I walk around with a fucking wheelbarrow filled with hundred dollar bills?'

‘No, Dom, I—'

‘But forget about me walking down the street with a wheelbarrow. What about
you,
Smythe? What the hell are you goin' to do with a pile like that? What do you think, pal, that I'll give you an envelope full ‘a ten thousand dollar bills? Ha! You know the biggest bill we got here in Canada? A hundred. Used to be there were bigger bills but no more. Hundreds. That's the biggest bills we got. So how many of those bills do you figure you'll be hauling around? Do the math, Smythe. Ten thousand hundred-dollar bills. Four cubic feet of greenbacks, twenty, twenty-five pounds. So tell me, Smythe, what the fuck are you goin' to do with that? Take it to some bank? Forget about it. Anything over ten Gs they report it to the feds. You gotta launder it, Smythe. Not that it's my business. Hell, I give you money and you're on your own. What the fuck do I care what you do with it? But I like you, Smythe. I just figured that I'd give you some free advice.'

‘And I … well, I appreciate that, Dom.'

‘I got another question. You intend to hang around Toronto once this thing goes down?'

‘No, I—'

‘But you got a wife, a nice lady, loves opera, does a good job with the COC. She know what you're doing?'

‘Oh, no, of course not. The truth is that once I have the money I plan to leave, go someplace far away. You see, Dom, our marriage isn't a happy one. Cynthia is a—'

‘You've got problems with her?'

‘Yes, I suppose that you could say that.'

‘She'll make trouble for you once you split?'

‘Oh, yes, I mean she will … make trouble for me. But I'll be far away and—'

Martone reached across the table and placed his hand on Smythe's arm. ‘I gotta admit something to you, Smythe. At first I had my … well, what you'd call my reservations. I mean, you come off like a nice guy and all but I thought you might be a little … a little whack-a-ding-hoy.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Nuts. It's a Chinaman's expression. Not all there. Anyway, I've got a different view of you now. I like you, Smythe, almost like you were family.'

‘That's really nice, Dom. Thank you.'

‘And because I like you like family I can take care of your wife if you want.'

‘Take care of her?'