Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (3 page)

C
arlton Smythe's metamorphosis had blossomed during his first trip to Buenos Aires nine months ago.

He settled into the wide, soft leather seat in First Class of the Aerolíneas Argentinas 747 that prepared to leave the gate at New York's JFK airport. He'd opted to fly to New York from Toronto to catch the Argentinean airline rather than depart from Calgary. The Argentinean national airline's use of the wide-body 747 and its reputation for pampering in First Class appealed.

This initial trip to Argentina had been for legitimate business reasons. He'd learned that the Argentinean government was looking for engineering help to implement a proposed plan to improve its power-generating capacity. He'd contacted the appropriate people and was invited to make a presentation.

He checked into an Executive Suite at the Four Seasons in Buenos Aires, next to the exclusive La Recoleta district. After becoming acclimatized to the suite – it was spacious and handsomely furnished and decorated, with a fine view of the fountain and the city beyond – he unpacked and decided to have a drink in Le Dôme, a bar off the lobby, and an early dinner in the hotel's Le Mistral restaurant. He was tired from the long flight and wanted some rehearsal time in the suite before his presentation the following morning.

Le Dôme was bustling. Smythe found an unoccupied table near the end of the bar, ordered a gin-and-tonic and sat back, happy to have arrived and excited about the possibility of landing his first client. He'd purchased a Cuban cigar from the front desk, now he lit it, and amused himself by watching the comings-and-goings of bar patrons, a mix of visiting businessmen and locals. Everyone was well-dressed; Smythe was pleased that he'd stayed in his suit and tie.

He was about to finish his drink and move to Le Mistral when she walked into the bar. He wasn't the only man to take notice of Gina Ellanado. She stood at the entrance and looked around as though searching for someone. She carried a shopping bag; an alligator purse dangled from one shoulder. Her aqua dress was low-cut, its hem slightly above the knee. Smythe hoped she wouldn't notice how intently he stared at her and shifted his eyes, but only for a second. She navigated tables and headed in his direction, stopping a few feet away.

‘
Si?
' the bartender said.

She shook her head and turned. As she did, her shopping bag swung around and knocked over a small vase of flowers on Smythe's table. He was quick enough to keep it from going over the edge, and righted it.

‘
Perdón
,' she said.

‘
De nada
,' he replied, using one of the Spanish phrases he'd learned in preparation for his trip.

‘I am – how do you say it? – I am clumsy,' she said.

‘No, you're not,' he said, standing. ‘Would you like to sit?'

Did the expression on her face indicate that he was being too forward? Evidently not because she smiled – he'd never seen such a smile – and sat in the chair he pulled out, the shopping bag and purse on the floor beside her.

‘Well,' he said. ‘Well, ah, my name is Carlton. Carlton Smythe. Ah,
¿cómo
estás?
'

A tinkling laugh accompanied her smile. ‘
Muy bien, gracias
. You are an American?'

‘That's right.
Si
. Are you from here, from Buenos Aires?'

She nodded and looked away. He took that moment to fix on her cleavage. There was plenty to admire.

When she returned her attention to him, he asked if she would like a drink.

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘You speak English.'

She fluttered her nicely manicured hands, her nails tipped in crimson to match her lipstick. ‘So-so,' she said, ‘a little, sometimes not so good.'

‘You speak very good English,' he said, motioning for the waiter who took her order of
cerveza
.

Her choice of a drink pleased Smythe. He too enjoyed an occasional glass of beer but there was never any in the house, Cynthia having ruled it
déclassé
. It was nice to see a woman order it, and for a moment he considered offering her a cigar.

They clicked the rims of their glasses, and Smythe ordered a second drink. She sipped her beer; the sight of her tongue darting out occasionally to wipe foam from her lips was highly erotic, her perfume intoxicating.

Conversation became easier; she spoke better English than she gave herself credit for. Some things said in combination English and Spanish went past Smythe, but he was certain they weren't terribly important. He learned that she lived in Buenos Aires, and was a consultant to a cosmetics company. He told her of his own consulting firm and that he was in Argentina to meet with government officials involved with the country's power industry. She listened intently to what he had to say, her large – huge – almost black eyes opened wide as though his words were the most important words she'd ever heard. At one point, she moved so that her leg touched his. He withdrew his leg for an instant but allowed it to settle back against her.

‘Would you like another beer?' he asked.

‘Yes, but I must be leaving soon.'

‘Oh? I thought we might have dinner together, here at the hotel?'

It occurred to him earlier that she could be a prostitute. If so, he decided that he would pay the price.

‘Dinner?' she said, frowning. She glanced at her watch. ‘Yes, all right. I would like that very much.'

They were seated in a corner of Le Mistral, its walls and chairs covered in leather, candlelit tables augmenting soft light from Tiffany chandeliers. A harpist added to the decidedly romantic atmosphere.

‘Would you like wine,' he asked, ‘or another beer?'

‘What do you say?' she asked.

‘Me? Oh, I'll have wine or—no, you decide. I leave it up to you. This is your place, your country.'

She ordered a bottle of Malbec, explaining to Smythe that it was a popular Argentinean wine that went well with beef.

‘Argentinean beef,' he said. ‘The best.'

‘Very good,' she agreed. ‘So, Mr Carlton, tell me about you.'

‘Carlton is my first name,' he said. ‘There isn't much to tell. As I said, I'm an engineer and have my own business. Consulting. Like you.'

They conversed easily during dinner – a New York strip steak with a thick herb sauce,
chimichurri
, for him, a Mediterranean fish stew for her. The bottle of wine was soon emptied, and a second ordered, which they also finished. His two drinks in the bar, and the wine, had their predictable effect on him, although he was not as inebriated as he might have been under other circumstances. He felt good, relaxed and carefree. Gina had contributed to his feeling of wellbeing by proving to be a superb listener as he wove stories about himself, some true, others embellished if not outright lies.

‘Are you married, Mr Carlton Smythe?' she asked matter-of-factly at one point, taking his left hand in hers and running her index finger around his ring finger.

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘But my marriage is—well, it will be ending soon.'

‘I am sorry,' she said.

‘Yes, it's sad,' he said, trying to formulate what to say that would not sound too self-serving, yet make a pending divorce understandable. ‘My business takes me away from home a lot,' he offered, ‘and my wife resents it. She doesn't understand my business, or me. She's a—she's a good woman, but we've agreed that it will be better to go our separate ways.'

‘You have children?'

‘No.'

‘That is good. It is the children who suffer.'

‘Are you married?' he asked.

‘No. I have not found the right man.'

With that topic out of the way, her warmth toward him increased with each glass of wine, and they might have been mistaken for newly-weds.

Decision time. Should he invite her up to his room?

‘I must go,' she said suddenly, as though reading his mind and heading off that possibility.

‘Of course.' He stood and pulled out her chair. ‘May I accompany you home?'

‘Oh, no, no, no,' she said. ‘But I thank you for suggesting.
Gracias
.'

‘
De nada.
'

They left Le Mistral and walked to the street.

It had started to rain lightly.

‘It is good,' she said, ‘for the flowers.'

‘Yes, for the flowers.'

She pulled a small umbrella from her bag and popped it open.

‘Are you sure I can't see you home?'

Her response was to raise her face and kiss him. He allowed his tongue to slip between her teeth, and she pressed her pelvis against him. Would she be offended by his erection? he wondered.

‘I must see you again,' he said once they'd disengaged.

‘I would like that very much.'

He told her his room number and asked her to call him the next day. She did, and they met for dinner. Following a tango show at an upscale bar, she persuaded him to join her on the dance floor. He knew he looked awkward, even silly, but he was powerless to resist. They shopped together; he bought her an emerald ring. One night, during heavier rain, they paraded together down the
Avenida 9 de Julio
, the widest boulevard on the planet, and he was tempted to emulate Gene Kelly in
Singin' in the Rain
, to take her umbrella and dance. But he was afraid that he would fall into a puddle and make a fool of himself.

He worried about how he might look, too, when they climbed naked into the king-sized bed in his hotel room on their third night together. He'd tried to induce her into bed on the second night but she'd resisted, which only added to her appeal. That she was no easy mark boosted her character quotient in Smythe's eyes. This was a woman to be viewed not only as a sexual object, she was worthy of love – and Carlton Smythe, married Canadian out-of-work electrical engineer, had fallen head-over-heels in love.

She praised his lovemaking that night which spurred him on, the wild abandon with which she offered herself, the sweet smell of her, the groans of pleasure mingled with satisfied laughter, sweaty and slippery and altogether a woman,
his
woman.

He'd told her following their lovemaking that he had to return to Canada to pursue a major business deal worth millions. ‘But I shall return!' he said with dramatic flourish, thinking of Douglas MacArthur's famous pledge to return to the Philippines. ‘I shall return to see
you
again, Gina Ellanado.'

‘And I shall be here waiting for you.'

She declined to stay the night with him, and he escorted her to a waiting taxi.

‘I leave in the morning,' he said.

She nodded.

‘But I will be back.'

‘You must,' she said.

‘I will. You have my word.'

‘Tell me about your presentation,' Cynthia said to Carlton the morning following his return from that first trip to Argentina. They sat in the kitchen.

‘It was successful, Cynthia, very successful. They really liked my experience and my ideas. I'm sure they'll buy my proposition.' It really didn't matter to him whether they did or not. He would return to Buenos Aires regardless of the outcome.

‘That's good,' she said.

‘Of course, it will mean having to go to Buenos Aires quite a bit.'

She nodded, and topped off her cup of coffee from a carafe on the table.

‘I know you aren't happy when I travel but—'

‘I have an idea,' she said.

‘Oh?'

‘I can come with you to Argentina. I've always wanted to see South America. It would be a vacation trip. Oh, you can conduct your business, but we can stay a few extra days and enjoy ourselves.'

‘I think that's … I think that's a great idea,' he said. ‘Maybe after I've gotten acclimated with my new clients and won't have to spend day and night with them.'

He finished what was left in his cup. ‘I think I'll hit the gym,' he said.

‘That's good,' she said. ‘Oh, there's a press reception at COC tomorrow night. We're promoting the next opera. We're doing
Carmen
. You'll come with me? I know you're tired from your trip but—'

‘Of course I'll come with you,' he said.

Keep her happy
.

C
eleste Aida
drifted up from downstairs to the bathroom where Smythe stood naked in front of the mirror. It was Cynthia's favorite aria; she started many mornings singing it while moving through the large house. Smythe was indifferent to opera and opera singers, and found excuses to not accompany his wife to performances.

But her position on the board of the Canadian Opera Company involved many evenings entertaining cast members at home, which invariably ended up with impromptu recitals that included Cynthia. Smythe had no basis upon which to judge her voice. It seemed to him that she sounded pretty much like all the other sopranos, no better or worse than those gathered around the grand piano at these domestic musicales. On the evenings he was present, he joined the enthusiastic, non-performing hand-clappers urging the singers and musicians to greater heights.

He examined himself in the mirror. He'd recently lost weight around his middle, an inch in his estimation, and his arms seemed to have developed slightly more definition thanks to light weightlifting in their home gym. Cynthia had been surprised at his sudden interest in physical fitness, and said so. He responded, ‘I'm getting older, Cynthia. I think it's time I paid a little more attention to my health.' She said she thought that was a wise decision and the subject was not brought up again.

He'd been using a shampoo and conditioner that promised to add body to his silken gray hair, much of which had disappeared from the top of his head. Was it working? He preferred to believe that it was. He'd allowed it to grow longer at the sides and in the back, to Cynthia's chagrin: ‘You look like some aging hippie,' she'd commented.