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."