Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (25 page)

He knew that the completion of his trek was near, but it seemed impossibly distant at that moment. Despite the help he'd received from Kerry and her husband, his sense was that the sooner he left Brazil the better. His obvious move would have been to catch a flight to Buenos Aires, but he was still reluctant to chance going through airport security. From what research he'd done, he decided that his best bet was to take a bus, a forty-five-hour trip. The thought of sitting on a bus for that length of time was anathema to him, but there didn't seem to be a sensible alternative.

As he finished his coffee, a boy selling newspapers, both Brazilian and English language editions, hawked his wares to customers in the outdoor café. Smythe motioned for him and took the paper that was in English, handing the newsboy a ten dollar bill. ‘Keep the change,' he said. ‘
Por usted
.' The boy thanked him profusely before continuing down the street.

Smythe took the paper with him to read on the trip. He asked a woman for directions to the bus station and she directed him to the Novo Rio Bus Station on Avenue Francisco Bicalho, adding that it was only a short walk.

He reached the terminal and went to a ticket window where he was told that there was a bus leaving for Buenos Aires in four hours.

‘Is it really a forty-five hour trip?' Smythe asked.

‘
Si, señor
.'

‘How can the driver drive that long?'

The clerk, who spoke good English – everyone in Rio seemed to – smiled and said, ‘We have two drivers on the bus, and a small place for them to sleep. But I make a suggestion to you.'

‘Yes?'

‘Many people who take this trip go only halfway on the first day. They spend the night in a hotel at Foz de Igauzu, a very beautiful place with a waterfall so big it is three times larger than the Niagara Falls. If you like, I can make a reservation for you at the Hotel das Catartas, a very nice hotel, good restaurants, beautiful scenery. If you do this, there will be a bus in the morning that will take you for the rest of your journey to Buenos Aires.'

Smythe thought for a moment. The contemplation of spending forty-five consecutive hours on a bus was painful.

‘Yes, I would like to do that,' he said.

With ticket in hand and a slip confirming his hotel reservation, he stopped in a bookstore and bought two murder mysteries from the English language section, then found another sidewalk café where he told the beautiful waitress – every woman in Rio was beautiful, he decided, each a model for the song ‘The Girl From Ipanema' – that he wanted to drink and eat things that were typically Brazilian. She recommended the country's national cocktail,
caipirinha
, made with sugar cane rum, sugar and lime juice, and a shrimp dish,
vatapa
, served with cashew peanut sauce. He ordered both, and by the time he was due to board the bus he'd consumed three of the drinks and was tipsy.

It was a double-decker bus, sleek and shiny, with a toilet area, a mini-bar and snack kiosk, and wide, comfortable, reclining seats, which made napping easy. He'd purchased a
leito
ticket, First Class, and was impressed with the amenities. With the buzz from the drinks numbing his senses, he happily settled into his assigned seat, stretched and yawned, and promptly dozed off.

He awoke an hour later and started reading one of the novels he'd purchased. He soon lost interest in the story and pulled the newspaper from his carry-on. The first four pages contained news of goings-on in Rio de Janeiro and the nation of Brazil. Pages five and six provided a recap of news from around the world. The item from Toronto, Canada, immediately grabbed his attention.

The headline read:
Blackout Culprit Dies.

Ontario, Canada. The French-Canadian man suspected of causing the massive blackout that paralyzed the east coast of the United States and Canada, Paul Saison, an employee of Power-Can where his alleged sabotage took place, has died. The cause was heart failure. Mr Saison had implicated a former employee of the plant, Toronto citizen Carlton Smythe, who is currently being sought by authorities.

But the senior prosecutor assigned to the Smythe case stated in a press conference that because of Mr Saison's mental incapacity following his arrest and prior to his death – he was the only witness against Mr Smythe – the government has decided to drop charges against Mr Smythe, whose whereabouts is still unknown.

A moment of sincere sadness at hearing that the big, bumbling, obnoxious Saison had died was soon replaced by elation. Could it be true? It had to be. He, Smythe, was no longer a suspect? Charges had been dropped?

He let out a yelp that caused others to turn to him.

‘Sorry,' Smythe said. ‘I've just had good news.'

He read the article multiple times, searching for a word or phrase that would temper his joy. He didn't find one. He wondered about the transporting of large sums of money out of the US to another country, falsely claiming the packages contained books. Had that broken the law? Probably. But it was a minor concern compared to having been fingered as the brains behind the blackout. At least that was the way he processed it as the bus roared down the highway taking him to Buenos Aires – to Gina.

He was in an expansive mood as he stepped off the bus in Foz de Igauzu and checked in to the hotel. His room was handsomely decorated and comfortably appointed. He stepped out on to the balcony and was awed by the majesty of the falls. Despite the twenty-hour bus ride, he felt invigorated and energized. ‘Life is good,' he said aloud a number of times as he prepared to go downstairs for a drink and dinner, and that upbeat mood didn't abate even after so many
caipirinhas
that he lost count. Before going to bed he decided to break his silence on the Internet and emailed Gina, saying that they would be together again in a few days, together forever. ‘
When I come to the door of our love cottage, my darling, it will be the first day of the rest of our lives. I will make us martinis and we will toast our good fortune. Yours forever, Carlton.
'

The first half of the trip had gone by quickly. Now, in the home stretch, each minute seemed an eternity, and he wanted to go to the driver and urge him to drive faster. Eventually the bus pulled into the huge central bus station in the heart of downtown Buenos Aires. Smythe collected his two large suitcases from where they had been stowed in a compartment beneath the bus and made his way toward the exit. But he had to go to the bathroom and went into a men's room. He looked at himself in the mirrors above the sinks and didn't like what he saw. He was disheveled and weary, his clothing wrinkled, his face sallow and with a day's growth of gray beard. He couldn't arrive at the cottage in that state, and made a decision on the spot to delay seeing Gina until he presented the right image.

‘The Four Seasons hotel,' he told the taxi driver.

The suite in which he usually stayed was available. After a shower and shave, he consulted the concierge: ‘Where is the best men's clothing store?'

The concierge recommended two, Sir Greyton for the best dress shirts, and James Smart for suits. Smythe liked their British-sounding names and headed for Sir Greyton with a spring in his step. After purchasing two of the shop's most expensive shirts and three silk ties, he went to James Smart where he told the proprietor that he needed the best suit in the shop, and had to have it expertly tailored by the end of the day. The proprietor said that would be impossible, but when Smythe said he would pay double the suit's cost, a tailor suddenly appeared from the back of the shop and Smythe was fitted.

‘You will have your suit in an hour,' the proprietor said.

At six, Smythe picked up the suit and returned to the hotel where he tried it on, and selected a shirt and tie to go with. He checked his email. There was nothing from Gina, which didn't concern him. He debated going to the cottage but thought better of it. It was evening. Best to wait until the following day when he would be rested and ready for love. He emailed her that he would be arriving at the cottage the next day and asked that she wait there for him, saying that he wasn't sure what time he would arrive.

He relived that fateful evening when they'd first met by going to the Le D
ȏ
me bar and having a glass of
cerveza
, the same brand she'd drank, and a bottle of Malbec. For dinner in Le Mistral he ordered the same dish he'd enjoyed that first night, a New York strip steak with the thick herb sauce,
chimichurri
. The harpist's lovely melodies completed the reenactment.

He went to his suite, sated, tired, and supremely happy. He would have a full night's rest before dressing in his new clothes and arriving at the cottage.

He hadn't realized how tired he'd been and was surprised when he slept until nine the following morning. After a shower and multiple checks of his appearance in the mirror, he descended to the lobby carrying only the suitcase containing the cash. The doorman hailed a cab for him.

‘Before we go to my destination,' Smythe told the driver, ‘I must stop at a florist, a very good one.'

Ten minutes later Smythe emerged from a shop carrying two dozen red roses. He got back in the cab and gave the driver the address of the cottage.

‘That is a long trip,' the driver said.

‘It doesn't matter how much it costs,' Smythe said. ‘Here.' He handed a hundred dollar bill over the driver's seatback. ‘And if the meter says it is more I will pay it, and add a generous tip.'

The ride took a half hour. During it, Smythe silently rehearsed what he would say when Gina opened the door. He had a whimsical vision of her being naked when she did, which brought a wide smile to his face.

‘Life is good!' he said aloud, causing the driver to turn his head.

‘I am a happy man,' Smythe explained.

The driver laughed. ‘Good for you, amigo,' he said.

They pulled up in front of the cottage and Smythe immediately spotted a car parked off to the side. He'd encouraged Gina to rent a car and was glad that she had. With a final payment to the driver including the large tip he'd promised, Smythe watched the taxi drive off. It was a sunny day, the breeze gentle and refreshing. He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and approached the front door. Should he knock or simply walk in? He decided to knock. He cocked his head as he heard the rustle of someone approaching the door.

He pulled himself to his full height, held the roses perfectly upright in an offering position, and was poised to mouth the words that he'd been practicing.

The door opened.

‘My darling, I am—'

He was immobilized, in shock and speechless. The roses slipped through his hands and fell to the ground.

‘Cynthia?'

‘Hello, Carlton,' his wife said. ‘We've been expecting you.'

He looked beyond her to where Mrs Wiggins sat facing the door, half-glasses low on her nose, a knowing smile on her face. The joyous, happy music of Donizetti's
La Fille du Régiment
filled the air.

He tried to say something but words wouldn't come.

‘Come in, Carlton,' Cynthia said. ‘Don't just stand there. Are the roses for me?'

‘What?'

‘The roses. They're beautiful. You'd better pick them up before you step on them.'

She stepped aside to allow him to enter.

‘Hello … Mom,' he managed.

‘Hello, Carlton.'

‘I … ah—'

‘Do you like what we've done with this charming cottage?' his mother-in-law asked. ‘Of course we've only had a few days since buying it but I think we've managed quite nicely, don't you?'

‘You … you've bought this cottage?'

‘And at a very reasonable price,' the older woman said. ‘You might say it was a steal. Of course, Walter taught me well how to make prudent use of money.'

‘Where is—?'

‘Your friend, Ms Ellanado? She's gone. She was quite reasonable, too. It didn't cost much to send her on her way, especially when it was pointed out that you are a hunted man, and that being with you would be bad for her. She sold herself quite cheaply, Carlton, but then again that sort usually does.'

He laid the roses on a table and fell into a chair, shaking his head and mumbling something unintelligible.

‘Like my new dress?' Cynthia asked, posing in front of him. ‘Mother and I have had a wonderful shopping experience in this lovely city.'

‘You sent Gina away?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you bought this cottage?'

‘Yes. When we discovered it, Mother convinced me that it would make the perfect winter getaway for us. You know how cold the winters have been recently in Toronto.'

Smythe stood and took steps in the direction of the door.

‘No need for you to go, Carlton,' Cynthia said. ‘When I first learned that you had this woman here in Argentina I was devastated, as you can imagine. But time heals all wounds. Doesn't it, Mother?'

Mrs Wiggins answered with a smile and raised eyebrows.

‘So no need for you to go, Carlton,' Cynthia repeated. ‘I've forgiven you, although I'm sure you'll understand that it will take some time for trust to be restored between us. But in the meantime we might as well celebrate being together again. There's a nicely stocked bar in the back. Why don't you make us martinis? And Carlton, p-l-e-a-s-e, not too much vermouth.'

A
nd so Carlton Smythe, fifty-one-year-old mild-mannered electrical engineer and long-suffering husband, had returned home. He'd come full-circle since concocting the plan that would free him to pursue the voluptuous Gina Ellanado and live a life of luxury with her in their love-cottage on a hill in Argentina. He'd failed.

He, his wife Cynthia, and his mother-in-law Gladys Wiggins, spent the week in the Buenos Aires cottage before returning to Canada. The women commandeered the cottage's only two bedrooms; Smythe slept on the couch, which was where he preferred to be. Mother and daughter went on a daily shopping spree, insisting on modeling their new wardrobes for him. ‘Nice,' was all he could manage to say. ‘Very nice.'