For Services Rendered

Smiling vulpine features below barbered silver bobbed towards Farrell on a big-city strut. Quinn's was the stride of someone who'd spent his early life jamming himself onto the No. 4, then shoving his way off subway stations below 59th Street. He wore glad rags better suited for Caribbean beaches than any autumnal Tropic of Capricorn city. His lizard skin slip-ons had been dyed an unnaturally intense green.

Behind Quinn hovered two slabs of local gun-toting muscle. Good tailoring hid their weapons from casual eyes. One holstered his piece against his hip, the other slung it in a harness.

Quinn grabbed Farrell's hand between his still callused own and pumped. Afterwards he pummeled that arm back into its shoulder socket. Above thin lips showing lots of teeth, Quinn inspected Farrell and happily found him fit.

"They been treating you well down here!"

Farrell said, "The natives are friendly."

"The natives like to fuck," Quinn said. "Especially if you're a white man."

He laughed at his own aside as Farrell cringed slightly. Quinn tilted his head at the bodyguards and gestured up Defensa. One man walked several steps ahead to bookend their client. Before proceeding Farrell noticed one tanned long drink of water joining the procession. The requisite three steps in Quinn's wake, this slender, tall, sharp-faced, bosomy, bored brunette swayed on stilt legs further lengthened by impossible heels. Farrell turned and saw Quinn regarding him.

Farrell said, "I bet she looks good in white."

"Screw that! She looks better out of white with me on her," Quinn said.

"When did you take up mountain climbing, Mr. Quinn?"

"If I ever had fear of heights, she's the kind of girl who got me over it quick. She's my Andes protégé. Some local trim estatico to show me sights. Thing is what she shows I already seen. I think her skill is in presentation."

"Like an old gift in new wrapping?"

"Bryce, I been crawling around her and fucking both of us silly the last three nights. Her pussy's so good my dick wants to switch nationalities."

"Mr. Quinn, tell your fortunate friend to hold off on the delirium. In a day you'll see someone better."

"No shit!?" Quinn said. "You been tappin' a lot of this stuff, huh? Shit! No wonder you look great."

They strolled past antique shops cramming both sides of Defensa's tired pastel walls.

"Thank God I didn't bring my wife," Quinn said. "Else I would've needed bags of money and then get ready for writer's cramp from so many pages of customs declarations. By the way Claire send her regards. To you, Moira and Coyne."

Moira was Quinn's personal secretary, Coyne his chauffer. Like Farrell, the same truth or perjury conundrum also dispatched them temporarily abroad. As had the sweet, yielding impetus herself, Quinn's dalliance.

Claire, the high school sweetheart who became Mrs. Quinn, no doubt suspected her husband somewhat less than faithful. However, accusations without proof apparently meant nothing to her. As long as Quinn crept discretely, keeping their outward wedded propriety untarnished, she sustained her end of the charade.

Farrell suggested lunch. Quinn agreed. Steps led into DesNivel, Farrell's favorite parilla. Quinn asked Farrell to vouch for the restaurant.

"One of the best in town," Farrell immediately replied.

"Good! We ate Italian last night. The food made me think all the paisans who could cook landed in North America."

The establishment's simple décor and homely liveliness appealed to Quinn. Better, the grill advertised just as patrons entered.

Fanfare did not herald them inside. Nor were there acclamations of false bonhomie. Farrell was merely received as a familiar face. A lazy nod from El Gordo sprawling across two bar stools sufficed. Quinn approved of the fat man's flicker of recognition. Presumably the owner, he blatted commands.

The Americans shared a table. Quinn's "protégé" sat with his bodyguards, ignored all-around. Gardel continuously serenaded them from the all-Gardel FM station. The deified Argentine singer maintained a properly corrupting ambiance.

Studying the menu, Farrell and Quinn drained big beer bottles. The mozo scrunched up his face when Quinn ordered. He spoke Spanish proficiently. However, he tended toward Puerto Rican inflections. Layering that between his Bronx accent and Farrell sympathized with the waiter's difficulties.

Plates requested and privacy somewhat guaranteed until their salads arrived, Quinn commandeered conversation. First he thanked Farrell for his sacrifice. Boardroom large now as he was, the older man retained pure street values. He prized loyalty above all. That and not telling tales out of school.

Without mentioning it, both knew him deeply indebted to the trio who'd fled on his behalf. What demands from them could ever be considered too outrageous?

Second, the underlying reason behind Quinn's visit. Not just to Farrell's hideout but also those of his secretary and chauffer.

"Grand jury has been dismissed," Quinn said. "No testimony. No corroboration. No indictments."

Farrell was pleasantly dumbfounded. "Didn't that thing have months to go? And wonder if they impanel another one?"

"Two reasons why I say 'yes,' then 'no,'" Quinn said. "One. Your exile is over because the feds have goat shit to hang their hats on. Okay. They can indict ham sandwiches. But again: No meat. No bread. No sandwich. An empty plate won't do.

"Two. Dumbass finally wised up. He's only president, not king. No matter who wins in November, his sorry ass is out in January. Him asking and catching favors gets a lot tougher with 'ex-' in front of his name. It's not enough knowing which side your bread is buttered; you need to know who's doing the buttering."

"So," Farrell said, "you're donating fewer coloring books to his library."

"If I send any -- which I fucking won't! -- they'll already be colored in! Fuck him! Fuck them all!"

The waiter dropped off their salads and left. Subdued, Quinn spoke.

"Another reason I'm here, Bryce, is something I gotta ask you."

While Farrell chewed greens, swallowed and digested possibilities, Quinn flagged the mozo for two more beers. Quinn continued when their cold ones were refreshed.

"The company has trouble in Solipaz. You know we have factories there. No trouble with production. Inside the fence Grady runs a tight ship. He makes that top hum. Outside the gate, well, we got World War-fucking-III. We didn't cause it but we're getting dumped on anyhow."

In the Mexican city of Solipaz, as well as other sizable border towns, series of gruesome murders stained the desert. Discounting drug turf war casualties, slaughtered women ratcheted homicide figures. The second group's murders scythed one gory swath around Solipaz over years.

Exasperated, Quinn said, "And of course the only reason any Americans pay attention to this shit is because of the movie."

"Movie?" Farrell asked. "What movie?"

"They're shooting it now," Quinn said. "In Solipaz. A movie about dead, poor working women. Oh, yeah, I think they were exploited, too. One way or another, not only will it be a weepy but we'll catch shit because even though we have nothing to do with this, we're convenient bad guys. Bryce, I know it may be presumptuous but I've had a file sent to your inbox. I hoped you might wanna take a look at it."

"Naturally, Mr. Quinn, I'll open it tomorrow."

"Good-good," Quinn said. "Like I said, Grady is aces inside the facility. Outside, the local grandees see him as one gringo feo. Not only doesn't he speak Spanish, but he skipped the Dale Carnegie course, too. The animosity is so bad that if he was on fire none of them would pee on him to put it out. Bryce ... you're from that part of the country...."

There were 150 crooked, spottily-paved miles between Solipaz, Mexico, and his Arizona hometown. Yet comparing desert measurements against Eastern mileages, the two Western locales must've seemed a Sunday drive apart while the fairly straight lanes connecting New York City and Albany comprised an arduous trek. At least that's how Farrell surmised how Easterners such as his boss viewed the respective destinations. The hired man held off chuckling.

"Certainly Mr. Quinn. I'd be happy to go down there and see what can be done."

Relieved, Quinn brayed, "Beautiful!"

Generously, the boss gave Farrell four days to conclude his Buenos Aires affairs. Problems discarded, time compressed, task assigned and accepted, the waiter returned at a fine interlude.

Quinn appraised the marvelously seared piece of beef set before him. He grasped knife and fork, cut a chunk, popped the morsel in his mouth and savored. The gourmand's verdict:

"Now that's one great fucking steak!"

Monday morning Farrell walked into a different office. Last time within these walls he was a pariah. Overnight he became the magnet drawing iron filings. Suitemates who'd previously avoided him now buddied up to him. Although he understood why they feared his prior incarnation, their miraculous smiley about-faces incensed him. Only his condition had changed. He remained the same.

Away from office adulation, Farrell downloaded the Solipaz file and skimmed. He didn't know which was worse, the body count or the savagery. Someone had noted, surely not Quinn, photographs augmenting this file were forbidden to be electronically disseminated. He must wait until reaching Solipaz before staring at chromatic horror.

That suited him fine. Farrell printed out a hard copy for Friday's flight north. Stuck in a tube and undisturbed at 35,000 feet promised the perfect reading conditions.

Job on hold until next Monday, he leaned back in his chair. There, he contemplated how to inform two "friends" of his imminent departure. In their own ways Adriana and Sofia had become dependent on him. Despite all his female entanglements before Argentina, not one had ever ceded him such control. Now he juggled two. When it rained ...

Later during night's small hours, Farrell consciously prolonged foreplay with Adriana. As if by doing so he might embed her skin texture, scent, in memory.

In bed she saddled atop him face-to-face. His cock rose angrily between them. Farrell's tongue lingered on and frequently revisited Adriana's nipples. His palms circuited her arms, back, waist, though slower than usual. More attuned this evening, his fingers crawled purposefully across her ass or cupped firm breasts. Inquisitive fingers renewed discovery upon Adriana's cheeks, along her neck. Soft black hair blanketed the backs of his hands.

She submitted fully under his kind touch. His embraces carried muscular almost desperate fervor. Adriana confused, tensed in his arms.

Farrell stretched the woman out in bed. He immersed his face in Adriana's sex. Arms corded around her thighs fixed him in a fleshy vise. His tongue explored, unfolded, teased as if it were their first eager moment of intimacy. Farrell toyed with Adriana until she weakened. Then he mounted her.

Head lolling to the side, eyes shut, mouth agape, breath deeply drawn, Adriana let him fuck her beyond all previous indescribable waking dreams. She rocked harder than Farrell. When she came she came strongly, endlessly.

Afterwards, elated, Adriana hugged him. Not her accustomed reward but a gesture unleashed from within. Some special place she likely denied existed. A place all women intended solely bequeathing upon "that one true man."

Regret at having exposed such vulnerability nevertheless couldn't stave his vanity by having coaxed it to her surface. Farrell's contrite kisses presaged eventual forgiveness.

Their next day unfurled as had dozens before. Except table conversation turned towards business.

Farrell gave her the news. He didn't know what to expect. Often intimate they weren't close. Had they been more than cordial fuck-buddies, his departure might've occasioned small remorse. Or if their connection had soured, minor joy.

Adriana swallowed his leaving with an equanimity approaching cold-blooded. No tears. No pleading. No questions. Just rapid calculations. She displayed a mercantile nature which would've been SOP in any corporate boardroom. But she was a kinder cutthroat.

Adriana couched her severance request in gentle yet straightforward terms. She calmly listed her value to him over their months together. And while acknowledging the benefits she'd already derived from spending nights at his address, Adriana showed how he'd reaped greater profit through her regular attendance in his bed. Weighting her argument as she had, yes, Farrell decided, he owed her more.

She wanted a truck. An open-sided one. For her father and brother. The vehicle could widen the family's money-making opportunities, thereby improving its whole living standard.

Admittedly when Adriana broached compensation, Farrell thought more along jewelry and cash. Easily absorbed expenses aside, those awards would've cheapened her in his eyes. Uncommon as her request was, a diesel five speed with rear dual bogies, it made sense. That truck could lead towards better tomorrows.

Farrell would miss Adriana. She was one of the rare level-headed women he'd ever fucked. How soon until she acquired another norteamericano? He hoped that lucky gringo aware of the good deal he laid.

Conscientious and thrifty as Adriana proved, Farrell readied himself for Sofia to break the bank on all limits of good taste. He owed the party queen and her merry retinue one last night out. If an earlier night surprised them, it little deterred them.

Erroneously Farrell believed Tuesday night might offer less frenzied clubbing. He was wrong. While new faces populated the usual places, they represented the same sort of people. A just as drunkenly loud procession wasted the evening away then diminished into an early morning pair.

Farrell empathized with his building doorman. Between Adriana often arriving at 4, or him escorting Sofia in around 5 (or 6) other mornings, the poor man must've suffered on-the-job sleep deprivation.

The American would miss the easy variety of two eminently different women. Adriana's rounded femininity was plush against Sofia's antic angularity. Stateside such indulgence might've suggested gluttony rather than satiety. It would be tough reentering a society that excused the first and condemned the second. Materially lacking as they were, at least the Argentines kept their priorities properly ordered.

Autumn weather heated Sofia. She'd behaved impatiently all evening, caroming among curt, petulant and dismissive. When the night ended Farrell had trouble deciding who'd been aggravated the most, Sofia or her friends.

Back at his apartment Sofia was primed and ready before the elevator ascended. Her kisses devoured him. Arms around his torso became light gauge steel bands. Sofia's pressing body staggered him.

Behind the door, they only partially disrobed and failed reaching the bedroom. Farrell lifted her skirt before snapping off her tanga while letting slacks and boxers clog atop his shoes. Her back flattened against the wall, both shuddered crazily from his reckless thrusting.

Before Farrell impaled Sofia she fished a rubber out of her clutch bag. Quick nimble fingers capped his cock. Sofia's slit was drier than either liked, making Farrell's initial stabs more painful than pleasurable. Soon enough friction gave way to physiology. Moistened, Sofia stopped gritting her teeth and started mouthing deeply drawn incantations.

After her head's final few upward jolts, Farrell pinned her thin sagging shoulders with his own and slid out of leather and cloth. Ankles now unencumbered, Farrell scooped up Sofia's fragile bundle then carted it into the bedroom. There as morning grayed the black Buenos Aires horizon, they recuperated sufficiently enough for less compulsive, more thorough sex.

When Farrell woke he grinned at the bright mid-afternoon hour. Another acquired Buenos Aires habit he'd soon forfeit. Sofia draped across his chest. Asleep she purred. Her transition from fury into lamb froze his movements. He preferred leaving the scene undisturbed a bit longer.

Finally Sofia awakened. Gradually orienting herself, her out of sorts expression eased into one reflecting nameless delight. Sofia smiled at him just because she could. Farrell rued the paucity of such arousals.

They showered then drank coffee at an absurdly late daytime hour. Sofia prattled broadly about his possibly financing several skiing trips. As she informed, Argentina's ski season lasted from June until September. His South American coquette became a living brochure for three Andes resorts, Penitentes, Las Lenas and Cavihue. He let her promote unabated. By her nature and his permissiveness in that regard they'd wasted little time in mundane conversation.

Her direct question regarding "their" winter ended Sofia's ignorance.

Sofia passed long moments in contemplation. Her dismay alternated with being crestfallen. He knew his farewell would relegate her back to the oversubscribed sex-bartering ranks of Porteña opportunists. She orbited around his star and glowed -- as had her coterie. Not only had Farrell yanked them out of drudgery but also stoked their anticipation. Random chance had enriched them. The same caprice would restore their natural states.

Returning to unrelieved tedium would seem, would be, a particularly perverse torture. Especially after generous flashes of the high life.

The ride to Sofia's family villa passed in strained quiet. During the ride she chain-smoked. The fumes irritated him. She must've known they would. Farrell kept his trap shut. He wanted no distraught woman eruptions. If possible, they should break with their dignity intact. Besides, Sofia could be a bitch. He sure as shit wouldn't miss that.

Neither Farrell nor Sofia moved once the remise curbed at her gate. Autumn's denuded tree branches exposed more of the fatigued estate. Less obstructed, sight clearer under better light, it seemed only hope supported the pile.

The driver turned to his passengers. He saw two stone-still people sitting apart. They either waited for absolution or glibness. Realizing none of it his business, the driver faced forward again. Sofia broke their verbal stalemate.

"I saw us going farther."

Farrell could only imagine the 21-year-old's fantasy. Probably the usual dream ending in white lace and happy jackpots ever after.

"No," Farrell said. "Real life intrudes again."

Lips pursed, brown eyes cast down, Sofia nodded reluctantly. She squeezed his hand, leaned into him and left a dry peck on his cheek, then exited the remise. Never having done so previously, Farrell declined accompanying Sofia to her door. In his view the gesture merely would've postponed their inevitability. Nor was she type of lover one needlessly sentimentalized.

Sofia hadn't bothered putting on her heels at his apartment. She walked from his life barefoot; from his address into her own. He watched her narrow back recede through rusty gate bars until the vestibule door closed on them. On Argentina.

-30-