Crime Time

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."