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

place.’
    â€˜How much time?’
    â€˜I’ll be out of town for a few days. I need … I need three weeks. It’s not easy to set this thing up.’ He fought to contain his glee at how easily things had fallen into place, and decided to press the money issue. ‘I need some start-up funds, Dom. Can you advance me a couple of hundred thousand against the million two-fifty?’
    Martone laughed. ‘I figured you’d want some seed money, Smythe.’ He motioned to Hugo, who left the bench and came to his boss’s side. ‘Give him the envelope,’ Martone said. Hugo handed Smythe a thick number ten envelope and walked away.
    â€˜There’s fifty Gs in there,’ Martone told Smythe. ‘I’ll deduct it from what we agreed on.’
    â€˜Thanks, Dom,’ Smythe said as Martone’s grandson threw himself into his grandfather’s arms.
    â€˜Hey, big guy, easy, easy. Say hello to Mr Smythe.’
    The boy grimaced and stuck out his tongue at Smythe. ‘You suck,’ he said.
    Martone put the kid on the ground and delivered a sharp slap to his rear end. ‘Hey, I told you, you don’t talk fresh,’ he said.
    His grandson burst into tears and ran back to where the nanny now sat with Hugo.
    â€˜Kids,’ Martone said. ‘They don’t learn respect these days. You go ahead, Smythe, leave. I’ll stay awhile with the kid.’
    Smythe walked away, a smile on his face. It was falling into place. He’d have a million dollars to take to Buenos Aires and enough to pay Saison.
    Now all he had to do was decide what that date would be, and that meant meeting again with the big French-Canadian.

TEN
    S mythe was told when he called Power-Can that Saison had taken a personal day off. The Frenchman answered the phone at home.
    â€˜Hung over?’ Smythe asked pleasantly.
    â€˜Too much wine, too much of the bitch. What do you want?’
    â€˜We need to talk.’
    â€˜So go ahead and talk.’
    â€˜Not on the phone. I assume Angelique isn’t there?’
    â€˜Gone to work. She should stay away.’
    â€˜Pull yourself together, Paul. I’ll be there in an hour.’
    Saison’s apartment was a third-floor walk-up. The pungent odor of cooking, wine, and cigarette and cigar smoke greeted Smythe as he ascended the stairs. He found the aroma pleasant. Cynthia had an obsession about odors and their home smelled antiseptic, as though constructed of HEPA filters. Elaborate air-cleaning machines housed in decorative wood shells silently cleansed the air in every room.
    Saison answered Smythe’s knock. He looked as bad as he’d sounded on the phone. Smythe’s call had obviously wakened him. His hair went in a dozen different directions and he hadn’t shaved in days. He wore a stained white sleeveless undershirt, red boxer shorts, and sandals. His eyes mirrored his pain. Smythe declined an offer of a drink and sat at the small table in the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes; a skinny black-and-white cat slept soundly in sun streaming through the window.
    â€˜You remember that thing we talked about at lunch?’ Smythe asked.
    Saison rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘That crazy idea of yours?’
    â€˜Right, that crazy idea of mine. It’s not just a crazy idea any more, Paul. I’m going to do it.’
    â€˜You’re going to do it?’
    â€˜You told me to do it. I’m doing it – with you.’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know, Smythe.’
    Smythe stared at him. ‘You’re backing out?’
    â€˜No, no, but I thought maybe you were kidding, like daydreaming.’
    â€˜It started as a daydream but now it’s about to become a reality. Maybe I was wrong to think that you agreed to be part of it. I thought you wanted the money but it looks like I was wrong.’
    Smythe stood.
    â€˜No, Smythe, sit down. I’m, ah, I’m just waking up, you