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

not stupid, Smythe. You give me what you promised or you find somebody else for this crazy plan.’
    Two things crossed Smythe’s mind at that moment.
    The first was what he knew from the beginning that without someone like Saison inside Power-Can there would be no blackout. He knew others who worked there but none of them were likely to go along with the scheme. Saison’s discontent with Power-Can – with almost everything for that matter – and his perpetual state of being broke due to his gambling habit, gave him the right incentive. Two: Saison now knew of Smythe’s intentions. If he became disgruntled enough he might decide to tell someone at Power-Can of the plot.
    â€˜You drive a hard bargain, Paul,’ Smythe said through an exaggerated sigh. ‘All right. A quarter of a million it is.’
    â€˜What about the piece of the action from the money man?’
    â€˜That, too.’ Agreeing to that was easy. Smythe would be long gone before it became an issue.
    Saison replaced what had spilled from his glass and raised it to Smythe. ‘You’re a crazy man, Smythe, really crazy. But so am I,
oui
? Here’s to becoming rich.
A votre santé,
Smythe. Cheers!’

ELEVEN
    T wo days later, Smythe boarded a flight to Buenos Aires. Cynthia had complained about his taking another trip, and her mother weighed in, too, but Smythe kept his cool and avoided an outright argument with either woman.
    Prior to leaving he’d taken the bills Martone had given him and divided them into groups of ten. Twenty thousand dollars was stashed in a small safe he’d purchased which he’d secured beneath his desk in the rented office. He put ten of the bills in his wallet and separated the remaining twenty thousand into two batches, each wrapped in clothing in the suitcase he’d be using for the trip. He knew that he was taking a chance on airport security personnel deciding to go through the suitcase but didn’t see any other option. He’d never been singled out before at the airport, nor had Customs officials in Buenos Aires red-flagged him for a more thorough examination. He always dressed nicely for the flights, and his nondescript appearance, along with official-looking but out-of-date correspondence from the Argentine power authority inviting him to make a presentation meant that he’d never had any trouble. He knew that in the future he’d have to make other arrangements, but for now he would take his chances.
    He’d sailed through security at JFK Airport, and was asked only a few cursory questions by Customs in Buenos Aires before being waved through. He’d instructed Gina to hire a car service and to meet his flight, which she did.
    Seeing her waiting for him as he walked off the flight sent his heart racing. They engaged in a long embrace and sensuous kiss, much to the delight of other passengers, and were soon on their way to the Four Seasons Hotel where Smythe had reserved his usual executive suite. He couldn’t keep his hands off her during the ride, causing her to giggle and to push him away, indicating the driver as her reason for warding off his advances. ‘Later,’ she cooed, ‘later.’
    But once ensconced in the suite, she welcomed his pent-up passion and they made love, first on the bed, and then when Smythe insisted that they throw caution to the wind, on a chaise longue on the balcony.
    Back inside, Gina stood naked in front of a full-length mirror and complained that she was gaining weight. Smythe came up behind her and kneaded the modest roll of her belly. ‘I love every inch of you,
mi angel de amor
. I worship every inch of my Gina.’
    They dressed and ordered room service. The waiter uncorked a bottle of 2004 Noeima de Patagoina, the most expensive red on the wine list, and poured two glasses before backing from the room. Smythe raised his glass to Gina and said, ‘To my wife soon to be, Mrs Carlton