Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (7 page)

Smythe nodded and widened his smile. ‘No chicken, no pizza, Dom,' he said. ‘This is a brand-new franchise idea that'll make you millions.'

Martone shrugged and sat back, flipped a hand in the air. ‘Go ahead, pal, tell me about this million-dollar franchise idea of yours. But make it short, OK? Get to the point. I'm hungry.'

Smythe drew a breath and said, ‘It's simple, Dom. I can offer you a date, time and place.'

‘Yeah? That doesn't sound too exciting, Smythe.'

‘Oh, but it can be … Dom.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘A date, time and place: when the entire eastern seaboard will be without electricity – everything black up and down the coast and here in Canada. Precise. You can set your watch by it. Simple and clean, the way I'm sure you prefer your business deals.'

Smythe sensed that Martone was beginning to lose patience and decided to be more direct. ‘OK,' he said, ‘let me lay it out for you in simple terms. I tell you when all power will go off up and down the east coast and here in Canada. You can use that knowledge any way you wish – here in Toronto. I'll be selling that same information to others like you.' He paused to see whether Martone took offense at being lumped in with others. He didn't seem to be, so he continued. ‘That's why I call it a franchise. Everybody who pays me for the information receives his own exclusive franchise for a particular part of the affected area. What they do with the information is their business. The same goes for you.'

It started as a low rumble before turning into a full-fledged belly laugh, which annoyed Smythe. He felt as though he was being laughed at, dismissed as someone who'd arrived with a bad joke. Martone sensed his reaction. He held up his hand as he brought his laughter under control. ‘Hey, no offense, pal, but what you're telling me is … well, it's different, huh? I mean, I've been in business a long time but I never heard of anything like this.'

As suddenly as the laugh had erupted, it vanished, replaced by a hard stare from the Mafioso. He pointed his index finger at Smythe and said, ‘What you're telling me sounds like it's not legit, you know, dishonest, not kosher. I'm a legitimate businessman, Smythe, always above board, no games. How do you expect me to react to this – what's the term the Jews use, cockamamie? – this cockamamie scheme you've come up with.'

‘I shouldn't have wasted your time,' Smythe said, picking up his briefcase from the floor and standing.

‘Hey, hey, hey, calm down, my friend. Like I said, no offense. Sit down. We'll eat a good meal and maybe it'll help me digest this thing you're talking about. We digest a good meal and then I digest this franchise thing.'

It occurred to Smythe that it would be wise to make amends with Martone, or at least to not upset him. He wielded considerable power with the opera company. To alienate him wouldn't be fair to Cynthia – or taken lightly by her.

‘Sure, Dom,' Smythe said, glancing at Martone's two bodyguards who seemed disinterested in what was going on at their boss's table. He resumed his seat and flashed a smile at Martone. ‘I know that what I'm offering sounds a little farfetched, Dom, but not only will it work, it'll generate millions for anybody who signs on.'

Martone ignored the comment, called for Paulie, and ordered for both. ‘We'll have the veal parm,' he said. ‘The veal nice and thin, and tender.'

‘Oh, yeah, Mr Martone.'

‘Ziti on the side, red sauce, and salads, house dressing.' To Smythe: ‘Another bottle of red?'

‘No, thanks, I think not.'

‘Good for you. Keep the mind sharp. So, let's talk opera.'

An hour later they shook hands as Smythe prepared to leave.

‘Thanks for your time and for hearing me out,' Smythe said.

‘Hey, I'm always interested in new ideas. You just pitched it to the wrong guy.' He leaned close to Smythe's ear. ‘I'm gonna forget that you thought I might be interested in something illegal, Smythe. It stays right here in this room, huh?'

‘Of course.' Smythe opened his briefcase and took out a file folder containing copies of the charts he'd created that spelled out the potential return on an investment in his franchise. He handed it to Martone. ‘I'll leave this with you, Dom. I know you're not interested in what I'm offering but maybe you'll find the numbers interesting.'

‘Yeah, sure. Thanks. See you at the next production.'

Smythe was happy to be gone from the room and from under Martone's looming presence. At the same time he left with a strange, undefined sense that it hadn't been a wasted lunch. For some reason he thought that despite the Toronto crime boss's initial displeasure with the project, he hadn't totally dismissed it.

He was right.

Martone called the following afternoon.

‘S
mythe, Dom Martone here. Tomorrow morning, eleven sharp. Take the ferry over to the islands. We meet at the Franklin Children's Garden, Pine Grove, by the Franklin-the-Turtle sculpture. Got it?'

‘By the—?'

‘Eleven sharp. Dress casual.
Ciao!
'

Smythe hastily scribbled on a pad what he remembered of Martone's instructions.
Meet at the Children's Garden? Dress casual?
Was the Mafioso joking? Couldn't be. One thing was certain. Martone hadn't set up the meeting to dismiss Smythe's franchise idea. He was obviously interested.

But despite this positive sign Smythe was gripped with conflicting emotions.

Martone's parting comment after lunch the previous day – ‘I'm gonna forget that you thought I might be interested in something illegal' – stayed with him. He'd basically accused the Mafioso of being just that, a thug, someone who dealt in illegalities, and wondered whether Martone would want him dead once the deal was finalized, put a hit on him in gangster parlance, send him to sleep with the fishes.

But if that was Martone's intention it wasn't about to happen that day. The Mafioso wouldn't plan an execution in the middle of a kids' playground. He would have suggested a night meeting at some abandoned warehouse along the waterfront.

Eleven in the morning? The Children's Garden? Lots of dirty little ones racing around while their mothers looked on adoringly? Then Smythe had a revelation and smiled at the conclusion to which he'd come. This Dominick Martone was one clever guy. Who would ever guess that he was meeting in a children's playground to discuss a major criminal undertaking?
Don't underestimate him
, Smythe reminded himself.
Don't get cocky. Keep your cool and stand your ground.

Content that he hadn't been summoned to his own murder, Smythe left the office and swung by their travel agent's office to pick up his airline ticket for the next trip to Buenos Aires. He was scheduled to leave in three days, which put on the pressure. He not only had to suffer three days of Cynthia's complaints about his being away again, he felt the need to close the deal, to be able to tell Gina that he would soon be worth millions and free to spend the rest of his life with her.

It was a lovely sunny day in Toronto the following morning, the sky blue, the temperature moderate. Smythe hadn't slept well and was up far in advance of his alarm's buzz. Cynthia was still in bed when he left the house. He drove to a municipal parking garage near the ferry terminal on Queen's Quay, between Bay and Yonge Streets. He'd heeded Martone's order to dress casually. He chose tan slacks, a blue button-down shirt, a lightweight yellow V-neck sweater and coffee loafers sans socks. He'd had the feeling during lunch with Martone that the Mafioso disapproved of the length of his hair and had considered getting a haircut, but ran out of time.

He boarded the next departing boat and arrived on Toronto Islands more than an hour early for the meeting. He passed the time at the lakeside until his watch said ten fifty-five. It took only a few minutes to walk to the Children's Garden where he saw Martone standing next to the Franklin-the-Turtle sculpture, based upon the Paulette Bourgeois children's book of the same name. Martone had abandoned his suit for a pair of jeans, a white cable-knit sweater draped over his shoulders preppy-style, a pink shirt, and sneakers. He looked out of place in the playground, but Smythe reasoned that if you didn't know what Martone did for a living you wouldn't come to that conclusion. Hugo sat on a bench and glared.

The Mafioso waved to Smythe to join him. Martone nudged Smythe in the arm with his elbow and pointed to a boy of about six or seven who ran in circles around a bear sculpture. A young woman, whom Smythe assumed was the nanny, stood near him.

‘He's a real pistol, huh?' Martone said.

‘Who? That kid?'

‘My grandson, Dominick. Named after me.'

Had Martone invited him there to admire his grandson? He answered his own question. Having his grandson with him gave cover.

‘He's cute,' Smythe said.

‘Full of piss-and-vinegar like his grandfather. Let's take a walk.'

‘You can leave him alone?'

‘He's got the nanny with him. Come on. We've got things to discuss.'

They found a bench a hundred yards from where the child played. ‘Like I told you at lunch, Smythe, I needed to digest this thing you're talking about.'

Smythe drew a breath and waited.

‘So I did. Digest it. Gave me heartburn.' He laughed. ‘A couple of Tums took care of it. So, I digested it and made a decision.'

Smythe maintained his silence.

‘The way I figure it,' Martone said, ‘this scheme of yours is no different than insider trading on the stock market, like knowing when a company's about to buy another because you're an insider and you tell your friends about it and they buy the stock of the company being taken over. I mean, all I'm getting from you is a date and time, which I pass on to somebody else. Am I correct?'

‘I hadn't thought of it in those terms, Dom, but you make sense. Of course in this case I
sell
that information to someone else.'

‘So I'm maybe interested in going in on it. You want a partner, right?'

‘Ah … yes, I suppose that's what I'm looking for. A few partners.'

‘I've had a lot of partners, Smythe. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't. You come off to me like a straight-shooter. Am I wrong?'

‘If you mean can I be trusted, the answer is no, you're not wrong.'

‘Good, good. But I've got a problem with this.'

‘Oh?'

‘See, you tell me that you'll take me in as a partner for Toronto, but that you'll look for other partners in other places.'

Smythe nodded.

‘The problem, Smythe, is that you don't know the sort of businessmen who might be interested in getting involved.'

He was right. Smythe had launched his plan with someone he already knew through Cynthia's involvement with the opera company. He had no idea who he might approach next in different cities, and had realized from the beginning that this represented a potential flaw, a big one. What Martone said next was music to his ears.

‘Here's what I'm suggesting, Smythe. I know lots of people who might want to buy what you call a franchise. They're friends of mine. You might say we're in the same business.'

He didn't have to spell it out. He was talking about other Mafia bosses.

‘The way I see it, Smythe, you need me for more than just Toronto. You need me as a full partner, somebody who can reach the right people with the right kind of money to invest. You follow?'

‘I follow, Dom.'

‘The question is, how do we put together this partnership of ours? What do you want out of it? Fifty-fifty?'

Smythe hadn't prepared for this sort of conversation. He'd made numerous projections on his computer about how much the scheme might generate, but it was all predicated on identifying and selling a dozen or more franchises to mob leaders in other cities. Martone was right. Making contact and selling the idea to other Mafioso was daunting at best.

How much did Smythe want?

He pulled numbers out of a hat.

‘A million for the information, Dom.' He added as an afterthought, ‘And a piece of the action over a million.'

‘A million from me,' Martone said. ‘You want a million just to sell me the info?'

‘If that's too steep I can—'

Martone patted his arm, like a father comforting a son who's gotten involved with the wrong girl. ‘Here's the deal, Smythe. I give it to you once, just once. You take it or we never discuss it again.
Capisce?
'

‘Yes.'

‘We become partners,' Martone said. ‘I pay you a million bucks, half upfront, half after the deal is done. I sell the franchises to my friends and keep the first two million. After that we split, seventy-thirty, seventy to me, thirty per cent to you. How's that sound?'

‘It sounds good, Dom, but I need expense money, too.'

‘Whoa, what are you saying? What expenses?'

‘It'll cost me money to pull this off, to create the blackout.'

‘You can't cover it out of the million?'

‘I could,' Smythe said, hoping he hadn't made a tactical error by asking for more, ‘but I need to clear a million dollars. I need another two hundred and fifty thousand on top of the million.' Martone's facial expression didn't indicate that he was about to balk, so Smythe decided to go for broke. ‘How about this?' he said. ‘I need money in advance for another business deal I'm pursuing. Give me a million, two hundred and fifty thousand and you can keep all the proceeds after that.'

Did I blow the deal?
he wondered.

‘You strike a harder bargain than you look, Smythe. OK. You've got a deal.'

Martone extended his hand. Smythe took it. ‘To me, Smythe, a handshake is as good as any legal paper any lawyer could draw up.' He looked at Smythe with cold, coal-black eyes. ‘Now,' he said, ‘give me the info.'