Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (15 page)

‘Why do you want to meet Guillermo?' Gina asked as they sat naked in bed following their lovemaking.

‘Oh, no special reason,' Smythe said. ‘But if he's going to be handling our money, I think I should at least get to know him. Guillermo. That's his name?'

‘Yes. Guillermo Guzman.'

‘Guillermo Guzman,' Smythe repeated. ‘Yes, I would like to meet him.'

‘You will one day.'

‘I'd like to meet him now – while I'm here,' he said, surprised that he'd stated his demand so forcefully. ‘Maybe we can have dinner together. I have to leave tomorrow. I was hoping that you'd found a house to rent for when I'm here permanently.'

‘I have been so busy,' she said, ‘but I promise I will begin looking tomorrow.'

She got out of bed and walked naked to the closet, pulled out one of the hotel's robes, slipped it on, and went to the living room where she made a call. Smythe stood in the doorway and listened as she spoke with the banker in rapid-fire Spanish; he understood only a word or two. She hung up and said, ‘He will meet us for dinner tonight at
Casa Coupage
. It is a very fine restaurant in the Palermo district.'

‘That sounds good,' Smythe said. He came up behind and wrapped his arms around her, but she moved away and disappeared into the bathroom. He pondered why she'd seemed reluctant to call the banker, but soon forgot about it after they'd made love again and dozed off, her head on his bare chest, one leg splayed across his torso.

Later, they took a taxi to Solero Street in the Palermo district of the city. Following them were two other cars. Clarence Miller III's man in Buenos Aires, Popi Domingo, occupied one, the DEA agent Luis Cortez the other.

Casa Coupage
was what's known in Argentina as a ‘closed door' restaurant, patterned after the
paladares
in Havana, family-owned restaurants located within private homes. The stone marble building, set in a block of equally expensive homes, didn't have a sign on the door. Smythe knocked and the heavy wooden door was opened by a uniformed waiter

‘Señor Guzman has a reservation,' Gina said in Spanish.

‘
Si, si
,' the waiter said. ‘Please come in.'

He led them to a lovely patio garden flanked by two small dining rooms.

‘Señor Guzman has not arrived yet,' they were told. Another waiter appeared with two glasses of Champagne. ‘While you wait,' he said.

‘Beautiful place,' Smythe said to Gina.

‘Yes, very lovely.'

‘You've been here before?'

‘A few times.'

‘With Mr Guzman?'

‘Yes. It is one of his favorite restaurants in all of Buenos Aires.'

‘You've talked to him about the money you will be getting from me?'

‘Yes. You do not have to worry. He is a good man.'

The good man arrived a few minutes later. Smythe had the same visceral reaction as he always had with Dominick Martone: envy. Guillermo Guzman was movie-star handsome. His swarthy features, dark brown eyes – bedroom eyes as they used to be called – were large and had a dreamy quality to them. He was six feet tall and had a full head of black hair tinged with gray at the temples. He wore a white linen sport coat, teal silk shirt open at the collar revealing a tuft of black chest hair, three thin strands of gold around his neck, multiple rings, and a gold earring in his ear. Smythe had never seen teeth quite that white. Faces of famous Latin-American movie stars came and went – Ricardo Montalban, Andy Garcia, Ricky Martin, Antonio Banderas.

‘Ah,' Guzman said, ‘I finally get to meet the famous Mr Carlton Smythe.'

‘My pleasure,' said Smythe, whose bony hand was lost in Guzman's larger one.

‘Gina talks about you constantly,' Guzman said. ‘You have made quite an impression on her.'

‘And she on me,' said Smythe.

Guzman was brought his glass of Champagne. He toasted, ‘To my new Canadian friend – and to the beautiful Gina.'

As they went to one of the dining rooms, Smythe noted that there were only four tables. Three were occupied. Lovely original oil paintings dominated the walls. The table was elaborately set with the finest napery and utensils. As he sat, he also noticed that built into the table was a light source.

‘To read the menu better?' he asked.

‘No, to better see the color of the red wine when it is served,' Guzman explained. ‘Some stupid tourists come here and keep flicking the lights on and off.'

‘I promise I won't do that,' Smythe said.

Guzman laughed heartily. ‘I am certain that any man Gina falls in love with would never be guilty of that.'

Smythe laughed along with him, pleased to hear those words.

Guzman offered suggestions from the menu: ‘I recommend the calamari to start, then trout which they serve with apples and sauce –
magnifique! –
then the sirloin steak with a wonderful thick cheddar sauce, the white salmon, or the veal. I am sure that you will find any of those choices to be to your liking.'

It was salmon for Gina, veal for Smythe, steak for Guzman, accompanied by a bottle of Argentinean pinot noir, which soon became three bottles.

During dinner, Smythe asked Guzman what was meant by a ‘private bank'?

‘A good question,' Guzman said. ‘Let me just say that in Argentina the government has imposed many foolish rules that keep banks from making their profits, heavy-handed regulations that stifle growth. Private banks are … they are the refuge of the wealthy who look to preserve their wealth.'

‘Are you a financial advisor?' Smythe asked.

‘Oh, yes. Many of the wealthiest men in Buenos Aires put their trust in me to manage their finances. I am honored that they hold me in such high regard.'

Smythe had other questions but didn't get to ask them as the conversation turned to less weighty subjects.

At the end of dinner Guzman didn't make a move to pay the bill, three hundred dollars in US currency, and Smythe did. Before they left, Guzman insisted that they cap off the night at a
milonga
, a tango party.

‘I'm really tired after the plane ride,' Smythe said.

‘And the
milonga
will awaken your body and spirit,' Guzman said. ‘A visit to Argentina must always include the tango.'

They exited the restaurant and climbed into Guzman's silver Mercedes sedan. The DEA's Cortez, who was parked on the same side of the street, started his engine and fell in behind.

The Miller Agency's Buenos Aires investigator, Domingo, had to make a U-turn from his parking space on the opposite side of the street, and almost lost Guzman's Mercedes as it sped to the tango club.

The club was hopping when they arrived, the dance floor chock-a-block with dancers as Smythe, Gina and Guzman were given a table at the edge of the floor. Guzman ordered a bottle of wine. A four-piece tango band – violin, piano, bass and bandoneón – provided the pulsating, sensuous music for the many couples strutting their stuff beneath multi-colored lights.

Gina, who'd been strangely reticent during dinner, seemed energized by the scene and asked Smythe to dance.

‘Oh, no,' he said. ‘I'm afraid I'm not up to it tonight, dear.'

‘Will I do as a partner?' Guzman asked her.

‘Do you mind?' she asked Smythe.

‘No, no, go ahead,' he said, stifling a yawn. The trip, the wine, the heavy meal and his mental gyrations had exhausted him. All he wanted to do was climb into bed next to her and sleep.

He fought his fatigue and watched Guzman and Gina engage on the dance floor. Guzman had explained the tango during dinner: ‘It is all about the relationship between the man and the woman, a total giving of one's self to the other, an invitation to seduction.' His explanation was now being demonstrated in front of Smythe, and he wasn't pleased with the display. Guzman and Gina were wrapped around each other, dipping, gazing deeply into each other's eyes, bodies pressed together, their sweat mingling, hot breath on their necks and cheeks. Smythe squirmed with discomfort and realized how angry he'd become over the course of the evening.

‘She is the perfect tango partner,' Guzman said when they returned to the table.

‘Yes, I know,' Smythe said, wanting to bolt with Gina and escape this stereotypical Latin lover with the dazzling white smile and the virility he exuded. Guzman poured wine, and he and Gina conversed in Spanish while Smythe seethed, and battled to stay awake. An hour later, Guzman paid the tab and they went to his car.

‘You look like a dead man,' Guzman said as he pulled from the curb, with Cortez and Domingo providing a surreptitious two-car parade, with plenty of distance between vehicles. Neither man knew of the other, nor did Guzman realize that he'd been followed all evening. Cortez and Domingo watched from different vantage points near the Four Seasons as Smythe, Gina and Guzman got out of his Mercedes. Guzman embraced her, for too long a time as far as Smythe was concerned. He shook Smythe's hand and said, ‘You are a very lucky man, Mr Smythe, to have captured this beautiful woman's heart. I look forward to when you come here to live, and I assure you that the money you bring with you will be in capable hands – mine.
Buenas noches
.'

The Miller Agency's Buenos Aires investigator, Popi Domingo, hadn't recognized Guzman, and didn't think anything of Smythe spending an evening with him.

But DEA Agent Cortez had. Guillermo Guzman was known in Buenos Aires as a possible money launderer for Argentinean drug cartels.

‘Very interesting,' Cortez muttered as he made notes before driving away and calling it a night.

N
ew York crime boss Vinnie Tourino sat with Angelo, his capo, in the black BMW on the outskirts of JFK Airport, in Queens. Parked behind was a second black car containing four of Vinnie's trusted men.

‘So tell me again about this guy, Angelo.'

‘What can I tell you, Vinnie? He wants in on the action, wants to buy into the deal. Hell, you're already out a mil so maybe it makes sense to copper your bet.'

‘Coppa?'

‘Copper your bet. It's an expression. Sure, we'll probably get more than the mil back, depending on how many places we can hit once the electricity is turned off. But this guy Tengku is willing to put up a half mil for Queens. What's to lose?' Angelo giggled, which always annoyed Vinnie. ‘I think we take the deal the guy is offering. Like I said, what's to lose?'

‘I don't trust people like that,' Vinnie said.

‘People like
what,
Vinnie?'

‘Like this guy – what's his name?'

‘Tengku. It's a weird name but—'

‘It sure the fuck
is
weird,' Vinnie said. ‘Like I said, I don't trust people like this. What's he got, only one name?'

Angelo shrugged.

‘It's his first name?'

‘How the fuck do I know?'

‘Where you say he's from?'

‘Malaysia.'

‘Where's that?'

‘In Asia. It's like a Chinese island.'

‘Chinese? I don't trust the Chinese. Every fucking thing we buy gets made in China.'

‘Yeah, I know, Vinnie. They're eating our lunch.'

‘What?'

‘That's like a figure of speech. It don't matter if you trust them, Vinnie. It's cash upfront, on the barrelhead.'

‘On the
what
?'

‘On the barrelhead. It's an expression.'

‘Oh. So he wants Queens for a half mil?'

‘Right. I told him to bring the money with him, no second chances. He buys in now or he's out.'

They turned upon hearing a car. As it pulled up next to the BMW, Vinnie's men got out and fanned around it. The doors on the newly arrived vehicle opened and two men stepped out. One was dressed like a businessman, suit, tie, shoes polished to a high gloss. The second man wore wrinkled chino pants and a red windbreaker over a T-shirt.

Vinnie and Angelo also got out. Vinnie stared at the well-dressed man as though looking at a newly arrived alien from another planet.

‘Mr Tourino?' the man in the suit said.

‘Yeah. You're?'

‘My name is Tengku. It is a pleasure meeting you.' He spoke with a British accent.

‘Yeah, me too. You know Angelo?'

‘Of course I do, sir. He is the reason we meet here today.'

‘Yeah, well, let's talk.'

‘Right,' said Angelo. ‘Let's get down to brass tacks.'

Vinnie scowled at his capo, who shrugged.

‘You are obviously a man of action,' Tengku said. ‘I like that. As I am sure Angelo has explained to you, I am aware of a certain business arrangement you have entered into involving the supply of electricity.'

‘That's right,' Vinnie said. ‘And you want to buy in.'

‘Exactly, sir.'

‘You have the dough with you? A half a million?'

‘Oh yes, sir, I do indeed. Do we have an understanding?'

Tourino looked at Angelo, who nodded.

‘I assume, sir, that once I turn over the money I will be given the precise date and time that the cessation of electricity will occur?'

Vinnie said, ‘That's right. I got it right here.' He patted his jacket's breast pocket. His million dollars had been sent by messenger to Martone in Toronto the previous night, and Martone had provided Tourino with the blackout information.

Tengku clicked his fingers at his companion, who opened the trunk of their car, brought out a bulging leather suitcase, and handed it to his boss.

‘I assure you, sir, that all the money is there. Of course you are free to count it if you wish.'

‘Out here, in the wind?' Vinnie said. ‘Angelo vouches for you, that's good enough for me.'

‘I am pleased to hear that, sir. Now, may I have the pertinent information?'

‘Yeah, right.'