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

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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Whatever you’re having is fine,’ Smythe replied.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Oh, I liked it a lot. Very fine performance.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Good to hear. You’ve been married a long time, huh?’
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜I agree,’ Smythe said, realizing that his unlit cigar was still wedged between his teeth.
    â€˜You smoke those things?’ Martone asked, grimacing. ‘Not good for you. I gave ’em up years ago.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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,