Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (6 page)

BOOK: Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia
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Smythe stopped short of joining the group surrounding Martone. He was aware of the two men in suits flanking COC's important benefactor. One was slender with a ferret-like face and an extremely long, crooked nose. The second was a mountain of a man with a shaved head, bulbous facial features, and hands like catchers' mitts. Those who choreographed COC's events knew to include these two additional guests as part of Martone's entourage. They never spoke to anyone as their eyes took in each person who approached, like Secret Service agents protecting heads-of-state.
Bodyguards
.
Henchmen
.
Thugs
. Those were the descriptions that formulated in Smythe's mind each time he saw them, men not to be trifled with.

He took in Martone as he always did when in his presence, and had the usual reaction – that he wished he looked like him. The crime family head was compactly built with swarthy skin, large but well-proportioned features, and close-cropped black hair. Too black? Touched up? It didn't matter. His gray, double-breasted pinstripe suit was molded to his body. The physical contrast between Martone and Smythe was unmistakable, Smythe tall and slender, pale, and with silky graying hair, Martone ruggedly handsome, every hair in place, dusky skin, and with large, perfect white teeth rendered especially so against his contrasting complexion.

But there was another aspect of Martone that Smythe envied, which was the man's relaxed demeanor when conversing with others. He seemed to charm everyone he met, chatting easily with them, laughing heartily and making
them
laugh, holding court as though being the center of attention, indeed the universe, was the natural order of things.

Smythe tried to summon the courage to break into the conversation but held back. Having an opportunity to speak with Martone was why he'd accompanied Cynthia that night with more enthusiasm than usual.

As he pondered what to say to allow him to smoothly join them, the other couples, after a final sustained laugh at something Martone had said, drifted away, leaving him momentarily alone.

Smythe moved.

‘Ah, Mr Smythe,' Martone said, extending his hand. ‘Good to see you again.' His hand was large, his handshake powerful.

‘Yes, same here, Mr Martone.'

‘Carlton, isn't it?' Martone said. ‘I'm Dominick, or Dom if you prefer.'

‘Sure. Dom,' Smythe said.

‘Where's your lovely wife?'

‘Cynthia? She's off somewhere.'

‘She's quite a go-getter. The company is fortunate to have her aboard.'

‘She loves opera,' Smythe said.

‘How can she not? You? Are you an opera buff, too?'

‘I like it,' Smythe said, ‘although I admit I don't know a lot about it. I'm a good listener.'

Martone slapped Smythe's skinny arm. ‘That's what we need, more good listeners to buy tickets.'

Smythe glanced over at one of the two bodyguards, whose eyes were fixated on him. He was tempted to empty his pockets to show that he wasn't armed, a fleeting silly thought. He saw other members of COC's board approaching and knew it was now or never.

‘I was hoping to run into you tonight, Dom,' he said quickly. ‘I have a—well, I suppose you could call it a business proposition that I'd like to discuss with you.'

Martone's heavy eyebrows went up. ‘I'm always willing to talk business,' he said.

They were interrupted by the board members.

Martone said to his big bodyguard, ‘Hugo, give Mr Smythe my card.'

Hugo pulled a business card from the lapel pocket of his ill-fitting suit jacket and handed it to Smythe.

‘Always happy to speak with a good listener who has a business proposition,' Martone said. ‘Give me a call.' He flashed a wide smile, gave Smythe another slap on the arm, and turned to greet the others.

‘I will, Dom,' Smythe said. ‘Thanks. You'll hear from me.'

He held his breath as he walked away, afraid he'd burst out in a giddy giggle. It had been so easy. Martone hadn't shown skepticism, hadn't summarily dismissed him, hadn't pierced his inner thoughts with his black eyes. They'd spoken as though they were old buddies. He'd slapped him on the arm – twice!

Later that night, after dinner with friends at the 360 Restaurant atop the CN Tower, Carlton and Cynthia returned home. He emptied his tux pockets on the kitchen table before heading upstairs and she spotted Martone's card.

‘Why do you have that?' she asked.

‘What? Oh, Dom's card? We talked a little business tonight.'

‘Business? With Dominick Martone?'

‘Yes. I thought that because he has his hand in so many businesses he might have need for a consultant.'

‘Carlton,' she said in the tone of a teacher admonishing a student, ‘Dominick Martone's businesses don't need an electrical engineer.'

‘You're probably right, but I figured nothing ventured, nothing gained. Anyway, he invited me to call him and get together. I know how much you hate my being away so much, and I thought that—'

‘That's sweet,' she said, kissing his cheek. ‘It would be wonderful if you could find clients closer to home. But Dominick Martone? You know what he
really
does for a living?'

‘I've heard the rumors.'

‘They're more than rumors,' she said. ‘Want to cuddle together tonight?'

‘I, ah … Sure, Cynthia. That would be nice.'

EIGHT

S
mythe summoned the courage to call two days later.

‘Martone Enterprises,' a woman said.

‘Hello. My name is Carlton Smythe. Mr Martone is expecting my call.'

‘Oh? Mr Smythe? Can you tell me what this is in reference to?'

‘Ah, we had a conversation a few nights ago at the opera house – my wife is on the board – and I mentioned something to Mr Martone and he suggested that I call.'

‘Please hold.'

Martone came on the line. ‘Hello there,' he said.

‘Sorry it took me a few days to get back to you but I've been busy. I was hoping we could get together sometime soon.'

‘How's today look for lunch?'

‘Today? I, ah, yes, I think I can make that. Yes, lunch today would be fine.'

‘Good. Twelve thirty at my restaurant, Martone's, on St Clair Avenue. You know it?'

‘Yes, of course. Twelve thirty, you say?'

‘See you there, pal.'

Smythe had made the call from his newly-rented office. He sat back, feet up on the desk, and contemplated what he'd put into motion.

To this point, it had been easy, too easy. Now – and the realization caused his stomach to knot – he was about to put into play what had been nothing but a pipedream, a Walter Mitty moment transformed into reality by his love for Gina Ellanado.

He gazed adoringly at her photograph. Buoyed by the fire in her eyes, he again rehearsed the pitch he would make to Dominick Martone.

Toronto has five different areas of the city known informally as ‘Little Italy'. Martone's restaurant was located in one of them, west of Bathurst, on St Clair. Smythe had been dispatched to the area a few times by Cynthia when she wanted authentic Italian delicacies for a dinner party, although he'd never stepped foot inside Martone's. He had peered through the window, however, and it appeared to him to be nothing more than a large glorified pizza parlor.

Dressed in what he considered to be his power outfit – navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie – he arrived a half hour early and strolled along the opposite side of the street from the restaurant, pretending to window shop. At twelve fifteen, a black Town Car pulled up in front of Martone's and its namesake got out, accompanied by the two men often seen with him at public functions. A cold chill struck Smythe. Would they be present at the lunch? If so, did he dare outline his proposal with others listening? He'd have to play that by ear, he decided, as he waited until the three men disappeared into the restaurant.

Smythe checked himself again in a store window. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, clenched it between his teeth, and took another look at himself. Perfect.

At precisely twelve twenty-nine, he crossed the street, drew a deep, prolonged breath, and opened the door. The odor of garlic hit him hard, along with the bright fluorescent lighting and noise level. Most of the Formica tables were occupied, and two middle-aged waitresses scurried among them. A half-dozen people stood at the counter waiting for takeout orders.

Smythe looked for Martone. There was no sign of him, or his colleagues. He wasn't sure what to do, or who to ask. Eventually he went to a man wearing chef's whites who appeared to be in charge. ‘Excuse me,' Smythe said, ‘I'm looking for Mr Martone.'

The man frowned and looked at Smythe as though he had a smear of tomato sauce on his face. ‘He knows you?' he asked.

‘Oh, yes. He's expecting me for lunch.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Smythe. Carlton Smythe.'

The man went to a door at the rear of the restaurant and knocked. After a brief conversation with the Martone bodyguard Smythe now knew was named Hugo, the chef motioned for Smythe. The young, skinny Mafioso and Hugo took in Smythe from head to toe and he wondered whether he would be patted down. They now focused attention on his briefcase. Smythe made a move to open it for inspection but they stepped back to allow him to enter. He took tentative steps into the room where Martone sat at an elaborately-set table for two. The contrast with the pizza parlor area was profound. Subdued lighting was provided by two huge, ornate, gold-leaf chandeliers. The room's carpeting was blood-red. Floor-to-ceiling murals of scenes from popular operas covered the walls. Smythe recognized an aria from Puccini's
Madam Butterfly
oozing from unseen speakers. The men who'd allowed Smythe to enter retreated to a small table in the corner of the room far from their boss.

‘Ah, Mr Smythe,' Martone said, getting up and extending his hand. He wore a shiny black suit; the high collar of his white shirt was clearly defined above his jacket. A gray silk tie was neatly knotted and secured to his shirt with a diamond tie tack. Black patent leather shoes with tassels completed the Mafioso's ensemble.

‘Right on time,' he said. ‘I like that in a businessman. Sit down, sit down. Be comfortable.' He said to one of his bodyguards, ‘Tell Paulie to get in here.'

Paulie, the man in whites who'd directed Smythe to where Martone waited, appeared in the doorway. Martone looked at Smythe. ‘Red, white, a beer, whiskey?'

‘Whatever you're having is fine,' Smythe replied.

‘A bottle of red,' Martone told Paulie, ‘and an antipasto platter, hot. So,' he said to Smythe, ‘what did you think of
Carmen
the other night?'

‘Oh, I liked it a lot. Very fine performance.'

‘I thought the soprano was weak on the Habanera. Other than that, I thought it was pretty good.' He sat back, hands folded on his midsection, closed his eyes, and said, almost sang, ‘Love is a rebellious bird that no one can tame.' His eyes opened. ‘I love that line, huh? So true. What about you, Smythe? How's your love life?'

Smythe was startled by the question. He fumbled before saying, ‘Pretty good … Dom.'

‘Good to hear. You've been married a long time, huh?'

‘Thirty years.' He wondered whether Martone expected him to talk about his mistresses. Instead, the mob boss said, ‘I believe in marriage, Smythe. Family!' He slapped his hand on the table. ‘Family is everything!'

‘I agree,' Smythe said, realizing that his unlit cigar was still wedged between his teeth.

‘You smoke those things?' Martone asked, grimacing. ‘Not good for you. I gave 'em up years ago.'

‘I just have a … well, I'm about to give up the habit, too.' He removed the cigar from his mouth and shoved it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

Paulie arrived with the wine and platter of hot antipasto. He poured the wine into the two glasses on the table and asked if Martone wanted to order lunch.

‘In a minute,' Martone said, waving his hand. ‘We've got business to discuss.'

The mob boss raised his glass in Smythe's direction. Smythe returned the gesture.

‘So, pal, what's this business you want to talk to me about?'

Smythe's nerves had been on edge since leaving the house. It had been so unexpectedly easy to set up the meeting with Martone, a casual chat at the opera and a short, simple phone call. But this was the moment of truth. Smythe's biggest problem in rehearsing for the meeting was how to broach the subject of offering a criminal proposal without indicating that he knew that Martone was not only a criminal, but was also the head of a powerful crime syndicate. After all, the man didn't hand out business cards with ‘Mafia Boss' printed on them. He'd established himself in eastern Canada as a prosperous businessman and patron of the arts. Most people knew, of course, about his connection with organized crime but were willing to ignore that in return for his largesse. Now, Smythe was about to say in effect,
I know that you're a Mafioso, Mr Martone, and here's another way for you to add to your illegal fortune.

He'd been grappling with that all morning and hadn't come to a satisfactory conclusion, hadn't formulated the right way to put it. But as he sat across from the smiling Martone a sense of wellbeing and confidence swept over him. He'd come to the restaurant with a solid proposal, one that could conceivably earn Martone's crime family millions of dollars. With Gina's smiling face hovering over the table, he pulled the cigar from his pocket, clenched it between his teeth, sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and said in a well-modulated voice, ‘I'm here to offer you a franchise.'

Martone came forward, his smile a memory. ‘What is this franchise thing?' he asked. ‘Some chicken shack or pizza joint? I've got all the pizza I can eat.' He used his hand to indicate where they were. ‘You want to sell me a
franchise
?'

BOOK: Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia
9.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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