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."