Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia by Donald Bain

that. Yes, lunch today would be fine.’
    â€˜Good. Twelve thirty at my restaurant, Martone’s, on St Clair Avenue. You know it?’
    â€˜Yes, of course. Twelve thirty, you say?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Oh, yes. He’s expecting me for lunch.’
    â€˜What’s your name?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Ah, Mr Smythe,’ Martone said, getting up and