3 comments/ 12032 views/ 0 favorites No Rules. Just Victims. By: RetMarut The bellboy wrangled a fine piece of ass for Ransome Farrell. Accustomed to dealing with gringo businessmen the kid used one smooth bilingual patter. After suggesting an obligatory bottle of whiskey and setups, the boy seamlessly advanced the likelihood of very compliant female company. Or if the well-tailored guest were so bent, a certain kind of young man. The prissy head clerk jockeying the reception desk probably saw such tawdriness as affronts to his position. Mixed somewhere in his injured dignity was an adage concerning little power swelling small people. Above it all as the head man might've professed, Farrell never doubted he raked his percentage from those working girls (or boys) plying their upstairs. The idea of such "relaxation" agreed with Farrell. It punctuated leaving Argentina and arriving in Mexico. His North American return lacked drama. Pilot, co-pilot and sexy flight attendant shared an Embraer with him. The woman hinted at being the mothering kind. If he hadn't spotted the wedding ring circling her finger, the jet's cabin offered spaciousness enough for incestuous relations. Farrell's paucity of luggage merited no raised eyebrows at reception. Most of the clothes he'd bought and worn in Buenos Aires remained there as donations. In the garment bag he brought pressed several suits, dress shirts and one thin supple black leather jacket. His leather carry-on held shoes and shaving kit. Other than the last item everything else originated from descendant Milanese tailors or cobblers. They'd get little use in Solipaz, Mexico. Needing more practical clothing he'd forwarded a list to the New York office. Someone should've retrieved those items from his apartment and shipped them. Indeed the hotel clerk verified that suitcases waited in his room. A package also. He signed in under his Argentine passport. Knowing how Latino staffs gossiped, especially at lofty addresses, Farrell assumed kinship might lower certain cultural hurdles. As an "Argentine" he'd enjoy less smiling animosity than a gringo. The purple and gold embossed document presented shook the clerk's sangfroid. Throat-clearing got his associates' attention. They raised eyebrows and nodded approvingly. In his room, Farrell tipped the boy as if he'd descended from River Plate fans. Greenbacks for doing nothing more than toting two light bags cemented the kid's lifelong service. Farrell asked him to fetch a bottle of bourbon, top shelf, then in an hour deliver some companionship. The boy asked for preferences, if any. "Docile, female, and dark," Farrell said. Grinning, the boy nodded vigorously. Farrell assumed not only did his facilitator already have one selected, but that their criteria jibed. They were simpatico on the elemental level. While the kid retrieved Farrell's first necessity, the guest inventoried his shipment. Whoever went through his apartment closets and drawers did a good job. The essentials were there. Jeans. Work shirts. Bolo ties. Shitkickers. Rodeo belt buckles. Neckerchiefs. The requisite straw hat he'd buy after meeting with Grady, the facility manager. After filling his wardrobe, Farrell opened a brown papered package. It held altogether different contents. A .38 and a 9 mm along with respective boxes of cartridges and holsters. Given he'd most certainly be an interloper amid less than genteel barrios, moreover adding Solipaz' narcotraficante wildcards, brandishing a sidearm was a good thing. During daytime he hoped only flashing his nine iron sufficed scaring any hard cases. At sunset such courtesy vanished. He'd resort to the .38 as backup bang. Before securing his weapons, Farrell certified they worked properly, their serial numbers were filed and both had been cleaned. Done, the boy returned with his liquor and fixings. Before leaving, the bellboy reminded Farrell his "relajación" would arrive shortly. Alone, Farrell rattled several ice cubes into a tall glass, busted the bottle seal and poured many fingers. The pulls he rewarded himself jolted his stomach, seared his throat, and completely reestablished his North American frame of mind. A shower abetted by the room's air conditioning further invigorated him. It was strange seeing water drain counterclockwise again. A towel girded his waist. Refreshed drink in hand Farrell stretched across the bed. Via TV remote he flipped through digital Southern Arizona evening news broadcasts. Knuckles gently rapped against the door. Farrell rolled off the bed and cinched the towel tighter around his waist just in case housekeeping or maintenance waited outside. No. It was her. Farrell guessed she'd migrated north. From Oaxaca or Chiapas perhaps. Who knew? Maybe even Guatemala. Lovely Indian features burnished by eons of sun looked up in mutual appraisal. Naturally she glimpsed through abyss-deep black eyes and offered dazzling white smiles. Betel-brown as she was, he found it good she neither permed nor streaked the pure raven plummeting between her shoulder blades. Best of all she hadn't skewed her complexion by smearing her lips garish and glossy. The woman called herself Janey. Who was he to dispute that? Janey's outfit left zero room for his imagination to deviate. A short orange strapless dress clung to her. Carelessly slung around her wasp waist one leather and silver change purse. Compact as she was, white open-toed heels raised her ass besides elongating and helping define legs. By Janey's surprised-into-pleased expression, she'd expected some fat pasty gringo. That Farrell, distinguished looking, was tall, lean and apparently fit lent this assignment certain possibilities. He watched how Janey transformed entering his room into a kinetic exercise. Farrell shut the door. Air conditioning stippled Janey's nipples. Both crowns stained through the orange fabric. Farrell offered her a drink. She declined. "I don't blame you," he said. "It's a nasty habit." He polished off his drink in two gulps. Janey sidled against him. She exuded jungle heat. He clasped her upper arms. Her muscle mass was spare but firm. Short thin fingers dug between skin and linen then pulled until the towel rested across carpet. Easing out of his pinion, Janey stepped back. Her gaze reminded him of livestock evaluations. She reached across and jiggled his dick which shook his balls. Both grinned at her teasing. Janey stepped out of her heels, shrinking substantially. Unclasping the chain around her waist, she held onto the purse instead of placing it on some surface. The woman turned, swept luxuriant hair off her back and asked Farrell to unzip her dress. After the zipper sunk no farther, Janey shimmied that garment to the floor. The black thong providing minimal modesty wasn't removed so much as discarded. She faced Farrell and he absorbed her glory. Poky nipples dominated high-riding tits. A modest silver cross hanged between her breasts. An unblemished belly and manicured pube highlighted Janey's lathed body. Farrell's rearing cock confirmed approval. Janey walked to the bed and yanked back the counterpane. Out of her purse she withdrew a rubber. Purse now resting on the nearest beside table, she spread her cocoa body upon vanilla sheets. Farrell tugged his dick rigid then clambered next to her. Bony fingers unfurled latex along his rod. While she sheathed him, Farrell's own fingers investigated the neat carpet between Janey's thighs. Heat seeping from there suggested a blast furnace! He laughed then laughed louder upon seeing her quizzical expression. Mood lightened, Farrell flattened Janey beneath him. Her body's density equaled its resistance. He whiffed her scent although he hadn't fingered her much. Diminutive size aside, she took his cock easier than he would've suspected. She eased his entry through routine. However, her reaction to Farrell's thrusting was anything but rote. Young as Janey appeared, he figured she occupied her prime 20s. The calmness by which she approached her task signaled behavior by muscle memory. The nights when nerves ruled Janey or suspicion hampered her were already long gone. She'd performed often enough to be guided by habit. He gathered that through her demeanor. She comported herself in fixed manner. Farrell liked how she gently but assuredly took charge. Rather than fake enthrallment or yawn, Janey detached herself from him and the task. Or she attempted. She responded but such was calculated. Farrell imagined that's how she endured. How all the better ones did. Especially while servicing fat, sweaty, pig-ugly clients whose sawing centered on leaving her monumentally fucked instead of deriving pleasure. Her body altered its usual message. Farrell's strokes pounded into Janey's professionalism. He steadily kept at it. Most importantly, unlike daytripping gringos or border-crossing businessmen seeking cheap tequila or uncomplicated sex, Farrell's was sober meat desirous of filling her tight wet slit. Janey forgot about maintaining distance. She yielded to his joyous ram and recoil. Her head lolled, eyes closed while she muttered tender nonsense. He climaxed thoughtlessly enough to have these lunges mistaken for violence. When she came Janey shivered and sucked her teeth. Focused again, Farrell saw slyness she'd intended concealing. Afterwards loosely nestled in his arms, Janey snored lightly. Volume set low, the flickering TV screen cast the room's only illumination. Somewhat content because Janey had been contracted until morning, Farrell would fuck her again later that night. Then tomorrow once more before showering. Finally settled, the woman snoozing on his chest a comfort, Farrell reflected on his progression to this point. He found it easier leaving Buenos Aires than arriving there. Improved circumstances also made his departure luxurious. Escaping New York had been an exercise in big-city subterfuge. A friendly Justice Department source informed Roderick Quinn's legal team that subpoenas were imminent for the corporate magnate's three closest support personnel and his "special friend." Quinn's secretary Moira, his driver Coyne, and Farrell who served as the boss' chief of personal security, a suitable title for nebulous duties, should each receive summons issued by US marshals. A fourth was destined for Quinn's "sweetie," a young woman none knew but with whom all were acquainted. Through the quartet's expected grand jury testimonies, the Justice Department intended swirling Quinn in a perjury trap. Testifying in an unrelated matter, the corporate titan answered evasively regarding his private relationships. Since his mistresses filled spheres distinctly apart from business, Quinn believed the government had no right or reason to paw through that area. However, he'd run afoul of powers who saw the personal as political, therefore exploitable. Initially a reluctant administration supporter, its incompetence, neglect, deceit soon soured him completely. So much so Quinn began funneling contributions to the opposition. As Quinn told Farrell, "Being a rich turncoat was the hay bale that busted those fuckers' balls!" Quinn imagined the administration's more vindictive shirkers and narrowbacks selecting him for particularly painful vengeance. Perhaps they thought if their retribution sufficiently public and messy the humiliation might stem future desertions. From the start Quinn understood his former champions were ideologues without honor. Nonetheless their depth of treachery surprised him. That state of mind was short-lived. Individually in utmost privacy he sounded out the four. Under oath they would be compelled to answer truthfully. No fudging, no forgetfulness, no coyness. Just truthful discomfort. Quinn bluntly presented alternatives, benefits and of course consequences. To a person his closest adjuncts chose disrupting their lives for him. He was humbly grateful. Once they assented, the matter merely became putting them into motion. Quinn's Justice conduit gave his lawyer almost simultaneous warning. Promptly alerted the four vanished. For Farrell and Coyne, both bachelors, leaving posed no particular hardship. Sheer youth allowed Quinn's paramour to view the proceedings as an adventure. Agree as she did, forsaking home proved problematic for Moira. The secretary had a husband, one whom she loved. That man exceeded loyalty when receiving pertinent facts he possibly forfeited personal career achievements and subsequent rewards after hastily accompanying his wife into comfortable limbo. Such fidelity astounded Farrell. Moira's husband wasn't a spouse. He was a saint! From where did such people come and where might Farrell find a female version? Per Farrell's instructions they each added their passports to normally carried documents. When the balloon went up there would be no time to waste returning home, searching drawers or visiting safety deposit boxes. Just up and go. Marshals intended serving those subpoenas at 6 AM, the favorite hour of warrants squads everywhere. Not only should the named be home, the time also maximized intimidation. For alleged mobsters and other RICO targets such earliness emphasized their vulnerability. Applying tough guy tactics against working people confirmed overkill, spite from immature, misguided and cowardly leadership. It was the sort of high-handedness that transformed law-abiding citizens into "outlaws." For Quinn's employees and his present girlfriend their workdays ended as usual. A New York fact: all commuted using mass transit. Anticipating light surveillance, Farrell insisted each follow his or her routine. Save for one minor deviation. Rather than detrain at their accustomed stations, they hopped off one stop early. At these, nondescript cars bearing phony license plates retrieved them. The rides afterwards were short. Just to the nearest enclosed garages. Beneath cover the false tags came off while the autos' contraband transferred to different vehicles. Those conveyed them to one of the Metropolitan Area's secondary or tertiary airports. Unsurprisingly, despite September 11th the relative laxity accorded these fields beggared scrutiny. From suburban airstrips four unremarkable corporate jets filed flight plans which terminated offshore. Beyond American jurisdiction, five baggage-deficient passengers boarded regularly scheduled carriers into leisurely exile. During both legs, the bulk of which were flown through night, the Amazon below appeared impenetrable. Gazing into inky verdure Farrell understood regardless of improved geo-positioning devices, how aircraft ditching down there still stayed lost. On his way south Caracas' lights indicated mankind's last mega multitudes for a thousand miles. Farrell preferred his northbound return. At least that afternoon he awoke seeing arid familiarity sliding below him. Janey discharged, the next day Farrell left the hotel's cool cocoon for natural Southwest. Mid-May morning temperature had already entered the 90s. Nothing but sun-seared air between sizzling pavement and cloudless sky. Not the best conditions under which to sport a dark suit but he had an appointment with Grady the plant manager. A hotel shuttle bus deposited him at the facility's main gate. As on his arrival, he saw little of Solipaz proper. The bus route skirted town. Fresh road led from a heavily guarded American suburbia minor to brutal industrial modernity set amid dun scrub. Grady himself, not some flunky, met Farrell at the security island. Balding, tall on a dense frame, Farrell reckoned the executive an easy eight years his senior. Nuts and bolts know-how as he required, Grady's face lacked a clever man's mien. An electric cart conveyed them into the maquiladora. Inside the frigid, enormous, well-lighted building Farrell received one very basic tour. Though both quite aware of the visitor's purpose, Farrell guessed Grady figured some dog and pony might impress one of the few known to have influence on Quinn, the big boss. Farrell ought have cut this short, told Grady he wasted their time. However, it did amuse him to watch responses of the cuter women toiling on the assembly line. By them he determined who Grady had fucked, was fucking and would fuck. The plant manager's office was Spartan. Most impressively, though, his secretary. She was matronly and efficient. In the same position, posted abroad, a less conscientious executive would've found and "cultivated" a local sex bomb who couldn't have boiled water without instruction. Clearly Grady enjoyed his fun in Mexico though not at the expense of his job. The two men seated, Grady excavated glasses and a whiskey bottle from his desk. Farrell disdained morning boozing. He regarded it as a telling vice. Apart from its "manly" connotation, the gesture could be seen as a crutch, a boost, a dependency or weakness. Grady poured two bracing glasses. They raised them then tossed off the spirits after toasting "Amerikey for Americans!" "Now that the socially affable part of our day is done, what can you tell me about this little murder problem of yours?" Farrell asked. Grady spat. "The fucking locals are fucking useless! All the mayor knows is he wants to know nothing! El jefe commandante chalks up every stiff to narcos settling disputes among themselves! Some of the more Pentecostal are accusing the Church of killing these women as blood sacrifice rituals. That's the Catholic Church, mind you, not the Aztec church. Then if that's not enough, dyke women libbers daytrip down here and disturb the paying tourists with rants against reactionary emasculated men! What the fuck!?" Indisputably serious as the crimes were, Farrell nevertheless laughed at Grady's harangue. Calmed, Grady asked, "So what do you think you can do about any of this?" "Maybe hold back the dykes," Farrell said. "Let's see your pictures." Grady walked to his safe. He withdrew an accordion file and gave it to Farrell. "I nearly blew half the month's bribe budget getting these," Grady said. "I had to pay extra so the forensic guys would leave out dead wives, dead girlfriends and dead whores." The bulky parcel overflowed. Its contents heaved across Grady's desktop. Heated as the report skimmed in Buenos Aires then absorbed on his northbound flight was, the photos spewed before him made those words dispassionate. Farrell looked upon revolting consistency. Whoever committed these acts turned his, theirs, or yes, even her niche into a rut. A ghoulish rut. In every frame jugular veins had been severed. Blood-drenched blouses were yanked shoulder-high on the torso exposing missing breasts. These had been completely cut off leaving raw circles. The women's bras were untouched by any knife blade. Instead shoulder straps had been rolled down the arms and aligned with cups along the midriff. Farther below panties exhibited the same care as upper undergarments. Skirts or pants, whole dresses, however, shared the blouses mauling. Each victim's mons had been carved and excised. Now Farrell better comprehended Grady's Aztec reference. "Did they ever find the women's, um ...?" Farrell asked. "Let's just say there's a lot more unattached pussy in Solipaz than there used to be," Grady said. The photographs' reverse sides offered rushed, careless, minimal information. Dates, locations, addresses, ages. Robbery hadn't been a motive in any case. Zircons still encircled necks or wrists. Cheaper baubles still decorated ears. Only after police processing did these personal effects likely disappear. Single women predominated. Farrell's earlier guess proved correct. Most of the victims had migrated from the south seeking improved lives in the maquiladoras. Instead early oblivion claimed them. Farrell stuffed the gruesome pictures back into the recalcitrant file. He looked up at Grady. No Rules. Just Victims. More to himself, Farrell said, "Christ Almighty! This shit's like Enrique Metinides on peyote and mescal." Grady was unfamiliar with the name. "A Mex photographer from way back," Farrell said. "I bet local cops didn't even bother combing through the usual suspects on the offhand chance one or a dozen might've graduated into absolutely nuts." "Jose law isn't getting his mind around his shit," Grady said. "He's praying it's extraterrestrial or American. The first he doesn't have to explain; the second lets him gloat." Farrell grunted agreement. Hard contemplation passed before he made requests of Grady: an office, a web connected PC, several Solipaz maps, an assortment of felt-tip markers. One pot of coffee. Last but not least, confidential moments with Grady's secretary. Since she was born in and reared around Solipaz, she'd likely provide native answers to Farrell's more esoteric questions. "Done!" Grady said. Throughout the day behind a closed door under armed guard, Farrell charted dozens of women's horrible demises. Despite the jumbled pictures, he recognized patterns. Ones which corresponded to lunar phases. Unlike city people, desert dwellers learned early to attune themselves to the moon as well as sun. Supplementing color codes with numbers, Farrell speckled a map into three rough U's. While zones overlapped, bodies occasionally edging into other zones, three month intervals interrupted zonal sequences. Although attacks occurred monthly, they shifted westward until the cycle repeated in the easternmost area. After hiding the photographs Farrell asked for Grady's secretary. The upside down vandalized map piqued her. Righting the map across his desk he inquired about the defaced barrios. In these lived the "humilde." The humble. The poor. He also preferred the Latin notion behind disadvantaged life. Out of the wrong mouths or trapped in the wrong minds, "poor" either became a justified verdict or one righteously condescending attribute. Farrell inquired of areas aside from el centro, maquiladoras and parks, barrios untouched by his pens. She deftly broke down Solipaz' socio-economic mosaic. Grateful and edified through these clarifications he excused her. Coming in Farrell targeted a local perpetrator. The secretary confirmed his hunch. Random as the killings seemed, anyone without back-of-hand knowledge would've slipped up already. If not caught, then slopping fear into the city's pristine fincas. The poor, though, were consigned to vulnerability. The higher the regard, the more responsive the services. This disparity extra prevalent in Latin American countries. Such eviscerations wouldn't have lasted as unremarkably long in any noble barrio. Local cops ought've flooded those streets like gangbusters. Should that remedy prove insufficient Federales would've been dragooned to pacify the affluent by tamping down the unknown menace through their own. The poor, though, the poor were and always will be expendable. He glanced at the calendar. Cinco de Mayo covered the most recent slaughter. The cycle shouldn't gin up again until early June. Shaky calculations allowed him maybe nine days or less to acquaint himself with Soilpaz and maybe devise an interdiction. At least he knew which haystack would hide the needle. Farrell collected his notes, maps, then stuffed the graphic trove back in its carryall. The guard escorted him to Grady's office where the manager accepted the bundle. Only with the most sensitive material behind thick locked steel did he dismiss the guard. "Tell me something, Farrell. Doesn't that shit creep you out?" "Creep me out? No. Turn my stomach? Yes." Grady issued his visitor a loaner from the facility motor depot. Back at his hotel, Farrell ate little and drank lightly. He sacked early knowing tomorrow an "at 'em" day. High morning sun whitened the bustling central plaza. Early as the day was, mariachi bands competed for ears. Other voices further muddled the cacophony. English, Spanish, badly-spoken Spanish, foreign languages reverberated off the enclosed square's surfaces. By listening to the relieved chatter Farrell knew daytripping American pensioners had already filled their prescriptions at Solipaz pharmacies. The amounts saved funded many Margarita-sodden lunches and dinners. Schools of retirees wearing brand new sneakers whiter than their hair shuffled among placid merchants shaded under the pavilions. The goods were either arrayed on blankets on banked on carts. Farrell found a suitable straw field hat quick enough. He promptly broke the new brim into a proper splash and dip. The hat could've been bought in a downtown store. But these days such a store-bought hat likely came from China, not through a local's toil. Pungent fruit and vegetable scents cleared his sinus. Strong below-the-border freshness always grabbed noses estranged from unadulterated ripeness. Then again days later the same goods decaying could also curl nostril hairs. Frying tortillas tested Farrell's resolve by raising nonexistent hunger. The hotel had laid out a hearty ranch breakfast. He saw eating tortillas so soon after that feast as unpardonable gluttony. With humor and recognition Farrell watched callow packs of hooky-playing teen boys. They ventured into Mexico from nothing Arizona towns much as he and his high school buddies had. These new adventurers sought pussy that could be attained through bargaining instead of begging, switchblades and tequila buzzes. He envied the youth they desperately squandered. After reclaiming his car from its nearby parking spot, Farrell drove into one of Solipaz' squalid barrios. He entered the Third World abruptly, starting with the unpaved roads. His loaner's suspension suffered in craters. Due south of downtown Solipaz heaved into bluffs which stared onto the decent part of town, the sparkling maquiladoras and across into El Norte. All without squinting. Flat-roof corrugated metal shacks layered hillsides. The better hovels supported window guards. The luckier ones issued signs of present residence inside. However, the best deterrents against ill-intentioned strangers were bark-crazy dogs or owners who reached their guns before intruders assaulted them. Farrell drove into this jungle camp with the purpose of gleaning the most recent murder site. Despairing of finding any clues he merely hoped getting a sense of place. Car parked, he consulted his map. Orienting himself, Farrell left the loaner, his steps presumably tracing the last victim's. Streetlights were far and few in this barrio. Doubtless a good percentage of them were forever out. A new moon and scant light escaping from aligning houses would've steeped this street in pitch. Had Cinco de Mayo night been cloudless perhaps starlight added enough ghostliness for the most sensitive eyes to pull vague shapes from black. Through that much a local could've picked his or her way easily. An ability he knew from experience. Up the street a roadside memorial caught his attention. Farrell walked towards it. The forlorn cross garlanded by plastic flowers guarded where some shocked merrymaker had found the remains. Farrell wondered how fast the pulque buzz dissipated and how often the poor unfortunate had crossed him-, her- or themselves afterwards. He faced the 100 yards or so he'd traveled. Plenty bad during daylight. Farrell assumed the same stretch one bushwhack highway after sundown. Stealthily as they tried, he heard feet stir desert behind him. Farrell didn't swivel suddenly. He measured his turn. Arrayed ahead of him five vatos holding machetes. Since leaving the car he'd been aware of being observed. Scrutiny was expected. Ordinary Western wear camouflaged certain intruder aspects. His honestly aged clothing revealed no affluence. And his roomy shirt and comfortable jeans concealed the 9 mm scalding the small of his back. Short as the walk had been, the dirt raised dulled his 30-year-old boots. Resoled when necessary, these represented the best investment of his life. He'd hiked in the desert and run through airport concourses in them. Authentic as he appeared, Farrell remained a stranger. The men, stark and implacable, unshaven, bleary-eyed, slovenly from interrupted sleep after menial nights of peon-wage labor, had already assessed him. His addressing them in Spanish prompted no recalculations. Hearing the truth behind his visit changed nothing. Claiming himself an Argentine also fell flat. So much so one of his mouthier challengers demanded Diego Maradona "should suck donkey dick!" Grimly, Farrell thought, at one time the former soccer god's yayo addiction might've tempted such a practice. Maybe the Mexicans hoped Farrell ran. After all his car only sat a football field away. But all knew they'd fall upon him before too many strides. Then his hash would've been settled faster than wolves on a moose. And should the rarely responsive policia wend into this human wilderness seeking him, the multitude having witnessed his dispatch and disposal would truthfully claim no knowledge at all. Despite the obvious menace Farrell wanted no trouble. His 9 mm remedy could've solved these Mexicans one way or another. If so moved, he simply could've drilled each man. Certainly tumult would've erupted in the community after it learned another gringo had shot five of their fellow nationals, regardless of how deserving. Naturally Americans living near the border would've seen Mexican outrage as overwrought. As usual. The penalty incurred for armed assault never crossed his mind. Company greenbacks would've papered over such illegality. Low five-figure largesse awarded to each casualty's family ought have settled all but residual hostility. Tangible folding money proved inarguably that Miguel or Juan or whoever dead was worth more than alive. Farrell smiled at his cynicism. The five opposing him grinned back. They probably misjudged his reaction as acceptance of their own fatalism. After all in Spanish, in Mexico especially, "hope" and "wait" shared the same word. These men lived it. Farrell's hand crept for his gun. He thought merely airing the nine ought disperse them. Otherwise, Rule One of the West: unless ready to shoot never flash a weapon. A woman's voice stayed his hand. Fluent as her Spanish was, her accent wasn't Mexican. The men quit their posturing. They dropped into brusque respect. Had any worn a hat he would've tipped it to the lady. Not fully trusting the lull, Farrell glanced around to see his Guadalupe. Given the timbre of her voice, Farrell anticipated a corresponding view. Instead he was pleased. Rather than belong to some middle-aged, brittle, sun-dried nun in wimpel, the striking woman who'd reduced tensions exhibited possibility. Wearing scuffed brown Western boots she stood tall, shapely and butterscotch under the sun. Copper highlights streaked her long bronze hair. Intelligence leavened the skepticism underlying her face's unadorned prettiness. A cream-colored short-sleeved shirt fluted into honestly faded jeans strengthened her robust figure. Against her chest she clutched a black camera whose stubby lens stared accusingly. Farrell edged towards her. Playing a hunch he spoke English. "You know these boys? Maybe they'll listen to you 'cause I mean no harm up here. No need for anybody to get hurt. Especially them." Letting moments pass she finally replied past Farrell's head. She told the committee he was her ride, the one who'd return her to Solipaz. Farrell hid his surprise. Her alibi defused them. They stalked away into their respective dead ends. Their shrinking backs comforting him, Farrell now fully eyed her. Situation resolved, he noticed how high self-regard let her exude a greater presence. Gauging her studied acknowledgement of him, he recognized his own grudging potential. The mystery savior spoke distinct American English. "Shall we go." Caught in her wake, Farrell nodded and grinned. Amused also because he'd met somebody other than Ian Abercrombie who used "shall" correctly. Both skittered down to his car. Along the walk they introduced themselves. Her particulars were wryly issued. "Inez Cortez Hernandez de Aguirre y Maisonette." Farrell snickered. "You don't say." Inez' patronymics only confirmed what her bearing heralded. Regally poised now, Farrell placed her between a mature 25 and young 30, in her bosomy 40s Inez might become imperious. (Like the actress and Marx Brothers foil Margaret Dumont.) Her parade of names assured Inez wasn't Mexican. She likely would've taken such misidentification as slander. Against her Spanish ancestors. As was Inez' due, Farrell attended the passenger door for her. Seated in the car Farrell gave Inez a deeper once-over. Her profile was noble. It reminded him of a prow. She consciously kept her chin raised. He supposed all the better to inevitably condescend. Even seated her posture was ramrod straight. At least she was some kind of Western girl. That proud carriage launched her chest, which owing to the jolting road, behaved seismically through her shirt. Hair obscured any earrings. An expensive watch bound her right wrist but no telltale gold or diamonds banded her left ring finger. While riding into Solipaz Inez questioned him. To the obvious one Farrell answered, "I poked around those hills because the usual tourist traps bore me. After all, how many bleached steer skulls and bullwhips can you buy?" Pleasing him, Inez played along. "How many do you own?" "More than enough. How about yourself? What brings you to the downbeat side of town?" The movie for which Solipaz served as backdrop urged her there. Victim empathy drew her away from the set. Born and bred in a Coast mission town between San Francisco and Santa Barbara, she'd earned minor regional renown as a photographer. The movie's basis and pc considerations dovetailed nicely. When she wasn't chronicling this prestige project's "female friendliness," Inez escaped the set's tedium by documenting nearby true crime scenes and the survivors' anguish. "It was going to be a small independent show," Inez said. "You know, the kind that grovels for production money then struggles for any distribution. But at least it would've been honest. Maybe painfully honest." "Uh-huh. What's it now?" "A big commercial balloon! Daisy de la Cruz had the script explained to her. She and her agent saw a career boost. Both the bitch and her handler campaigned loudly that if she got involved it would increase the budget and attract other A-listers." As an actress, Daisy de la Cruz might've at best achieved slight celebrity had she not demonstrated a tenacity for fame. Of Puerto Rican descent, Daisy de la Cruz was well on the way to deracination when hyphenated ethnics suddenly became the new American cinematic flavor. Transforming tenuous heritage into hyper tough-girl presence, the former North Shore Long Island native buried her upper middle-class upbringing beneath faux-fierce Latina temerity. Fueled by audacious imagination, aided and abetted by marketing, the reedy-voiced, pleasant-looking suburbanite reaped wealth and those undue accolades which pursue such falsely acquired stature. Daisy de la Cruz' ego instantaneously surpassed her fame. "Say," Farrell said, "this isn't about Daisy de la Cruz, is it?" "Mister, it sure didn't start out that way." Inez lodged in Solipaz' grand dame hotel. Its reputation established during copper and rail booms of late 19th and early 20th centuries, and refurbished irregularly since then, this wedding cake strenuously conjured long-exhausted Gilded Age glory. The car glided to a halt at the front entrance. Displeasure furrowed Inez' face. She looked beyond him, out the drivers window. His gaze followed hers. "That's a decent bar over there," Inez said. Farrell inspected the storefronts cater-corner from them. Ruiz, the cantina to which she referred, didn't give off any bucket of blood vibe. Nor did cholos congregate around its doors. Even the beggars pled some distance away. "You never truly told me what you were doing up in the ignored part of town," Inez said. "You must have a story. A worthwhile one, I mean because no sane gringo, especially one trying to pass himself off as Argentine, goes there alone without damn good reason. I'll be honest, I'm curious. And since I need a drink it's unladylike for a woman to drink alone." Farrell smiled at her. "I see you've been raised right." Having parked the loaner, they ambled over to Ruiz. Farrell didn't realize how extreme the temperature until he stepped into the restaurant's shade. Inside, beating on his shoulders ceased. High ceilings added to the spot's airiness. Tables sat closer together than he liked and though lightly patronized now with post-lunch idlers, a good dinner crowd could mob floor space. The bar ran half the long room's length. Mirrors reflected elbowed barflies between shelved liquor bottles. Ruiz' walls featured vacas, vaqueros, and seductive senoritas in scarlet. The room's rear had been cleared for bands and dancing. Farrell and Inez seated themselves at a table. The back of an unoccupied chair held his hat. La camarera came around, her cherry-vanilla smile almost too wide to be true. Both customers decided on a pitcher of Margaritas. "I see you've been raised right," Inez said. "Trust me," Farrell said, "if we were guys it'd be shots and chasers." "I never thought otherwise." The waitress delivered their large cocktail and two salt-rimmed glasses. She inquired about menus. The pair deferred until later. When she left, Farrell poured, they touched glasses. Inez followed his salt lick and they sipped. Both drank liberally throughout the afternoon. As libations flowed and time passed Inez' gestures broadened, her cheeks reddened, eyes brightened. "Say," Farrell asked, "why aren't you out making movies today?" Inez snorted. "Our star's getting spa maintenance in the States. Desert air is drying out her fat Puerto Rican ass and frying her extensions." "So I guess drinking plenty of water and using a lot more skin care isn't making the cut, huh?" "When the sun and moon revolve around you, no," Inez sighed. "This is why it's a big budget production. It costs a lot to kiss her ass. And there's acres of booty to smooch." Farrell laid on some facetiousness. "I'm sensing touches of enmity here." "Ya think!?" Inez exclaimed. "At first, this was going to be one of those shows everyone involved bled hearts and souls because they believed! It was going to be arty and ambiguous. It was going to be disturbing. It would be talked about for all the right reasons." "Won't Daisy attract more eyeballs?" Farrell asked. "Yes!" Inez fumed. "When Daisy joined she first yelled for rewrites. The Bible hasn't been reinterpreted as much as this script. The subtlety is gone. The mystery is gone. But it does now have special effects and armies of stunt people. And rather than an open-ended conclusion, Wonder Woman jiggles in from San Juan and saves the day." Farrell laughed. "These issues with Daisy ..." Inez groaned. "On one hand, okay, she brings money and money brings attention. On the other, she's redirecting the spotlight. She is the subject. Today it's a 'Daisy de la Cruz project.' Like all those women died on behalf of a bloated A-list movie. A whole bunch of us came in on this thing with passion. Now it's just mental masturbation." "Well-paid mental masturbation," Farrell added. Chastened, Inez smiled. "Ah, yes, there is that." "And here's something else," Farrell said. "Daisy's planet-realigning can't be the only reason behind your dissatisfaction." Inez, scornfully, said, "Oh, yeah, in the original true-to-the-spirit version glamour doesn't exist. The actresses were going to resemble assemblers getting paid hourly, not slumming anorexic models." No Rules. Just Victims. Farrell chuckled. "Between hair and nails anyone watching this movie will think 'factory work sure pays well in Mexico,'" Inez said. "Though what really burns my ass is Daisy. Literally Daisy herself. Until she overwhelmed the whole thing, a Mexican played lead." "That figures," Farrell said. "The part is still Mexicana," Inez said, "but Senorita Boricua isn't exactly convincing in the role." "The movie isn't named 'La Verdad,' is it?" Inez eagerly bobbed her head, dark hair trembling around her face. "Exactly! It's like watching an Ecuadorian play a Cuban. There's off, then there's way off! The producers must see every Latino like they do Arabs! All the same." When their waitress brought a third pitcher of Margaritas, Farrell requested menus. By then afternoon had slid into early evening. The gradual arrival of more patrons increased room volume. Rather than speak louder, Inez and Farrell huddled ever so closer. Once or twice she even absently twirled her hair. "You know," Inez said, "you never really told me why you were in the hills." Her query was simple, its tone insistent. Farrell let the question linger and her frustration grow. He concentrated on his menu. Sure enough when he surfaced ... "I'm going on the assumption the food's good here too," Farrell said. She remained steadfast. Selection determined, Farrell put his menu aside. Focusing on what he'd been tasked, he generalized his motives for being in Mexico. Listening to the abridged truth, Inez considered the tale told. The returning waitress delayed her reply. They ordered. He noted approvingly she chose a dish featuring green chili and not the less volcanic red. Order given, waitress departed, Inez spoke. "So, massa sent his great white bwana to kill the monster terrorizing the natives, huh?" Farrell laughed at her flip distillation. Then he laughed again. Her joky tone was apt. "We all should hope it's that simple," he said. "Say, how long has this shoot lasted?" The film was midway through a two-month schedule. He asked how long had her hill subjects given Inez photo-documentary carte blanche. "The last five days," she said. "Taking pictures is a snap. Oh! Sorry! The tough part was getting their trust. Poor as they are, they're still proud. And very guarded. Even though I'm not a gringra, there's still distance. Once they understood and accepted I have no intention of exploiting them, they relaxed. And surely it helps distributing craft services leftovers. Oh, and guilt-tripping the set doctor into making a house call or a dozen." Listening to Inez, Farrell admired how she valued results over procedures. Benefits mattered, not methods. Sweet as Inez was she wasn't naïve. At her age he'd never been that clever to twist ethics. Only the service taught him how expediency trumped propriety. Upon entering corporate America that lesson served him well. "It's good they trust you," Farrell said. "If you've gained that, you've done well. In these parts, trust is neck and neck with water as far as value. These people need some kind of advocate. Mexico City ignores them until election time. Then they get bought off cheap. Between times they're left to fate. Around here only movies provide miracles. Maybe your pictures might prod somebody big into action. You know, be nuisances that irritate." Grounded as she seemed, he wondered how long until Mexico dissolved her beliefs into irrelevance. Inez reluctantly digested his view. Her disconsolation was shallow. She rebounded eagerly. "I have pictures galore!" Inez said. "Maybe you'd like to click through them sometime." She issued her offer so innocently, he almost blanked on its implication. Inez' eyes beseeched him. Her desire entered an obvious desperation. She could've finger-painted her pictures and Farrell would've agreed. On the surface she sought his estimation for artistic validation. Below the high-brow fig leaf tumbled basic man/woman dynamics. He analyzed no farther, simply recognizing she found him attractive. For him it sufficed that Inez was a sensible woman. After all the fuck-dolls he'd rutted lately, the challenge of a substantial female excited him. "It would be a privilege to see your, ah, portfolio," Farrell said. Inez simpered, hiding joy which threatened to bubble behind a hasty sip of her drink. The waitress delivered their plates. Farrell and Inez calmly ate in expectant silence. After dining, the night's final Margaritas greased their mood to dance. Motivating them further, the uninspired band sawed through norteño favorites. A midweek night the dance floor offered plenty of twirling space. Farrell and Inez preferred the slower tempo songs. He held her tighter than necessary and she encouraged it. Their vertical frottage gave him a monstrous boner. Inez would needed to have been numb from waist down to disregard the bulge bowing his button-fly jeans. Rather she acted quite aware. Matter-of-factly, she whispered, "Seems like somebody's ready." Hurriedly they exited Ruiz. Quick feet and her giggling carried them along murky sidewalks. Hungry as he was for Inez, Farrell noted downtown's shadowiness. If neon storefront signage hadn't flared irregularly, viscous gloom would've enveloped Solipaz' heaviest trafficked streets. And if streetlamps downtown only sprinkled light, how solid was night in the hills? He glanced at the sky. Tonight would be visually good. Little need for anyone sober to pick his or her way under the waning half moon above. At her hotel the desk clerk handed Inez her key and messages. Despite who she towed and their eagerness no smirks were exchanged. Laden as they perhaps should've been, the trio's "Buenos noches" lacked arch inferences. Inez and Farrell skipped the birdcage elevator and hiked the stairs. Mild lighting from bedside and writing desk lamps glowed in a room last furnished during the Cardenas administration. Farrell leaned against the door until the lock clicked. Inez took several steps away and set her camera on the desk. He tossed his hat. It landed next to her camera. Inez turned as if suddenly remembering she'd been followed. She smiled at her "pursuer." "I have nothing to offer you ... to drink," Inez said. Farrell pushed off the door and gravitated slowly towards her. Embracing Inez here felt better than on Ruiz' dance floor. He smothered her heavy breathing through baldly reciprocated kisses. Her lips and tongue were as inquisitive as his own. While he unmoored Inez' shirt from her jeans, she unbuttoned his fly and pulled his dick through the boxers' slit. She tugged more from perusal than hunger. His length pleased her but it was obvious she favored fisting his girth. Shirt unfastened, Farrell removed it. Wounded cotton fluttered to the floor. A gold cross resting off-kilter nestled on her chest. At this moment, at this age, Inez showed no blemishes or sagging. He suspected between sensible dieting and outdoor activity augmented by scheduled, though not regimented, gym visits, she maintained an admirable figure. In the future, say, into her downside 30s, awaited the sad possibility of her becoming sloppy. He stopped scaring himself for no good reason. This was now. She was vital. Farrell hoped her vigor equaled her looks. After all the decorative female unmentionables he'd bought and removed over the last several months, Inez' vanilla bra fascinated him. The cups were plain, the straps functional. Her panties just as likely matched. Farrell almost laughed at such normalcy. He unbuckled both their belts and confirmed his guess about her undergarments. His hand slid beyond the elastic surrounding Inez' waist. Round solid cheeks crowded each palm. She wriggled, giggling under his kneading. One hand circled around front then crawled down. Her grooming suited thigh-high cut bottoms. His middle finger found her crack and teased wetness. Inez groaned softly. The slight embarrassment wandering across her face amused him. In playful retaliation for succumbing so soon she squeezed his meat through his pants. He bent forward reflexively. Farrell pried her death grip and retreated. Sitting in the nearest chair, he slid off his boots. On the foot of the bed Inez did the same. Their clothes quickly littered carpet and furniture. The billowy shirt, her support, understated a bountiful chest. Close dance floor contact aside, his partner's tits were larger than they'd felt. As often for busty women, her nipples were small and shy. His .38 didn't faze her. The nine he yanked from behind his back did. "You planned on shooting elk today?" Inez asked. "No," Farrell said. "Maybe cans. Mexi-cans. Puerto Ri-cans. Domini-cans." She laughed. "That's sooooo bad!" Again reaching into one of his boots Farrell plucked out a condom. Long ago that fold ought have contained a knife. But now guns prevailed exclusively. They rendered fists or blades as quaint hallmarks of just as violent yet less lethal conflicts. These days, depending on known circumstances, he kept rubbers, hid money or an extra key in the obsolete pocket. Naked, he rose, strode towards and loomed before her, his package an angry accusative pointer. Inez eyeballed him. She spent maybe one second too long gazing at the scars along his cock. Tentative fingers reached out and balanced his low-hanging balls. Unless she'd banged older men, a professor during college perhaps, he assumed Inez had never seen a pair drop so low. Inez raised both on a flattened palm. Their weight impressed her. Inez freed her palm from underneath his nuts. Gravity reasserted itself but errant scrotal hairs caught on her retreating fingers. Her hand glided along his gnarly stick until the knob. There she clasped the head and crabbed deeper onto the queen-sized bed. The fingers-to-penis connection willingly maintained, Farrell kneeled where she'd sat then crawled behind her. Mattress traversed, Inez ended tenuous hold for arms around his torso. As she reclined comfortably, he rolled latex down his cock. Farrell settled himself in the saddle formed between her thighs. Again unlike his most recent partners, Inez presented a plush platform. Against Adriana's, Sofia's and even Janey's comparative skin and bones, Inez was fleshy. He stopped lunging at Inez' juicy mouth and wandered into her expansive chest. The last woman he'd fucked with tits big enough to mash his head between was an American. Figured. Farrell took happy advantage of Inez' warm hills and promising valley. Surfacing he thumbed her nipples until they toughened into short peaks. Inez' eyes drooped further while her mouth slackened more when Farrell tongued mindless designs atop those crowns. He considered giving Inez oral. Unneeded. His curious fingers came away soaked. Farrell's presence, his minor manipulations, her anticipation, had already boiled the short curlies hiding her slit into hot moss. A glance showed the excess glistening her thighs recesses. Soon she'd drip and stain the sheet. Groundwork laid -- so to speak -- Farrell aligned them then plunged. Her grateful catch of breath pleasantly exaggerated his first stroke. Noises that followed called to mind exuberant porn. Effortlessly Farrell filled Inez. Not that she was loose and lippy, but after his prior partners' smallness, he found Inez snug though not tight. She started at the place where the others eventually adapted themselves. Heat and the strength of her legs against the back of his own and buttocks bothered him momentarily. Heels and calves of lighter women had been fluttering wisps. Farrell imagined a weaker man comparing Inez to a vise. From his first effort he sustained the same beat. Since Inez accommodated him so, Farrell saw no cause to vary. Besides, his ragging rhythm wouldn't have mattered. Glassy-eyed and slack-mouthed as she was, Inez shuddered to her own cadence. She came twice. The first quaked, the second erupted. So much so Farrell rode powerful ripples from Inez' pelvis through her shoulders. How many years since he'd ridden waves like hers? During any other sexing the load Farrell shot would've been regarded as jolting. Inez' delight tempered his discontent. She was satisfied and he'd gotten off. What else mattered? Yet ... The room had become stuffy. Inez asked him to open the shutters and switch on the ceiling fan. Two more features further dating this hotel. Slatted wood shutters thwarted sunlight and noise instead of curtains or blinds and no air conditioning because of the structure's ancient wiring. Obeying Inez, Farrell laughed to himself. This part of current Mexico so much resembled the Arizona he escaped over 25 years ago. Draft the fan drew refreshed their room. Indeed it had been a sweatbox. The pair had been too busy fucking to notice. While he ventilated the room, Inez rushed into the bathroom. She returned carrying a towel. One which quickly covered the bed's discoloration. Though both had perspired profusely, the stain she sought concealing consisted of greater essence than sweat. Frightened, Inez gaped at him. It struck him as wrong. Sheepishly she confessed, "Sometimes I-I gush!" Farrell lacked an adequate answer for her explanation. The bed's added linen marked "off limits." Fortunately they'd lain out of plumb. Much to her insistence their long bodies crowded the bed's unsullied two-thirds. Farrell considered it strange Inez didn't engage in any post-coital chat. In his experience after the deed free and clear casual lovers ran their mouths about trivial matters. Consequently women involved in horizontal commerce spared few words. From shame. Or guilt. Displaying pleasure as she had, Farrell expected the former. Instead she practiced the latter. Maybe she was just tired. Anyway Inez fell asleep. Farrell wished she hadn't. Second-wind sex had revived him somewhat. New crazy thoughts zigzagged through his mind. Before she dozed, Farrell intended asking Inez whether she could scrounge him a copy of the film treatment. The initial version, the one whose convulsions got this production rolling. By coincidence or accident, it might contain insights pertinent to these Solipaz butcheries.