“Two bottles of Malbec are gone. A joint has been smoked. It’s approaching midnight. At some point Araujo ordered some pizza and empanadas, and when his doorman calls up to say that the food has arrived, I pull out my wallet. As the guest, I say, I should pay. He shakes a finger.

“No, no,” he says, his mouth curling into the widest, most mischievous grin you can imagine. “Banco Río is paying.””


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