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

lives. It can’t fail. Everything must be done perfectly, no mistakes, no slip-ups. I’m depending on you, Paul. I have faith in you.’
    Saison grinned at the compliment. ‘Hey, Smythe, you can count on me. You know that, huh?’
    â€˜Yes, I know that, Paul. You have to be sure that you’re scheduled to work that night, change your schedule if necessary. I also suggest that you not drink.’
    Saison adopted an exaggerated look of hurt. ‘Why you have to tell me that, Smythe? What do you think, that I drink too much?’
    â€˜No, not at all, Paul, but you’ll have to be thinking extremely clearly that night. Just that night, Paul. Once you’ve shut down the plant you can leave Toronto, go to Montreal or Paris, go anywhere in the world you want to, drink and make love to pretty women, enjoy your life. But on Friday night, the twenty-second, you must be sober. Understand?’
    â€˜OK, OK, Smythe.’
    â€˜Good.’ Smythe pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, wrote on it, ‘Friday, August twenty-two, nine forty-five pm,’ and handed it to Saison. ‘Just a reminder,’ he said.
    The hulking Frenchman tucked the paper in his shirt pocket, refilled his glass, and started to pour into the empty glass in front of Smythe. ‘Come on, Smythe, drink up. We celebrate.’
    Smythe stood and said, ‘No, I have to be going.’ As he headed for the door his cell phone rang.
    â€˜Smythe? It’s Dom Martone. You called?’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Thanks for getting back to me. I, ah, I really can’t talk now.’
    â€˜That’s OK, pal. I want you to come to the restaurant.’
    â€˜The one we met in before?’
    â€˜That’s the one, pal. A half hour. Can you make it?’
    â€˜Yes, I’ll be there.’
    Saison laughed after Smythe had ended the call. ‘A lady calls you, huh?’
    â€˜Ah, yes, Paul, a lady. I’ll be in touch again soon.’

THIRTEEN
    S mythe arrived at Martone’s restaurant at a little before nine. The pizza parlor in front was virtually empty; only two tables were occupied. As Smythe came through the doors the faint sound of a tenor voice singing an aria from a familiar opera came through the brick back wall. Smythe tried to identify the opera but couldn’t come up with the name. The pizza parlor manager approached. ‘A table?’ he asked.
    â€˜No. I’m here to see Mr Martone. He’s expecting me.’
    The manager went to the rear door and knocked. Hugo answered. The manager whispered something to him. Hugo squinted at Smythe to verify that he was a familiar face. He motioned, and Smythe entered the back room where the music was now louder. Hugo shut the door and retreated to the corner where his skinny partner sat.
    Martone was seated at the table. A white napkin was tucked into his shirt collar, and he sang along with the recorded aria. Smythe took the second chair.
    â€˜You know this opera of course,’ Martone said.
    â€˜Oh, sure, of course I do.’
    â€˜
Rigoletto
,’ Martone said. ‘Verdi.
La donna e mobile
.’ He picked up where he had left off and accompanied the tenor in a voice that surprised Smythe. He sounded as good to him as anyone he’d heard sing at the musicales at the house. The aria ended and Martone laughed while surreptitiously dabbing at one eye.
    â€˜So, what’s up?’ Martone asked.
    â€˜I’m ready to move with our project.’
    â€˜Good, good, like to hear that.’
    Smythe looked back at Hugo and his colleague before saying to Martone, ‘Could we talk someplace more private?’
    â€˜These are my associates, Smythe. Don’t worry about them.’
    Smythe nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘The date is set.’
    â€˜Good. What is it?’
    Smythe extended his hands palms-up, like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
.
    Martone grinned. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, ‘You want