Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (11 page)

Martone winked. ‘Look, pal, sometimes things have to be done because things have to be done.
Capisce?
'

‘Are you suggesting that—?'

Martone raised his hand as though to signal that Smythe should stop talking. ‘All I'm saying is that since you won't be hanging around to let your family enjoy the money – and you know how much I believe in family – that your wife might be in a position to make it tough on you, maybe even testify against you. That wouldn't be good for you Smythe – or for me.'

‘I can't believe I'm hearing this.'

‘Get off your high horse, Smythe. Just think about what I said. I know some people who take care of this sort ‘a thing, and it don't cost much, ten, fifteen Gs tops.'

Smythe worked hard to calm his frazzled nerves. When he felt that he had, he said, ‘I was going to ask you, Dom, to make sure that no one is ever hurt in our joint endeavor, no one
physically
hurt that is. If I thought that that was even a possibility I—'

Martone stared at Smythe.

‘No offense,' Smythe quickly added, ‘but it is important to me that the only damage done is monetary.'

Martone's face softened into what passed for an understanding grin, which calmed Smythe. The Mafia chieftain stood, came around the table, and placed his hands on Smythe's bony shoulders. His fingers dug into them, and Smythe winced against the pain. Martone leaned over and said into his ear, ‘You got to stop worrying, Smythe. Tell you what. You tell me where to deliver the money tomorrow. I deliver it and you give me the time and date. How's that sound?'

‘That sounds fine, Dom.'

Martone released his grip and went to the door. ‘Where do you want the loot delivered?'

Smythe gave him the address of his rented office.

‘Two o'clock,' Martone said. ‘I won't personally be there. My associates will deliver it. Anybody asks, you say it's books in the package. When my associates deliver the money, you give them a sealed envelope that has the date and time inside. We understand each other?'

‘Oh, yes, we do,' Smythe said, standing. ‘It sounds like a good plan.'

‘One other thing. I already started contacting business associates of mine about buying in. One of them – he's a big man in Philadelphia – wants to personally meet my partner. Same with a business associate in Baltimore. I told them no problem. We can do it in one day, day after tomorrow.' He laughed. ‘This time it's me who gives the time and place. Keep the date open. I'll be in touch. Oh, by the way, pal, COC is having another fundraiser tomorrow night. Maybe you'd like to drop by and donate a few grand. Be sure to get a receipt. It's tax-deductable.'

Smythe stopped by his rented office on the way home. Gina had sent an email in which she gave him the name and contact information of her ‘banker friend'. She assured Smythe that her friend had many contacts, and could be trusted to deposit any monies sent to him for their joint account. Smythe emailed back, thanked her, and signed off with a string of endearing phrases.

As he got in the car and headed home he thought about his meeting with Martone. The Mafioso's suggestion that Cynthia be hurt in some way was worse than unsettling, but he was confident that he'd made his point about no one being physically injured. He then thought about tomorrow when a million dollars plus would be delivered to him. That thought spawned giggles, and he had to fight to maintain control of the car.

Dominick Martone was also giddy as he sat in the rear seat of the Town Car driven by Hugo and his second ‘associate'. He'd already more than covered his investment with Smythe through pledges from compatriots in Buffalo, Boston, and Detroit. In fact, he was already into a profit – almost two million above what he would pay Smythe. And with many more cities to pitch, including Baltimore and Philadelphia where he would travel with Smythe in two days, that profit would grow.

Of course, it all depended upon Smythe coming through with the blackout as promised.

If he didn't … 

C
larence Miller III sat in his white panel truck with ‘Miller – Electrical Contractor' written in large red letters on the sides. He had two such trucks to use when on a case. The other was painted black and its white sign read ‘Miller – The Happy Exterminator.' A nondescript black sedan was parked next to the truck. An employee at Miller Discreet Investigations had left it there to give Clarence a choice of vehicles to use should he choose to continue following his subject, Carlton Smythe.

Clarence had inherited the private investigation agency six years ago from his father, who'd died with his boots on so to speak. The elder Miller had been wearing the sort of chest waders used by trout fishermen while conducting surveillance on a contractor suspected of polluting a river. He'd suffered a mild heart attack, which wouldn't have been fatal had he been able to seek medical assistance. But the sudden pain in his chest and left arm caused him to lose his footing and to fall into the stream. The waders soon filled up and, as the death certificate read, he'd died of drowning.

Clarence's older brother had wanted nothing to do with the agency – he considered himself a poet and novelist and had fled to Hawaii – leaving the agency, which was quite successful, to the younger Clarence.

He was parked in the parking lot in front of the building in which Carlton Smythe had rented a temporary office. It was one in the afternoon. He'd seen Smythe enter the building a few minutes earlier. Now, he would wait until his subject reappeared and would follow him to wherever he went next. He didn't mind the long waits while conducting surveillance. Other private detectives he knew hated that aspect of the job, but Clarence considered long stakeouts to be time for reflection, to keep up with his reports, and to play Angry Birds on his iPad.

On this day he wrote in the log he'd started when taking on the Smythe case. He'd promised Mrs Carlton Smythe and her mother that his reports to them would be detailed and frequent, and Clarence Miller always kept his word.

He'd commenced shadowing Smythe late afternoon on the previous day. His notes from that day, with times and dates accurately recorded, as well as weather conditions, read:

Entered office rental building at 2:27pm (obviously rents space there, will check) – exited building at 5:11pm – got in car. I followed. Subject drove to shopping center near Power-Con electric utility – parked in front of Panda Gardens, Chinese restaurant – waited 15 minutes before a large man with greasy hair and beard stubble came from restaurant and got in subject's car. Subject drove for 15 minutes before turning into parking lot in front of a strip club, Bubs. Subject and unidentified male (check identity) entered club, came from club 29 minutes later – took telephoto of both men while standing outside subject's car – seemed upset – left parking lot and went to a rundown 3-story apartment building in French section – went inside – checked names in lobby. Observed them through window on 3rd floor – only name with apartment on 3rd floor is Paul Saison – subject exited at 8:20pm – drove to Martone's pizza restaurant on St Clair in Italian section – exited 24 minutes later – drove to office rental building – was inside 17 minutes. Subject left and drove home – weather partly cloudy with occasional breaks of sun.

At a few minutes before two o'clock a black Town Car pulled into a space three removed from Clarence's panel truck. He watched out of the corner of his eye as a big man with a shaved head, and a smaller slender man with a prominent nose got out, opened the trunk, and the big man removed an obviously heavy cardboard box wrapped in tape.

Hugo and his Mafia colleague carried the box into the lobby where Smythe waited.

‘This is for Mr Smith,' Hugo told the receptionist. ‘Books.'

‘It's Smythe,' Carlton said as he came to the desk. ‘Like in
Blithe Spirit
.'

Hugo gave him an angry look.

‘Oh, this is for you,' Smythe said, handing Hugo the envelope in which he'd written the date and time of the blackout.

Smythe carried the box back to his office, shut and locked the door, and used scissors to cut away the tape. His heart pounded and he began to sweat as he pulled back the box's flaps and peered inside. Beneath a layer of newspaper was the money, neatly bound packages of hundred dollar bills.

Smythe wondered whether he was about to have a coronary. He gasped for air, and placed his hands over his face. When the initial shock had subsided, he closed the box and shoved it beneath the desk, covering it with file folders. His pipe dream, his what-if? had worked. No, he realized, it was
working
, but he still had a long way to go to bring it to a happy conclusion.

His conversation with Martone the previous night had been sobering. Although he'd known from the outset that getting the money to Argentina would be a challenge, and a big one at that, he'd pushed aside that concern – until now.

What do I do with a million, two hundred thousand dollars in cash?

He spent the next hour formulating a plan. Obviously having all that cash sitting in his rented office was a risk, but what choice did he have? He decided on a course of action, which included taking a portion of the money with him to his pool house office at the rear of his home. In addition, he would have to assume the risk of sending various amounts of it to Gina and her banker friend, using Federal Express and UPS. He went online and got the names of other international shipping companies, including DHL and NEX Worldwide Express. They wouldn't question what was in the boxes he would use, would they? And if they did, he would say that the boxes contained books. There was no way that he could carry that much cash aboard an aircraft, although his previous experience with transporting thirty thousand dollars in his suitcase and on his person had gone smoothly. After much soul searching, and conjuring approaches, he resolved to do whatever he could and hope that it worked.

As Smythe formulated plans to get the money to Argentina, Clarence Miller continued his vigilance in the parking lot. He'd gotten a photograph of Hugo and his buddy as they came from the building, and had noted the car's plate number. He was in the process of making notes when a text message came through on his iPad. It was from a private investigator in Buenos Aires, Popi Domingo, with whom Miller had forged an alliance. Miller's deceased father had established relationships with other investigators around the globe, which his son made good use of. Because Cynthia Smythe had told Miller of her husband's frequent trips to Buenos Aires, he'd contacted his Argentinean cohort and asked him to be on tap should his client's husband make another trip there.

Consider it done
, the message read.

Inside the building, Smythe dragged the box from beneath the desk, opened it, and began laying out packages of hundred dollar bills in neat piles, and placed small pink Post-its on which he'd written on each. One pile would come home with him and be hidden in the pool house. Other piles were designated for Federal Express, UPS, DHL, and NEX Worldwide Express. He carefully measured each pile to determine how large the boxes must be that he would pick up from the various shipping companies. The final pile would be kept in his rented office until it was time to leave the country. Cash in that pile would travel with him along with what he sequestered at home.

Satisfied, he returned the cash to the box and slid it beneath the desk, trusting that it would be safe for a few days.

He was unaware that he was being followed by Clarence Miller as he drove home. The investigator waited an hour outside the Smythe home until he was relieved by another investigator from the agency, a former Canadian Air Force officer named Janet Kudrow, who would remain there for the rest of the night in the event Smythe left the house.

But Smythe had no intention of leaving that evening. He and Cynthia had dinner together, and settled in after the meal to watch a movie on TV. He'd told her that he'd be gone the next day, a short business trip.

‘Argentina again?' she'd said, not unpleasantly.

‘No, ah, Philadelphia. Another potential client.'

‘That's good,' she'd said.

‘Be back tomorrow night,' he said.

‘That's the sort of trip I like to see you take, Carlton, less stressful. Remember, you're not getting any younger.'

The film,
Topkapi
, a classic caper movie, came on the screen and Carlton and Cynthia Smythe spent the next two hours silently enjoying it.

No movie was playing in the apartment that Paul Saison shared with his live-in paramour, Angelique. She'd returned from her visit to her sister in Montreal exhausted after the three hundred mile drive, and in a combative mood. She expected Saison to be in his usual testy mood, but was surprised to be confronted by an upbeat, almost gregarious version of the large Frenchman. She immediately noted that he'd showered and shaved, and wore a fresh shirt and pants. He hugged her and said, ‘I am so happy that you are home,
ma chérie
. Come sit, I make you a drink.'

‘You're drunk,' she said.

He laughed. ‘A little, but I am a happy drunk, huh?'

‘You're always drunk,' she said.

He did what passed for a pirouette and said, ‘Drunk with love
ma chérie
, drunk with good fortune.'

‘What good fortune?' she asked as she sat at the kitchen table, skepticism on her pretty round face, and watched as he poured vodka into a tall water glass, added ice, and presented it to her.

He raised the glass he'd been drinking from and said, ‘Money, Angelique,
beaucoup
de money.'

‘What did you do, you buffoon, rob a bank while I was away?'

He sat next to her and tickled beneath her chin with his index finger. ‘Oh,' he said, ‘you always think the bad things about me, always think that Saison doesn't know what he is doing, huh?'