Renaldo

by James McCreath

  wheel. Beads of sweat also dotted his forehead.

  “You look nervous, cowboy. Don’t worry, we are not pulling this off alone.

  Serge and Jean Pierre are meeting us in the park. They have cased the whole

  scene. Just follow Serge’s orders and you will be fine. We are going to arrive at

  the bank when it is about to close at three p.m. You are the official getaway-

  car driver, so you won’t be inside on this job. I hope this piece of junk you’re

  driving is up to the task.”

  “Piece of junk? You helped me select it, and it was your mechanic that

  overhauled it! Both the car and I will do our jobs just fine!”

  Lonnie was consumed by a strange sensation of relief, intermixed with

  disappointment. He wasn’t going to be on the inside, but he rationalized that

  his role was crucial to the success of the operation, basically ensuring that they

  all escaped.

  “Does your brother have an escape route mapped out? I haven’t been up in

  the Villa Urquiza district in a long time.”

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “Of course he does. Serge is very thorough. You will have time to drive the

  route before the actual job commences. Stop worrying and relax.”

  Lonnie followed Celeste’s directions until they found themselves alongside

  of General Paz Park, one block east of their intended final destination. The park

  was lush with flowers surrounding the statue of General Paz, who was mounted

  on a fine charger. Beyond the park, just out of view from the public eye, sat

  the complex of buildings that housed the Argentine army headquarters and its

  chief personnel. Security around this facility was always extremely heavy, and

  it would be considered nothing less than a suicide mission to try and attack the

  complex itself.

  But to strike a blow for the revolution in the army’s own backyard,

  right under their very noses, that would send a message neither they, nor the

  Argentine people could ignore!

  Celeste had Lonnie pull the Corvair over to the curb. They had barely

  come to a full stop when the rear doors were flung open and two men entered

  the vehicle, one from either side.

  “Hey! Qué pasa? What’s going on here?” Lonnie was half turned in the

  driver’s seat protesting the intrusion when Celeste put her index finger to his

  lips.

  “It’s OK. Drive west past the park and keep going.”

  He had no idea who the two men dressed in business suits were, or why

  Celeste didn’t let him draw his concealed Llama pistol and get rid of them. He

  looked at her incredulously, but her nodding gesture to proceed convinced him

  to put the car in gear and drive.

  “It’s good to see you again, Lonnie. Celeste has told us that you have done

  very well with your training and studies. Congratulations! I hear as well that

  you were the best marksman in your training group. Excellent! Maybe you will

  have an opportunity to demonstrate those skills this afternoon. Now, I have

  a map for you to study. It is our escape route. Pull into this parking lot for a

  moment and take a look at it.”

  There was no mistaking that voice. Although he had never laid eyes

  on Serge Lavalle or his brother, that voice propelled memories of their first

  encounter to the forefront of Lonnie’s brain. The blindfolded lecture that he was

  forced to endure, ending with the .45 magnum bullet being tossed in his lap.

  It seemed like such a long time ago, and yet that voice, there was no mistaking

  that voice.

  He pulled the Corvair into the parking lot directly across from the Banco

  Nacional. It was a large, impressive building, with two tiers of steps running

  past the four massive Ionian columns that supported the sloping entrance

  façade roof. Both military and civilian personnel could be seen scurrying to and

  from the bank, trying to make sure that their transactions would be completed

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  before closing time. Serge Lavalle leaned forward so that he could help Lonnie

  decipher the handwritten map.

  “You will drop us off right here in this parking lot, Lonnie. The three of

  us will proceed across the street and into the bank. Once we have disappeared

  through the front doors, you will wait exactly three minutes, and then you

  will pull across the street and sit directly in front of the bank with the motor

  running. Stay in the car, but open the right side doors, front and back, leaving

  them ever so slightly ajar. This will ensure easy entry into your limousine, for

  I anticipate that we will be in quite a hurry! Do you understand everything so

  far, Lonnie?”

  “Yes, I think so. Three minutes after you disappear, pull in front of the

  bank, stay in the car, motor running, open front and back passenger doors

  slightly. Yes, I’ve got it so far.”

  “Good, now do it. Pull across the street and stop for just a second in front

  of the bank. I will tell you when to stop.” Lonnie put the car in gear and waited

  for a break in the traffic.

  “Good, right here. This is where you will wait. Between the third and

  forth column. Now drive on east and check your map. We turn right off the

  main thoroughfare at the first intersection, cross the railway tracks, and then

  left. Drive past Pirovano Hospital and onto the entrance ramp to Avenida del

  Tejar. Then it’s back to Avenida General Paz and on to your rented garage in

  Versailles. Now here is the first turn, take a right.”

  They drove the whole escape route to the point where they were to enter

  del Tejar again. Serge told Lonnie that speed was only important in making the

  very first turn. Once they were out of the sight-lines of the curious onlookers,

  not to mention any guns that were pointed at them, Lonnie should drive at

  the speed limit so as to not attract attention. Unless they were being pursued,

  that is.

  They were now back in the parking lot, in front of the bank. It was eight

  minutes to three. Serge and Jean Pierre clicked open their briefcases and slapped

  ammunition clips into their Uzzi submachine guns. They cocked the breech

  levers, sending the first bullet into the chamber. Celeste, who was wearing a

  pretty pink sundress, pulled a Heckler and Koch .45 caliber pistol equipped

  with a silencer from her native Indian handbag. She, likewise, loaded and

  cocked her weapon, then returned it to its original location. Serge then handed

  her two grenades, which she quickly placed with the pistol.

  “You had better do the same, Lonnie. Where is your shotgun? If anyone

  tries to move you from in front of the bank, stall for time until you see us

  coming, then waste the bastard. Use your pistol first, if your assailant is only one

  person. But if more than one, use the shotgun. Are you loaded up and ready?”

  Lonnie was ready, having loaded both his weapons before leaving Versailles.

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  “Yes, I’m all set. The shotgun is under my seat, ready for action. The nine

  millimeter is in my shoulder holster right here. I’m ready. Good luck!”

  Celeste bent forward and kissed him tenderly. “Good luck, my terrorist

  cowboy. Promise you’ll wait for me. I’ll be back so
on.”

  “I’ll wait, you can bet your life on it.” He returned her kiss, then she

  opened the car door and stepped out. Serge again leaned forward from the rear

  seat and held out his hand for Lonnie to take.

  It was the first time that the driver had a chance to study the man’s features.

  His eyes were hidden by reflective sunglasses, but the rookie terrorist thought

  that he saw a flash of something, compassion, sorrow, empathy, something,

  through those dark lenses. Serge’s bearded face was foreboding, traces of scars

  evident beneath the growth. His teeth were somewhat crooked and yellow, and

  the overall impression of this man was of someone not to mess with.

  The voice seemed strangely out of context with the person. So practical,

  reassuring, and full of knowledge . . . like a schoolteacher or priest. But it was

  totally at odds with his rugged, almost terrifying physical appearance.

  Lonnie grasped the man’s hand, then the three Lavalles were standing

  together in the parking lot. Jean Pierre was the surprise. He had simply tapped

  Lonnie on the shoulder twice as he exited the Corvair. A mute sign of approval,

  Lonnie figured.

  He was young, tall, and handsome in appearance, with none of the outward

  signs of torture that his brother exhibited. He could have been a fashion model,

  dressed in his navy blue Italian suit, his brown hair parted in the middle and

  swept long to either side. Boyish good looks that concealed the heart of a

  terrorist, ready to die for the cause. Celeste suddenly broke ranks and stuck her

  head in through the front passenger window.

  “Here, take one of these. It might come in handy if things get sticky.”

  She tossed a pineapple-shaped grenade onto the front seat beside Lonnie’s right

  thigh, smiled, blew him a kiss, and joined her brothers, who were starting their

  walk to the curb.

  “I’ll add it to my collection!” he called out after her. There was no

  acknowledgment of his last remark.

  Here we go! thought Lonnie. He reached under his seat and adjusted the

  Merkel shotgun for easy access. The driver observed his comrades cross the

  street, stride up the two tiers of steps, and disappear into the bank. He looked

  down at his watch. “Three minutes to Hell,” he said out loud.

  The three Lavalles entered the bank and immediately went to their

  assigned locations. Celeste ignored the long line and went directly to the teller

  nearest the door. Serge went to the narrow desk used to fill out withdrawal or

  deposit slips, opened his briefcase and waited for his cue. Jean Pierre strode up

  to the armed security guard standing just inside the entrance and handed the

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  man a note. The customer’s clean-cut appearance, along with the contents of the

  note, set the guard at ease temporarily.

  The small piece of paper contained the following message: ‘Good day,

  Señor. I am unable to talk, having recently had my tonsils operated on.

  Could you kindly direct me to the manager’s office, for I have a three o’clock

  appointment.’ As the guard raised his arm to point in the direction that this

  young businessman should proceed in, Jean Pierre slid his right hand into his

  suit jacket pocket. He grasped a set of brass knuckles firmly, then smashed his

  armored fist into the unsuspecting security officer’s nose.

  The guard dropped like a stone, blood spurting profusely from the cavity

  that used to be his nasal passage. Jean Pierre relieved him of his military issue

  revolver, pulled a set of handcuffs from his other jacket pocket, rolled the guard

  over on to his stomach, and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  As Celeste pushed her way to the front of the queue, several of the people

  she had passed objected vigorously. One military colonel in particular asked,

  “What gives you the right to have your affairs dealt with before the people that

  have waited patiently for their turn at the teller’s window?”

  She smiled sweetly at the officer, then slowly withdrew the handgun from

  her satchel.

  “This, Señor Colonel, gives me the right, and the authority, to do anything

  I want to do. Now, hand me your wallet for starters, and the rest of you people,

  down on the floor.”

  Serge’s cue was the felling of the guard. The instant he saw Jean Pierre

  drop the unfortunate man, he pulled his cocked Uzzi from the briefcase and

  blasted several rounds into the bank’s ornate cathedral ceiling. Screams of panic

  filled the banking hall, followed by a strange silence. Once again, it was Serge

  that did the talking.

  “Everyone lie down on the floor right now and you will not get hurt.

  This bank is being liberated by the people’s movement of Argentina. We are

  Montoneros, and we have come to remind all of you that the revolution lives.

  It will never die until justice and equality for the working man is realized.

  The junta uses the money in this bank to buy weapons to oppress the common

  people. We will use this money to buy food and shelter for the common people.

  We are asking every one of you to make a donation. Take out your wallets and

  pocketbooks and lay them on the floor beside you. Each of the donors will

  receive a letter of gratitude in the mail. The people of Argentina thank you.”

  Since dispatching the security guard, Jean Pierre had leapt behind the

  teller’s counter and was systematically emptying the cash drawers of their

  coveted pesos. Celeste was filling her handbag with the personal property of the

  bank’s unlucky patrons, while Serge continued his oration on the evils of the

  military government and the hope of equality for the working class through

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  violent revolution. Their work completed, Jean Pierre and Celeste joined their

  elder brother a few feet inside the entrance way.

  “Savor this moment, my brother and sister. See the scourge of this nation

  groveling at your feet, begging for mercy. It makes my heart soar with pride.”

  He took a longing glance around the austere room, then turned his attention to

  address the prostrate throng.

  “Now, do not move or try to follow us. We have planted explosives at the

  door to the bank. They will be detonated if anyone leaves this building. Stay

  where you are if you want to see another sunrise. Viva la revolution!”

  Those words had barely passed Serge’s lips when the three ‘liberators’

  turned and flew through the entrance doors and down the first tier of steps. On

  the landing between the two flights they halted as one, Celeste delving into her

  handbag and retrieving a can of fluorescent red spray paint. Since she was the

  artistic member of the family, she proceeded to spray the word ‘Montoneros’ on

  the lower five steps of the top tier. It all took a matter of seconds, and when the

  pretty terrorist had completed her artistry, she reached into her satchel for one

  last important object.

  Tucked safely in a side pocket so as not to become lost in the jumble of

  wallets and other paraphernalia, the rippled metal of the hand grenade felt cool

  in her palm. Her brothers were waiting for her, and as she stood erect clutching

  the deadl
y sphere, the three, in unison, pulled the safety pins and hurled

  the lethal pineapples toward the entrance doors. Without waiting for their

  devastating effect to occur, the Montoneros turned and fled in the direction of

  the idling, rust-colored Chevy Corvair.

  Lonnie had done his job to perfection. No one had interfered with the

  unseemly little car as it sat in front of the majestic establishment. He had been

  parked less than a minute when the Lavalles came running down the steps past

  the columns.

  The driver was shocked to see them halt, however, and it was only upon

  witnessing Celeste’s artistic talents that he began to comprehend what they

  were doing. The baseball-like throw to home plate startled him once again, but

  his compatriots were safely inside the vehicle and half a block from the Banco

  before the first explosion and repercussion shattered the mid-afternoon calm.

  They had turned the first corner of the escape route and eased up on their

  speed before anyone spoke.

  “Good job, Lonnie. I knew we could count on you. Is everyone alright?”

  Big brother Serge was still in control, always the leader, always the protector.

  Celeste leaned over and kissed Lonnie’s cheek.

  “A piece of cake, wasn’t it boys?” she laughed. “I think that there will be

  a lot of soiled trousers inside the Banco Nacional this afternoon. I wish that

  I owned a dry cleaning establishment in the area.” Lonnie and Serge laughed

  heartily.

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  “Did you like my message, darling?” Celeste squeezed Lonnie’s thigh.

  “I can’t believe you had the balls to do that! Oops, wrong choice of words,

  I guess.” They all laughed again, except for Jean Pierre, who slapped the back

  of the driver’s seat to show his approval.

  Serge continued to monitor the road behind them as well as Lonnie’s speed

  and direction. There was no pursuit, and the foursome made it unmolested

  back to the safe garage in Versailles. There, they laid out the contents of the

  day’s take on the hood of the Corvair. When the final tally was done, the take

  amounted to over sixteen million pesos, or two hundred thousand U.S. dollars.

  The Montoneros celebrated with a bottle of local champagne that Serge had

  brought along, then the three Lavalles changed into outfits similar to that of

  Lonnie’s. Working class apparel had previously been stored in the garage for