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Fighting an addiction.

gher instance against the lower charge and force guilt?"

"Pretty much," Farrell said.

His three drinking companions scoffed, scowled while questioning the sanity of American jurisprudence. Their indignation almost edged into vehemence.

Usually European contentiousness, the Old World's well-honed ability of dissembling the most arcane subjects from every impossible angle mystified Farrell. After all, he wasn't Ian Abercrombie! Now there was an Easterner just a few short beers from personifying an intellectual!

Yet the Club's inability to reconcile the obvious seemed appropriate. Common sense said the two claims were exclusive. Only confounding legal logic could bind them so completely. Better, they left off altogether any injudiciousness by his boss, Roderick Quinn.

To a man Farrell hoped each judged both men's characters through their conduct; Quinn by his evasion, Farrell by his flight.

Mariel's detailing Omar's crew, its habits, the next target pushed Farrell. He discounted informing the police. They were unreliable professionals. Before any chance to bungle the bust, sieved information by Porte__o cops would've tipped off the gang. Apprehending Omar and company needed Farrell's hands-on attention. The task needed an associate.

Any native Argentine acquaintances were immediately dismissed. Right or wrong, he saw them all as suspect. He shot down an idea of asking New York to deliver somebody capable and trustworthy. Time was short. Moreover, this task demanded a man familiar with the setting. Farrell cast eyes upon the Thursday Afternoon Club.

Tommy had the necessary mindset but was too old. Kurt's build and demeanor made him formidable, yet he seemed the sort who'd undergo some crisis of conscience where an instant begged reaction. It would have to be Mick or Plan B. Except there was no Plan B.

Mid-March, Farrell located Mick at one of his job sites. Workday sun reddened the fit Englishman. He jabbered a practical kind of Spanish his foreman then elaborated for the laborers. Seeing Farrell surprised the Englishman.

Mick smiled. "What do I owe this gift, my son?"

Farrell led them beyond earshot and quickly explained. Mick's face remained blank. At the end he simply agreed. His calmness shook Farrell.

Farrell gave him some 'exits.' "This could backfire. All sorts of crazy shit could jam us both up."

Mick grinned. "I'm not scared. I've been nicked before. Long before I became respectable, I mean. Being a model citizen has its advantages. Excitement isn't one of them. 'Sides, it'll break up my usual fucking routine!"

Mick enlisted, Farrell decided saving all reconnoitering for Holy Thursday. On that day the greater Buenos Aires populace would be fleeing, placing the city in flux. People eagerly looking towards an extended weekend should've provided ample cover for their sorties.

Another advantage with Mick as his accomplice: a gun up in the former navy man's face wouldn't necessarily send shit down both pants legs. Successful or not, Farrell's scheme required eventual police intervention. Buenos Aires cops followed the Latin American law enforcement pattern -- big guns and willingness to shoot. Especially at night.

After work Thursday, the two met near the prospective heist. As speculated, frenzied pedestrians thickened what ordinarily were sparsely-trod sidewalks. Farrell and Mick strolled inconspicuously. The apartment building, a bland eight-story edifice, had a doorman and motion-sensitive lights above the front overhang.

Mick said he thought the street looked familiar. Farrell half-heard him and grunted. Mick gandered further to refresh his memory.

Balconies started jutting on the second floor. Heavy gauge meshing enclosed each projection. Upon arriving in Buenos Aires these screens were among the first peculiarities Farrell noticed. Those and steel roll gates on windows. He wondered were these dissuasive measures recently introduced or had economic disparity always been so prevalent to demand them.

Short steps past the front door, the service entrance.

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