0 comments/ 5962 views/ 0 favorites Crime Time By: RetMarut As long as Sofia blew her cigarette smoke away from him, Ransome Farrell tolerated her nasty habit. Tobacco was one weed he himself had never inhaled. Therefore, he was acutely aware of its stink. Her bare ass rolled on his naked lap while she indulged in a post-coital butt. Her ember burned outside Farrell's Buenos Aires balcony. Night concealed them. From his 10th floor vantage they gazed down upon contrasts of black and blue. Blue courtesy of a full moon shining behind his building. A rare few fluorescent lights gave form to distant torres spiked along the Rio Plata shore. Red airplane aversion beacons spotted the South Atlantic velvet. Really noticing now for the first time Farrell saw how this city abetted burglary. Feeble streetlamps elbowed some light onto the sidewalks. Leafy curbside trees and lamp covers prevented sharp illumination above buildings' ground floors. Or viewed from street level those same trees and glare clearly hampered seeing the upper floors. Unless one specifically trained sight. Which given ordinary nighttime distractions, its debilitating partying effects, or a woman like Sofia, who'd actively inspect otherwise obscure facades quietly marching down a residential street? So basic conditions favored Omar and his second-story crew. All they needed was proper execution. "What are you thinking about?" Sofia's purr, her warm dry breath against his ear, dissolved the criminal stage. Farrell squeezed her waist, kissed her smooth shoulder. Sofia's ass dug into the springy tangle of his crotch, stirring him. "You, baby," he whispered. "You." Being the center of attention energized Sofia. She craved the spotlight. Thrived under it, actually. Earlier during the Good Friday evening, Farrell had escorted Sofia and her retinue to one of the newest nightclubs in one of the Palermos. Post-crisis, that neighborhood had split into at least three distinct segments. Farrell couldn't differentiate them. The Palermos or clubs. To him each Palermo consisted of street grids stubbed by acres of residential low rises. At least in clubs the women were sultry and sleek. Those happy crowds pushing in or spilling out of the gaudy emporiums looked alike. But the girls knew. They kept pace with current hotness. For all he knew they themselves determined where fleeting worthiness would be bestowed. Sofia's train resembled her minutely. Thin, busty, deeply basted brunettes whose demeanors were insufferably proud. Like Sofia, they too possessed intellects nurtured through their parents' high social positions. So much so that past masks of considerable conceit, each girl could comport herself charmingly should she or the situation require it. Naturally all were unemployed. Farrell tried imagining their listless lives. They rose late, bitched at their maids, phoned one another for consensus regarding whose pool ought host that day's sloth. Fragile gates clasped rusting wrought iron fences which imprisoned them as well as haplessly defended against the increasing number of humble Buenos Aires citizens. Overgrown flora also inadvertently camouflaged these once elegant now decaying villas known as "mi casa." Desert reared, the summery November air behind these enclosures struck Farrell as fetid. More so than if he stood by the Rio Plata itself. What did the girls discuss on these lingering afternoons? What sort of daydreams did the languid hours foster? Argentine TV broadcast plenty of superficial North American culture. The trashier, the more revered. Farrell asked neither Sofia nor her cohort. He feared their facile answers. Occasionally the girls' fathers extended money to promote their idleness. Cigarettes, mostly, gulped those meager sums. Cheap national labels, rarely the prestigious craved-for American brands. Which was one of many reasons each of Sofia's associates hungrily awaited her dates with Farrell. Their third night out Farrell discovered she formed a package deal; that a harem latched onto him. He never decided whether Sofia persuaded him or had he merely succumbed to lovely female numbers. Yet after one night into the next Farrell found himself footing the merrymaking tab for six of Sofia's closest amigas. Uncomplainingly. All of whom ate little but smoked and drank as if propelled by vice-starved fiendishness. Farrell and his all-girl entourage enlivened scenes wherever they patronized. Chauffeured in two remises that disgorged him amid a swirl of lovely, leggy, curvaceous females whose necklines exhibited plenty of succulent chests, the management of the invaded establishment assumed him a "somebody" then acted accordingly. Fortunately, he had the money and stamina to maintain these indulgences. The covetous stares his escorts drew from other women became envious as cocktails flowed and ashtrays brimmed. Lacking sufficient means themselves, their dates fumed, their manly ire washing over Farrell. His easily being twice the girls' ages didn't bother other men. In fact if asked they would've complimented him on his virility and wished the same for themselves at that age. Anger arose because as circumstances stood only miracles could deliver them from lifetimes of meager wages and worse prospects into ready cash and the advantages it conferred. Nights out with Sofia and her friends quickly devolved into edgy escapades. Snarky gossip twisted into full-throated slander. For a relationship he considered spotty at best, Sofia was quite possessive of him. She marked him. Her friends reflexively, though cordially, distanced themselves. Farrell always knew when strange women eyed him. Sofia clutched his arm tighter or cleaved against him. Her eyes likely narrowed and she probably flashed her teeth to further warn off potential rivals. Aside from Sofia, the other girls flirted shamelessly, almost maliciously. Although in truth what began as cruel manipulation frequently resulted in trembling sex swaps at some love hotel. Stateside, such per-hour lodgings would've been seen as jumped-up hot-sheet motels. Given Argentina's still precarious economics, the paucity of jobs, adults who otherwise ought have lived independently while ascending careers, remained under parental roofs. Though this circumstance guaranteed homes it denied privacy. Therefore, love hotels, places where horny couples might exhaust one another's frustrations. Until Sofia told him, Farrell had no idea how they existed. Sofia was a grateful fan of such addresses. The better ones naturally. She preferred men who fucked her in mirrored bedrooms with mini-bars stocked with Champagne splits, whose bathrooms contained spas. As a regular at several restive locations, Sofia even carried the respective discount cards. Farrell declined her offer for an up close and horizontal visit. Any disappointment she kept well hidden. After socializing ended, the gang slinking home or dispersing wherever, Farrell and an exceptionally willing Sofia resumed private dancing in his apartment. She ignored his fastidiousness about clothing. Maybe imagining a maid hiding nearby, Sofia shed shoes at the door. A brief garment trail led into his bedroom. Always before joining her he grasped flutes from the freezer and a decent brut out of the icebox. Sofia never helped unbutton his shirts. But she was good to unbuckle his belt, unzip his trousers, then shove them and his boxers down his thighs where she could clutch his cock. Not only the scars along it captivated Sofia but that he was circumcised also fired her interest. Although the question begged asking, Farrell resisted. He just assumed the procedure less common in Argentina than Stateside. When contemplative, he wondered if she sucked him off so thoroughly, so lovingly, because of his joint's "marked" properties. She lavished tongue and lips up and down his length. Sofia sucking dick was almost better than fucking her. Almost. Thankfully, unlike too many other women he'd screwed, Sofia's oral attentions weren't obligatorily performed. He'd nailed a lot of women who resented giving blow jobs. Then gave them badly. Besides devoting careful tongue upon his cock's every twist, Sofia swallowed him long after where other women gagged. She devoured him accompanied by a soft 2/4 humming issuing from some lower spot in her throat. Not so much primal, he considered this reflex a controlled breathing method. At the depth she took him, the steadying count staved panic. Of course he reciprocated. Rather than kneel while blowing him, Sofia preferred laying atop his torso. Always. Good as she treated his meat, he never asked why. During these sessions Sofia's small round culo filled his face; his tongue slipped among the lower ruffles of her tight sex. Much enjoyment as she derived from this uncommon approach, his attention elsewhere generated far greater response. Farrell wasn't being intentionally dense but when Sofia lowered her ass crack against his mouth, he misread this repositioning as somehow improving her angle around his cock. Once he saw past male imperative Farrell understood. He didn't necessarily agree with it but acquiesced to her silent insistence and spotless hygiene nevertheless. His thumbs easily parted her pliant ass. He saw Sofia's then harmless pucker as a particular challenge. Farrell noted less effort below his waist. Sofia's anticipation diminished focus on his manhood. Overcoming first-time fears and the worst, his tongue tip shyly tapped her rear chime. Sofia's swoon grounded his worry. His flick jarred her harder than his dick ever would. Her gluts seized fist-hard. Her thin legs squeezed his ribcage. The moans seeping around Farrell's cock from Sofia's full mouth enthralled him more so than the lowing she uttered while they fucked. Teasing her from behind enough forced Sofia to release his bone so she could grovel in his pubic briar. She often took his ball sac in hands and rolled its loose heavy contents across her nose, cheeks and lips. Sometimes it was so good he sniffed the quiff dripping down her snatch onto his neck. That's how he spent evenings with Sofia leading to Easter. Perhaps had Pascua been celebrated in April, Adriana would've filled his bed those nights instead. Bedding her rather than Sofia would've been a whole different other kind of nice. Less hectic, certainly. No. Less furious. Maybe even Easter dinner at her family table. The allure of a home-cooked meal eaten in family setting died hard. Farrell bet Adriana's mother really could slap it together over a stove. Weather led to Adriana's absence. Late March remained invitingly warm. It was persuasive enough for an extended Mar del Plata weekend. Her whole family vacated Buenos Aires. Which not only benefited Sofia and her party-loving friends, but Farrell too. Omar and his crew chose the long Easter weekend; an empty city was perfect for their next heist. Indirectly, Omar delivered Mariel to Farrell. Well, Omar's behavior did. His loving roughness had assumed a more punishing aspect. Adriana had made entreaties for weeks. Mariel stayed loyal for the longest despite the big money Farrell's intermediary offered. Ignorance blinded Omar to the good thing he shared with Mariel. He just shouldn't have smacked her that last time. Especially after having revealed so much business through pillow talk. Farrell's money dangled enticingly. Those numbers could salve plenty of hurt and justify betrayal. Mariel might've been a good-looking woman. Too many years of servitude slumped her shoulders and kept her eyes averted during conversation with figures perceived as grand. She was of that multitude who'd waste more energy lamenting her plight than expend effort in raising herself. In early March, Adriana accompanied Mariel to café where the shy victim finally met Farrell. While the tables occupied weren't at the Tortoni, they were swaddled in similarly ornate splendor. All to overwhelm Mariel. He didn't want any suddenly rediscovered loyalty pangs interrupting their chat. What scant remaining fealty money and décor failed erasing, liveried attentive servers completed. Her broken faucet of a mouth rolled all the way over on the wheelman and his pals. During Mariel's tale of woe, bleated in a manner maximizing her dedication and suffering, mixed in with generous menu helpings, Omar's crew fell and the mark revealed. Farrell admired the gang's timing. Easter night. A good many Porteños should be elsewhere until late Easter Monday. Those remaining would use the evening to resume life after Lent. How many Porteños might be stumbling and stupefied Sunday night/Monday morning? As many as possible. He liked the timing for another reason. Wallman was turning up the heat under every official burner. The consular man was a horny woman's wet dream become nightmare: a six-foot prick. Initially Farrell had dismissed the career officer. True believer as he obviously appeared in the administration's skewed ideology, Wallman now toiled hip-deep in mañana culture. To fun-loving Argentine sensualists Wallman's rectitude must've seemed inhumane. Who knew if Wallman saw anything beyond his strictly prescribed lines? Farrell laughed heartily after receiving his first invitation to an embassy function. Inside, security wouldn't have done something as dramatic as cuff him on the premises. Certainly, though, he'd get served a subpeona. Outside the United States and its territories the summons had no juice. If he received one on a foreign street, Farrell could've wiped his nose or ass with one. In any recognized American jurisdiction, however, which the embassy was, he became legally answerable. Period. Failure to comply would've made him a fugitive. And even the Argentines respected that status. So no devouring canopies, swilling drinks and bullshitting the ambassador for Ransome Farrell. Wallman phoned him often at his office. The two held terribly brisk conversations. The government man harped on "witness tampering" and "suborning testimony," while Farrell replied "perjury trap." During these exchanges Farrell's curiosity only extended to how soon their chats might end. Concerning Wallman himself, Farrell didn't care and really couldn't be bothered. Meeting Wallman in the flesh gave him no regrets about his earlier disregard. The government man oozed upon Farrell while seated outside under a San Telmo restaurant canopy. Farrell had been chewing his way through a chivito and drinking however many Quilmes necessary to finish the jammed flatbread sandwich. It was a laborer's meal. Perhaps a bit too much for someone lazing days away behind a desk, when he sat at his desk, but his tapeworm metabolism crushed calories. Increasing his beer intake, the pages he skimmed of La Nacion and El Clarin were particularly contradictory that afternoon. Embodying oily and malevolent spirits, Wallman manifested himself at Farrell's sidewalk table. Just looking at him one knew the visitor misplaced. Swelter as the day did, Wallman showed up wilting in full rig. The perfect tie knot strangled him. Good. His introducing himself was superfluous. Wallman must've been stifling in his dark suit, Farrell should've kept him standing. But the relaxed atmosphere suffusing San Telmo, a district redolent of 19th Century Buenos Aires charm and grace, full of pretty strolling who slyly passed glances upon male diners, the tasty meal he digested, those icy heat relieving Quilmes, all combined towards a generous spirit. One that allowed him to offer Wallman a seat. Courtesy braked there. If the G-man wanted a drink let the fuck spend his salary. Or were they Farrell's tax dollars? Had the mediocre not been seeking their own, no way a goober like Wallman got promoted from the State Department's dustiest recesses to fill any overseas position. Back in the 90s, Farrell imagined the interviewing officer skimming Wallman's references. On the personal interests line Farrell wondered how "speaking in tongues and snake handling" played? He didn't derive that observation frivolously. Unobtrusive as it should've been, a slim gold crucifix rested against Wallman's tie. "I've been meaning to get by the embassy," Farrell said, "but self-preservation always interrupts me." "We'll be on the lookout for you," Wallman said, cheerfully. "We look forward to your visit. Our people are desperate to see you." "I'd be bad company. I doubt I'd have anything interesting to say." "Please, Mr. Farrell. Don't sell yourself short." "Don't worry. I'm not for sale." Wallman's smile either sickened or he passed gas through his mouth. He soured quick. "Roderick Quinn must owe you big time to whisk you off and give you an offshore no-show job," Wallman said. Farrell winked. "Juggling all my bar tabs requires constant attending. Anyway I'm providing a great service to the company down here." Wallman scoffed. "What's that?" "Between you and me, I'm keeping Roddy Quinn from enduring unnecessary invasive questioning and public spectacle by know-nothing chickenshits." Contempt tumbled through Wallman's voice. "You and the others Quinn has spirited away are obstructing justice. Does justice mean anything to you? It should. You once actually swore an oath to protect and defend the country." "First, the oath refers to the Constitution," Farrell said. "Second, is justice worth defending when a few little men with little minds meet in little rooms and decide willy-nilly into whose lives they thumb through?" "We're at war," Wallman sighed. "Against the American public? Are you protecting us or pursuing us?" "That's highly simplistic and very wrong." "That so? There are guys rotting in Cuba and who knows where else ready to debate those points. Being rounded up in the wrong place at the wrong time shouldn't automatically sentence someone to an anonymous fate, should it?" "Mr. Farrell, my pay scale doesn't even allow me to think about policy, much less debate it. But I can tell you what your country needs from you. It needs you to come home." "I'd almost be happy to but grand juries make me nervous," Farrell said. "They have nasty habits of handing up indictments. Especially after hungry prosecutors massage the procedure. That troubles me. It should trouble everybody." A bit too smiley, Wallman said, "You have nothing to worry about. Just appear. Tell the truth. That's all we need. Simple." "Sure," Farrell said. "I sell out a little tomorrow and you guys come back asking for a lot more the next day. Enough of that and I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror. Or worse we'd start seeing eye-to-eye. No thanks. This sinner enjoys showing his face around flawed but decent people." That might've been the moment where Wallman's errand crossed into obsession. Or as Farrell later put it, "from Deputy Dawg into Lt. Girard." Those American television references perplexed the Thursday Afternoon Club. Inside the shadowy Oasis bar condensation beads etched trails down their beer bottles. Tommy's Rat Pack selections crooned off the juke box. A cartoon dog and tireless pursuer of a fictive fugitive confused the other Club members nearly as much as his earlier perjury trap explanation. They failed understanding how if two accusations were unrelated, that nonetheless the first charge, after skillful manipulation, could be prosecuted under the second. "Your boss, Quinn, the authorities are looking at him for ... business?" Tommy asked. "Could be," Farrell said. "But he's been questioned about women?" Kurt asked. "About his private life?" "So I've heard," Farrell said. "But how is a man's private life any of the government's concern?" Tommy asked. "He took the honorable step and declined, no?" Kurt added. "Roddy Quinn is an honorable man," Farrell said. "The lady in question remained, uh, unsoiled by innuendo. And his wife is none the publicly wiser." Crime Time Mick circled closest to the problem. "But your boss, let's say to clear one femme and keep another in the dark, he wasn't quite on the up and up in the dock. Say he finessed his statements. Somehow the law susses its incompleteness. They then can use his, er, gentlemanly evasions as a pry against his business dealings? That ain't right!" "Even though one has nothing to do with the other," Tommy said, "you mean because he protected the lady, as well as diverted harsh attention off his missus? Can a man's decency be used to hang him on that other matter?" "If possible, yes," Farrell said. "You have 'extenuating circumstances' in America," Kurt said, preening somewhat after using the legal reference. "Surely your law officers realize certain interactions require propriety. Especially in public. But yet they want to hold the higher instance against the lower charge and force guilt?" "Pretty much," Farrell said. His three drinking companions scoffed, scowled while questioning the sanity of American jurisprudence. Their indignation almost edged into vehemence. Usually European contentiousness, the Old World's well-honed ability of dissembling the most arcane subjects from every impossible angle mystified Farrell. After all, he wasn't Ian Abercrombie! Now there was an Easterner just a few short beers from personifying an intellectual! Yet the Club's inability to reconcile the obvious seemed appropriate. Common sense said the two claims were exclusive. Only confounding legal logic could bind them so completely. Better, they left off altogether any injudiciousness by his boss, Roderick Quinn. To a man Farrell hoped each judged both men's characters through their conduct; Quinn by his evasion, Farrell by his flight. Mariel's detailing Omar's crew, its habits, the next target pushed Farrell. He discounted informing the police. They were unreliable professionals. Before any chance to bungle the bust, sieved information by Porteño cops would've tipped off the gang. Apprehending Omar and company needed Farrell's hands-on attention. The task needed an associate. Any native Argentine acquaintances were immediately dismissed. Right or wrong, he saw them all as suspect. He shot down an idea of asking New York to deliver somebody capable and trustworthy. Time was short. Moreover, this task demanded a man familiar with the setting. Farrell cast eyes upon the Thursday Afternoon Club. Tommy had the necessary mindset but was too old. Kurt's build and demeanor made him formidable, yet he seemed the sort who'd undergo some crisis of conscience where an instant begged reaction. It would have to be Mick or Plan B. Except there was no Plan B. Mid-March, Farrell located Mick at one of his job sites. Workday sun reddened the fit Englishman. He jabbered a practical kind of Spanish his foreman then elaborated for the laborers. Seeing Farrell surprised the Englishman. Mick smiled. "What do I owe this gift, my son?" Farrell led them beyond earshot and quickly explained. Mick's face remained blank. At the end he simply agreed. His calmness shook Farrell. Farrell gave him some 'exits.' "This could backfire. All sorts of crazy shit could jam us both up." Mick grinned. "I'm not scared. I've been nicked before. Long before I became respectable, I mean. Being a model citizen has its advantages. Excitement isn't one of them. 'Sides, it'll break up my usual fucking routine!" Mick enlisted, Farrell decided saving all reconnoitering for Holy Thursday. On that day the greater Buenos Aires populace would be fleeing, placing the city in flux. People eagerly looking towards an extended weekend should've provided ample cover for their sorties. Another advantage with Mick as his accomplice: a gun up in the former navy man's face wouldn't necessarily send shit down both pants legs. Successful or not, Farrell's scheme required eventual police intervention. Buenos Aires cops followed the Latin American law enforcement pattern -- big guns and willingness to shoot. Especially at night. After work Thursday, the two met near the prospective heist. As speculated, frenzied pedestrians thickened what ordinarily were sparsely-trod sidewalks. Farrell and Mick strolled inconspicuously. The apartment building, a bland eight-story edifice, had a doorman and motion-sensitive lights above the front overhang. Mick said he thought the street looked familiar. Farrell half-heard him and grunted. Mick gandered further to refresh his memory. Balconies started jutting on the second floor. Heavy gauge meshing enclosed each projection. Upon arriving in Buenos Aires these screens were among the first peculiarities Farrell noticed. Those and steel roll gates on windows. He wondered were these dissuasive measures recently introduced or had economic disparity always been so prevalent to demand them. Short steps past the front door, the service entrance. Concertina wire topped an iron bar gate. Farrell fished two pieces of metal out of his pants pocket. While Mick's back shielded him, he inserted, twisted, jiggled them in the keyhole until the lock gave. At the end of the service path the door yawned open. An alcove blocked direct sight from the front of the lobby. The service elevator and fire stairs stood hidden opposite the passenger lifts. Again another propped door. That one opened into the emergency stairwell. They hustled upward lightly. None of the fire doors they passed were ajar. Their ascent stopped on the roof landing. Farrell checked the doorframe. No contact plates indicating any magnetized locks or sensors. Dull knob and spring cylinder suggested this assembly could've been installed since initial occupancy. They stepped onto the roof. Hot as the sidewalk had been, sun off the tar roof scalded. His sight scoured the black plain. Nothing showed that residents used it for a convenient tanning beach or nighttime air refuge. At least he saw no cigarette butts, matches, wrappers, cans, bottles or cups. Surrounding neighborhood structures conformed to the same approximate height. Variances were four or five feet at maximum. Fortunately, Farrell thought, these buildings were raised long after Buenos Aires' Beaux Arts infatuation. Some might've considered Modernism distant and brutal against the earlier style's sinuous curves and gentle slopes. However, decorative coves, cones or domes offered troublesome blinds. Farrell walked to the roof's precipice. Below, balcony roofs, the overhang, trees blossoming across the sidewalk obscured this roofline. At night it would be invisible. "I know this block," Mick repeated. "Do you?" "Yah. There's a knocking shop on the corner." Mick pointed. "A what?" "A bordello. Before I knew the score, I may've frequented it often." "You have a whorehouse directory or something, Mick?" The Englishman grinned. "Sometimes the anchor can't wait to be dropped." Farrell laughed. "Okay. Show me this snug harbor." He chased Mick across several roofs. After inspecting the door, Farrell picked the lock and they descended. "The girls may work on the fourth floor," Mick said. "Best thing, no doorman. Just an intercom." "Good," Farrell said. "I was wondering about access. With the motion light that time of night it'd just be our luck to have the city's only pair of sober eyes spot us while I'm jimmying the service gate. We'll drop in the same direction as Omar's crew. So, where are the working girls?" "If that puff is still here, I guarantee women will be manning the mattresses Easter," Mick said. "Better still the neighbors will be used to odd-hour traffic," Farrell said. Downstairs in the foyer, they scanned the tenant directory. Among the fourth-floor addresses, "S. Desear." Mick snickered. "You must love tarts with senses of humor." "This is coming together," Farrell said. Adriana worked at the restaurant Holy Thursday night. She didn't sleep at Farrell's afterward. Knowing how her family looked forward towards Pascua weekend at Mar del Plata, Farrell gave her cab money for the direct commute home. If they left thw city early enough perhaps they might avoid a bit of Route 2's glacial traffic jam. On Good Friday he contacted Autera. Farrell requested the name and phone numbers (home and office extension) of an understanding officer with "pull" in the neighborhood comisaría. Autera accepted his vague necessity uncomplainingly. Any curiosity in Autera's voice faded into standard civil servant compliance. Mid-afternoon the go-between responded, giving Farrell what he needed about a Captain Stinelli. After that both wished the other pleasant holidays. Holy days did not deter Sofia. With Adriana gone she sought to exploit her lengthy absence for all its worth. Not only Friday, but Saturday too. She would've enthusiastically infringed on Sunday if he hadn't quashed the possibility. Hours before Sofia's second social-sexual marathon, Farrell shopped. Common as the sought items were Stateside, he expected trouble finding one, much less two, in Argentina. Instead their easy procurement merely proved a drunken half-assed hypothesis Paul Lowery slurred many years ago. On the return to his apartment, Farrell visited a florist. He bought two dozen long-stem roses. Red and yellow. He insisted the clerk set the flowers in white cardboard boxes rather than wrap them in excelsior or display them in hard transparent plastic. Later that night he presented the red bouquet to Sofia and distributed the yellows among her court. The girls only saw him bearing paper-wrapped flowers. None ever knew about empty delivery boxes still in his apartment. Their gratitude barely exceeded their senses of entitlement. Farrell slept late Easter. He maintained his usual habits. Even if he wanted to phone Mariel for any late developments, he couldn't. She didn't own a phone and was likely to be elsewhere anyway. Sunday night Farrell met Mick around 11. The Englishman questioned him regarding the two flower boxes he carried. Farrell preferred mild mystery, telling him "all will be revealed in time." Until then the American sprung for dinner and drinks. Two hours later casually well-dressed pair taxied to "Desear." A woman buzzed them inside. The fourth floor was deathly quiet. Farrell asked Mick if he recognized the carpet from his last visit. "Until you mentioned it I didn't even know there was anything covering the floor," Mick answered. A stern brunette opened the apartment door. She allowed entry into a commercial establishment masquerading as the put-upon man's home away from spouse. More clubhouse than whorehouse. The apartment was spacious. Farrell suspected by its roominess several walls had been sacrificed towards expansion. Given moments to relax the brunette's steel eyes melted. Her navy blue and white halter held one decent rack. A metallic green miniskirt below her ripped belly showcased muscular legs. A bored blonde joined them. Both women were in their rapidly depleting 20s. The blonde's interest flared upon spying the flower boxes. It immediately died when Farrell pegged their gifts for others. He and Mick stacked them on the closest sofa. The blonde was taller, skinnier than her co-worker. Outsized store-bought tits emphasized her thinness. She had a bland pretty face above floatation devices stuffed in an extra-long soccer jersey. When she wore pants Farrell bet she favored stovepipe jeans. Business featured just these two tonight. Even the receptionist, or whore-wrangler, took the night off. Their stablemates either spent Easter in holy contemplation or lavished girlfriend experiences at Punte del Este, Mar, or Florianopolis. As expected, trade had been sparse. Farrell and Mick were the sole customers for the two who'd drawn short sticks. Mick peremptorily selected the blonde. They marched off towards her mattress. The brunette had told Farrell her name but he'd already forgotten it. She led him into her workspace. Ventilation serviced her bedroom well. None of that furtive sex smell lingered in the air-conditioned cool. Good lighting showed the room clean enough. The price they negotiated was insulting -- to her. American dollar conversions against the local currency left him aware of vast disparities. She quoted a price which would've equaled an average Argentine's weekly salary. Pizza and beer money to him. She stripped nonchalantly. He liked that. Farrell had known too many working girls who disrobed as if they headlined at the Lido. Sex. Either through choice or necessity, this woman understood they engaged in business. Other, better, venues offered entertainment or amusement. Farrell, those preceding and proceeding him, entered these premises for sex. Primal, uncaring, just the desired activity. Unclothed, both appraised the other. She had the tight Argentine body he now expected. Bikini tan lines denoted her the usual avid Porteña sun devotee. Her pubic grooming left trim enough to signify herself as a mature woman. If he read her correctly, she found the lean taut body stretching under his weathered face surprising. A pleasant one. Perhaps she verged on actually grinning. Room light was bad for nuance. He fisted his meat and angered it into rigidity. Off to the side Farrell saw incline cushions. All he wanted was a fuck. Foreplay and coddling weren't on tonight's program. That's what he provided Adriana and Sofia. The closer the robbery approached, the more crowded his mind. He gestured at the sex aids. Sourness wrinkled the working girl's lips. While she gathered then arranged cushions atop her bed, Farrell mused about less acquiescent nights. He sure didn't miss standing while jamming some ass-up/face down woman perched on a mattress edge. Hoping it wasn't made in China, Farrell unfurled the house-supplied rubber. Thoughtfully she kept a tube of sex grease handy. He glazed intimate 40 weight along his rock-hard tool then applied rough dabs in her tender crack. Just to keep her guessing, Farrell rammed a goo-laden finger up her shit chute. The subsequent start and air caught in her throat let him laugh. Her sphincter sealed around his finger tighter than a too small ring. So tight he pushed her bunched ass as he yanked his finger out. He mounted the bed, then her. Farrell's blunt head bumped inside her thighs before finding that honey heaven and cramming it. She retorted helplessly every time his hips pounded her ass. Feeble air conditioning weakened more and more with his every thrust. For a whore her pussy was snug. Naturally should he compliment her, she'd reply he was huge. Such fawning would've resulted in a wash. Farrell stroked steadily. His mind seized and released imminent matters. What was hostage to chance? What could go awry? Contingencies? Thoughts constricted, his concentration wandered. From a lifetime ago he conjured Ingrid. The only lover Farrell ever regretted losing. Lush thistle-tinted hair, fair skin and freckled, her voluptuousness luscious, Ingrid embodied the opposite of his female preferences. In youth until tonight Farrell wanted his women dark and compact. The fiery kind who trended towards mercurial. Ingrid's calm white girl rationality sideswiped aloof. In a way if he hadn't met her maybe now Farrell wouldn't be punishing some firm Porteña rump. His entire adulthood perhaps turned on Ingrid's desire for stability. She'd been a service brat, having lived in places he never suspected existed. Her recitations of life in Anatolia and southeast Asia turned his native Southwest gray and dull. For a time she even made him resent his folks' choices; those which dumped them there in the desert. Only after he entered full adulthood did Farrell realize the unformed selfish stupidity Ingrid's influence raised. His. Ingrid. She hadn't tempted and mocked him through daydreams or duress in months. Farrell slipped his hands between the incline cushion and the shaking whore's damp chest. He palmed both her girls. Her nipples further peaked under his considerate handling. The weight and heft of real breasts felt good. He'd gladly accept the smallest handful of true tits over a pneumatic saline set any day. He spurted furiously. Her body language told him she'd submitted completely to being overwhelmed. Now through final pure power lunges her body verged on relief. Spent, Farrell having snaked out, she adhered gratefully along the cushion, her back and ass glistening. While she gathered herself Farrell reclined off to the side. Weak fingers, hers, played with his nipples. After a while she just let that hand rest over his heart. They remained immobile until the inevitable beckoned him into dressing. Covered by a dangerously short robe, she followed him barefoot from the room. Bedroom sounds told Farrell Mick still stropped his date. Farrell and his girl wound up in the tidy, well-appointed kitchen. When she offered him a drink, he asked for water. The woman correctly guessed and fetched him a noncarbonated bottle. Thirsty, he gulped it. He hadn't heard the simmering teapot. She grabbed a maté cup from the cabinet. Into this she stuffed crushed leaves from a jar. Cup packed she drove a metal straw into the loam and poured steaming water. The brew bubbled. Her sip of the drink created no facial disfiguration. She offered him her cup. Farrell instantly accepted it. He slugged, hoping his swallow left no visible result. South Americans found maté refreshing. To his Yanqui palate the bitter broth was one step above friendly torture. However, refusing to partake might've been deemed an insult. Soon enough Mick finished driving his girl. Looking sappy on the way to cheese-eating, he entered the kitchen. The blonde shuffled behind him. Apparently their frenzy affected her wardrobe selection because she joined them topless above a pair of camel toe inducing powdery blue soccer shorts. Had he wanted Farrell couldn't have wrested eyes off her tits, the small nipples of which stared back. Two melon-solid hemispheres hung perpendicular off her birdcage upper torso. Farrell's whore distracted him. She offered Mick her maté cup. The Englishman's face surfed into distaste. "Er, well, no thanks. I'm trying to cut back. All the way." Between themselves the working girls cut eyes brimming with lethal disdain. Even if it hadn't been time to leave, the customers' departure became the better part of discretion. The men collected their flower boxes, bade "Ciao-Ciao!" and snuck up to the roof. There, moon glow pulled blue from black. Farrell's eyes swept the area. Nothing seen, nothing heard. They walked towards the prospective crime scene. Mick glanced up and regarded the night sky. "Ain't this full moon going to be their problem?" he whispered. "Earlier, yeah, it would've been," Farrell quietly answered. "But the moon has slid from front to back. Instead of being lit, they'd be silhouetted." "How --?" " -- Checked the week's phases, then last night I gauged positions." "Christ!" Mick hissed, amazed. "In the service, what were you? In logistics or some shit like that?" Farrell grinned. "I was a liquor control officer during the War Against Boredom." At the roof access door, Farrell quickly thwarted the lock. They scurried downstairs. On the appropriate landing Farrell listened for corridor activity before cracking the fire door. Clear, they stepped briskly into the passage and advanced to the right apartment. He hadn't worried about this residence having alarms. The maid serving here, whose chatty exchanges formed a loose and lippy citywide compendium of bandied privacy, confirmed its owners couldn't afford monitoring costs. In Buenos Aires museums and public edifices could barely absorb expenses for sophisticated prevention or detection measures. Nonetheless once inside the dark hush reassured Farrell. Thankfully neither the residents nor the maid had drawn curtains across any windows. Instead scrims fuzzed views and light. Crime Time Mick squinted into frames along living room walls while Farrell eyeballed the balcony. Street darkness seemed exaggerated. He moved to a side window and looked upon the sidewalk. He grinned from grudging admiration. Someone must've recently come along and using a pellet gun -- this being Argentina maybe a slingshot -- knocked out streetlamps in front of and across from this address. Mick asked which of these artworks was valuable. Murk obscuring him, Farrell shrugged. He told Mick to open his flower box. Ribbons off, cover open, baseball bats inside. Each man held 31 ounces of Louisville ash. As Farrell's friend Lowery once foresaw, one might purchase this piece of sporting equipment anywhere. Coldest Siberia. Deepest darkest Africa. But baseballs? No. Gloves? No. Knowledge of the game? Huh? Bats? Absolutely! Through the gloom Mick worked on his grip and swing. The American required no familiarization. "And here I was concerned," Mick hissed. "You said leave off the gun. Fine. I left my cosh behind, too." "These will be persuasive enough," Farrell said. Their wait lasted 90 minutes. Plenty of time for Buenos Aires nightlife to fully cast its magic. Mick first heard ropes skip against the outside mesh. Outlined on the scrim across the balcony's glass sliding door, they watched two hazy shadow puppets drop, stop, unhitch the wire barrier's fire gate latch. Entry granted, both eased onto the terrace. After unfixing ropes from belts, one scratched at the glass door lock. Farrell motioned for Mick to man the light switch. A rattle, click, the glass door rolled open. The scrim billowed slightly, followed by a man's forceful intrusion. Farrell signaled Mick. Light almost seemed solid. It not only froze the first thief, it nearly shoved him backwards. Farrell didn't see his expression. He just swung. The bat barrel tomahawked the first intruder's face. Reflexive hands futilely tried stemming blood geysering from his nose. Screamed curses flowed. Farrell yoked the bleeding man and tossed him at Mick's feet. The thief's accomplice reacted. He straddled the terrace rail and hurriedly attempted rebinding rope to belt harness. Farrell's approach ended his assembly. Frightened, the felon launched himself bodily outside the mesh and attempted climbing hand over hand. Something went wrong. Maybe nerves got him. He slipped. His yelling stopped after he cart-wheeled against the balcony below. He fell through tissue paper branches. His body cratered the roof of a parked car. The impact shattered glass as well as triggered the building's motion sensor lights. Floating tree leaves gently blanketed that busted sprawling figure. Parked on the corner a car revved its engine. Clutch popped, the dark wagon careened 0-60. Probably Omar trying to outrace fear. Farrell looked around in anticipation. One minute. Then two. Nothing. Not a single dark window suddenly blazed along that block. He wondered about the doorman. Surely he hadn't slept through that racket! Farrell shook his head and retreated inside. Their prisoner kneeled. Farrell assumed Mick had already patted down the surviving burglar because the keening man's pockets were turned out. His balled shirt now sopped blood from his face. Farrell used the residence phone. He dialed Captain Stinelli at home. Amazingly the policeman answered. Roused from good deep sleep, but responsive nevertheless. Farrell crisply informed Stinelli. If this cop had ever served under arms then he must've recognized the clipped "report" tones. The other end issued no urgency. Stinelli leisurely told Farrell he'd alert the responsible comisaría. Making them aware of the situation, they'd attend to the matter. "Attend"? "The matter"? Stinelli rang off. Farrell relayed his conversation to Mick. They grinned at such lassitude. "In a civilized country, the Bob would already have splintered this door into kindling!" Mick chuckled. "No gangbusters in Buenos Aires, that's for sure. These lazy fucking Argie bastards ..." The squad which soon arrived more than surpassed Captain Stinelli's perceived laxity. Six burly officers blotted in midnight blue uniforms, one sergeant, a suit, all loaded for a scaly beast surfacing from Tokyo Bay, much less bear, piled into the crime scene. Bundled in bulky armor, they bristled with weapons whose calibers ought have been wheel- or track-mounted. Somehow nobody got accidentally shot in the back while absconding. Minutes later several platoons crowded carpet onto pavement. After Farrell repeated his story to anyone needing officiousness practice, someone decided such a tale demanded thorough vetting. He and Mick became reluctant wards of la policia de Buenos Aires. Passing through the lobby under smothering escort, Farrell caught snatches of the doorman's statement. Sell it as he did, the cops weren't buying how he snoozed so soundly with bedlam outside his post. The precinct's interior was more crushing than its exterior. Farrell had been in some soul-shattering stockades and brigs before -- always as chaser, never the chasee -- and this clammy repository lent those holes holistic splendor. Purposely grim unshaven officers confiscated the foreigners passports then delivered the complainants into small dim cages set apart from the main holding tanks. As one policeman explained to Farrell who translated for Mick, they weren't suspects but just being detained. Left alone though segregated from real criminals, Mick said, "This could be somewhat unpleasant after all. What do we do now?" Farrell sat on his enclosure's lone piece of furniture, a metal bench bolted to the floor. "Mick, this is the part where we cool our jets and wait."