Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (26 page)

His only foray from the cottage was to meet with Argentinean authorities about the money they'd confiscated from Guillermo Guzman, the ‘private banker' who'd once been Gina's lover and to whom Smythe had sent the bulk of the cash he'd been paid by Dominick Martone. There was talk of charging Smythe with money laundering, but it was ultimately decided that it wasn't worth the expense or the time to put him through the legal wringer. As one of the detectives commented during these discussions, ‘Let the
ignorante
go. He's pathetic.' The decision was helped along by Mrs Wiggins' pledge of ten thousand dollars for an Argentinean poor children's aid program, the check made out personally to the lead detective. Business as usual.

With two steamer trunks loaded with the clothing the women had purchased in Buenos Aires' most expensive shops, the trio flew back to Toronto. Smythe, of course, was questioned by the Canadian authorities about his possible involvement in the blackout that had inconvenienced millions of people up and down the eastern coast of the United States and Canada. The family attorney coached him on how to answer their questions, and he denied any wrongdoing, pointing to Paul Saison as a demented man whose accusations prior to his
timely
death were the babblings of a madman.

‘What about the money in the box in your pool house?' Smythe was asked.

‘I have no idea where that came from,' he replied. ‘Saison must have stashed it there in anticipation of causing the blackout. Where he got it is beyond me.'

Smythe never did know where the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars he'd left for Saison ended up. The authorities said they would keep it as evidence. Evidence of what? It didn't matter. What was important to Smythe was that he was off the hook. With no concrete evidence on which to base a case – and because the Argentinean authorities declined to become involved – the matter was dropped, to everyone's profound relief. The Wiggins family heritage and reputation had been spared.

Smythe was surprised that he was able to lie with such aplomb. If nothing else his adventure had instilled in him a cunning that had not existed prior to his journey.

Two weeks after their return, the Canadian Opera Company premiered Mozart's opera
Cosi Fan Tutte
, whose translation is ‘Thus do all women', or as some phrase it, ‘Women are like that'. Smythe tried to weasel out of going, but Cynthia insisted. Although neither she nor her mother had brought up Smythe's ill-fated, harebrained scheme since returning from Buenos Aires, the unstated rule in the household was clear: from now on you do what you're told – or else! Smythe had read Jean Paul Sartre's
No Exit
in which Sartre observed that Hell was spending the rest of your life with people you hated. The man knew what he was talking about.

Smythe had had no communication with Dominick Martone, and hoped that he never would. And so he accompanied Cynthia to opening night with grave trepidation, dreading that the Mafia boss would be there. His worst fears were realized when, as he walked into the vast lobby with Cynthia on one arm and Mrs Wiggins on the other, he saw Martone and his wife Maria chatting with other opera-goers. He looked for Hugo and his ferret-faced colleague but they were nowhere to be seen.

‘Excuse me,' Smythe told Cynthia and her mother, ‘I have to use the bathroom.' He was on his way to the restrooms when Martone's voice stopped him. ‘Hey, Smythe.' Martone broke away from the others and headed in Smythe's direction.

Smythe braced himself for the verbal onslaught – and maybe an onslaught of a more physical variety – as Martone closed the gap, smiled, extended his hand and said, ‘Good to see you, pal.'

‘I, ah … yes, it's good to see you, too, Mr Martone. Ah, Dominick. Dom.'

‘How've you been?'

‘OK, I guess. I—'

‘Relax. You look like a deer caught in the headlights. Come on, I want to talk to you.' He grabbed Smythe's elbow and ushered him across the lobby and out the door to the plaza in front of the theater.

‘I just want you to know, Dom, that—'

Martone waved his index finger in Smythe's face. ‘I talk, you listen.
Capisce?
'

Smythe nodded.

‘I got to admit that when this thing of yours didn't go down, I was mad, pretty damn mad. I had some business colleagues who were out to string me up.'

‘I know that and—'

Another finger in Smythe's face. He glanced at Martone's other hand to see if it held a gun and was relieved that it didn't.

‘I'll level with you, Smythe. I thought about killing you.'

Thought about it? Past tense?

‘But then I got to thinking, here I was being taken in by a pretty smooth operator for a million two-fifty. That's not me, Smythe. Nobody puts anything over on Dominick Martone – nobody! So I thought to myself, maybe it's time to take it as a signal, pack it in, get out while I can.' He pulled two cigars from his jacket and handed one to Smythe.

‘I thought you quit smoking?' Smythe said.

‘I did.' He extended a lighter and lit both cigars. ‘I said to Maria, what am I trying to do, live to be a hundred? What am I busting my hump every day for, to make money for other people? Hell, I've got all the money I could ever spend. I'm rich as Croesus. You know him?'

‘Some character from Shakespeare?'

Martone slapped him on the back. ‘He was a king back before even Christ was born. Rich as …' Another slap on the back. ‘Rich as Dominick Martone.' He laughed as he exhaled, sending a cloud of smoke into Smythe's face. ‘So I figured that maybe I'm losing it, you know, not as sharp as I used to be. And in my business, Smythe, that can get a man killed.'

Smythe had relaxed considerably since exiting the theater. He drew on his cigar and sent a perfect smoke ring into the air. Martone seemed content to simply smoke and not say anything else.

‘What about all the people you sold franchises to?' Smythe asked, filling the void.

‘Those buffoons? That's what they are, Smythe, buffoons, without half a brain between them. I paid 'em back, every cent.'

‘That's good to hear,' Smythe said, ‘I know that I cost you a lot of money, Dom.'

‘Yeah, you did, a million two-fifty, but easy come, easy go. That's chump change to me. You know, Smythe, I got to hand it to you. You put one over on this ageing goomba, and you know what?'

‘What?'

‘You taught me a lesson, woke me up, told me it was time to quit, sit back, smell the roses – and the cigars. You like that cigar? Cuban. You can't buy 'em in the States 'cause the Americans think they'll run Castro out ‘a Cuba by not letting Americans buy his cigars. Pretty stupid, huh?'

‘I guess it is, Dom.'

‘So you don't have to worry about me getting revenge on you for what you did to me. You think I'd hurt somebody who's married to a wife like yours? Your wife's a saint, Smythe, one-of-a-kind, and her mother is a winner, too. You're a lucky man.'

Smythe didn't know what to make of Martone's unsolicited praise of Cynthia and her mother, but he wasn't about to probe. What mattered was that he wouldn't be killed and fed to the fishes.

‘Good cigar,' he told Martone. ‘Thanks.'

A bell sounded, informing theater-goers that the performance was about to begin. Martone and Smythe extinguished their cigars and returned to the lobby where Cynthia and her mother were talking with Maria Martone. They took their seats in a special section reserved for board members and prime donors to the opera company. The Martones sat directly in front of Smythe and his wife and mother-in-law. The lights dimmed, the orchestra launched into the overture, and Mozart's
Cosi Fan Tutte
, the semi-tragic comic opera, one of the last Mozart had written, came to life on the stage, the singers' powerful voices filling the large hall and eliciting bursts of applause, and cries of ‘Bravo' following particularly moving arias.

The production received a standing ovation – every production had the audience on its feet, it seemed to Smythe – and he enthusiastically joined them. But as the applause waned, the president of COC's board stepped through the curtains and came to a microphone that had been carried center-stage by a stagehand.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention,' the president said. ‘And will Cynthia Smythe join me here on the stage.'

Smythe looked at his wife, who patted his hand, left her seat, and carried a beaming smile to the stage.

‘What's going on?' Smythe asked Mrs Wiggins.

‘Quiet,' she commanded.

‘We have a very special announcement to make this evening,' said the president, ‘but I think it would be more appropriate for Mrs Smythe to tell you about it.'

Cynthia stepped to the mike, cleared her throat, and said, ‘Would Mr Dominick Martone please join us.'

Martone got up, turned, waved to the crowd, and took his place alongside Cynthia and the president.

Cynthia kissed him on the cheek and said into the microphone, ‘This is a very special occasion we're celebrating tonight. As many of you know, Dominick Martone has been the most generous supporter of the company for many years. Your board-of-directors felt it only fitting that his love of opera, and financial backing of every production, be honored.'

With that, a giant screen was lowered and a picture of an artist's rendering of a large statue of none other than Dominick Martone was projected on it. The audience burst into sustained applause and continued until the president asked for quiet. ‘It is through the generosity of Mr and Mrs Martone, and a sizeable contribution from the Smythe family, that this much-deserved tribute is about to become a reality. In honor of Mr Martone, the plaza will be named Martone Piazza, and this larger-than-life statue will be erected at its center. If all goes to schedule, the unveiling should take place six months from now.'

There was more applause. Tears ran down Martone's cheeks as he embraced Cynthia, extended both hands to the audience, and repeated over and over, ‘
Grazie!
Grazie!'
His wife turned and hugged Mrs Wiggins and Smythe. Martone and Cynthia rejoined them and there were hugs all around. As the Martones and Smythes went up the aisle toward the lobby, Martone whispered in Smythe's ear, ‘See why I let you off the hook, pal? It was your lucky day that you married her. Otherwise …'

A party in the lobby to celebrate the announcement of the Martone statue lasted into the wee hours. Once home, Cynthia insisted that they have a nightcap before going to bed. She was already somewhat tipsy, and giddy with the way the evening had gone. Smythe poured them snifters of Cognac and they settled in the living room. Cynthia raised her glass and said, ‘To opera!'

‘That was quite a surprise,' Smythe said, understating what he was actually thinking.

‘We have another surprise for you,' Cynthia said.

‘Oh?'

‘I have contractors coming tomorrow to give us an estimate on enlarging the pool house into an apartment for mother.'

‘That's … ah … that sounds like a good idea,' he managed.

Gladys Wiggins looked at him over her half-glasses and smiled frostily.

Mrs Wiggins excused herself and went off to bed in the guestroom. Cynthia moved closer to Smythe on the couch and said, ‘I want you to know, Carlton, that I forgive you. I was so angry, but Mother – she's so wise – assured me that you had suffered what many men suffer, a mid-life crisis.'

‘Is that what it was?'

‘Of course, darling.'

She put her snifter down on the coffee table, giggled, and kissed his ear. ‘Want to cuddle tonight?' she asked in the little girl's voice that she used on occasion, and snuggled up against him.

Smythe sat rigidly, his face void of emotion, staring straight ahead. Numbness had set in. He reached for his snifter, downed what remained of his Cognac, and said, ‘Why not?'