Renaldo

by James McCreath

  this occasion. They removed the stolen license plates that had been mounted

  on the Corvair just for the heist and affixed the original plates registered to

  Señor Marco Figueroa. Once he was satisfied that everything was in order, Serge

  addressed the group one final time.

  “You should all be very proud of what we accomplished today. Not only

  did we succeed in showing the whole nation that the people’s movement is still

  alive and strong, but we garnered an incredible sum of money right from under

  the noses of the military, without the loss of one human life. That is something

  to tell your grandchildren.” The leader stopped to take a large swallow of

  the champagne in celebration. Wiping a few errant drops from his beard, he

  cautioned his followers.

  “We must be extremely careful from this moment on. The search for us

  will be massive. Lonnie, I would suggest that you and Celeste take a vacation

  together. Is there somewhere safe that they know you? Somewhere that no one

  will be suspicious when you suddenly show up? I would advise you to re-adopt

  your past lifestyle. Nice clothes, the Mercedes, all those things you used to do

  last summer. That should divert attention from your present guise. Can you

  do that?”

  “I think it shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish,” Lonnie said with a grin.

  “I preferred driving my Mercedes to the Corvair, to tell you the truth. I guess

  the people’s revolution still has to work on my materialistic values some more.

  As for the rest of it, well, I told my mother that Celeste and I were traveling

  for the summer, but most years I work at my father’s camp for terminally ill

  children in Tigre. I don’t think anyone would be suspicious if Celeste and I

  showed up there to lend a helping hand for awhile. How does that sound to

  you?” He directed the question to Celeste.

  “Fine with me. You have told me so much about the camp, I would really

  like to see it. How long would we have to stay?”

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “It all depends on the heat,” replied Serge. “Usually they round up hundreds

  of suspects when something like this happens. Our escapade will prove to be

  all the more embarrassing for the junta because of the ‘peaceful nation’ and

  ‘nonexistent terrorists’ bullshit they are spewing to the press. Security and a

  calm atmosphere for the World Cup has become their top priority. Well, we

  just showed the entire world that the people of Argentina want social justice,

  not some football circus.” The leader spat out his final words contemptuously.

  Another pull on the bottle, then he revealed his own plans. “Jean Pierre

  and I are going to Mar del Plata to get lost in the summer crowds. We have

  already rented a flat, and we just plan to disappear. Write down the address of

  the camp in Tigre for me, Lonnie, and I will contact you when we are ready

  to strike again. My brother and I will drop our bounty off at the local cadre

  headquarters, then head directly out of town. I suggest that you two leave

  Buenos Aires as quickly as possible, for the roadblocks are bound to go up

  around the capital in a matter of hours, if not sooner. Any questions?”

  The room was silent, then, one by one, they embraced and said their good-

  byes. Serge and Jean Pierre left the garage first, carrying the spoils of battle

  in an old duffel bag that matched their change of attire. Jean Pierre had a

  knapsack slung over his shoulders that contained the two Uzzis and several

  more hand grenades, but to those that they passed on their walk to the bus

  terminal, they looked just like any other transients in this down-on-your-luck

  part of town.

  “So, do we head to your casa to get the car and new clothes?”

  “The Mercedes is stored at the dealership, so that’s no problem,” Lonnie

  responded to Celeste’s query. “As for going home, I would rather not. Too

  many questions to answer, especially if I run into my mother. I have my real

  identification in a safety deposit box at my bank. Tomorrow we can retrieve

  it, take out some money, and go shopping. You can pretend that you are my

  socialite girlfriend helping me spend all my hard-earned cash. Who knows, you

  might even have fun and cast aside the powers of the revolution for the powers

  of the almighty American Express card.” Lonnie shot his lover a sarcastic grin

  as he pulled her tight against his muscled torso. The excitement of the day’s

  activity had stirred his manly urges.

  “Where will we stay tonight, your place or mine?”

  “I’m way ahead of you, my preppy hero. I have already vacated my flat for

  good. End of school term you know. My things are at a storage facility. We can

  pick up what we need tomorrow. I am sure that I will find your accommodations

  up to your usual five-star standards. Let’s go. I can hardly wait to order up room

  service.”

  214

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nijinsky, Pavlova, Stravinsky, Strauss, Bernstein, Caruso, Callas,

  Toscanini, Nureyev, Barishnikov, the list goes on and on. Each one

  had performed their artistry on the great stage of Teatro Colon, and

  very shortly, Renaldo De Seta was going to be standing on that exact same

  stage. He would not, of course, ply his particular trade among the gilded boxes

  and mauve velvet armchairs. There would be no football played beneath the

  great seven hundred-bulb chandelier. But there was no mistaking the reason

  that close to four thousand souls had filled every nook and cranny of this

  venerable theater.

  The elite of Argentine society, as well as the nation’s most powerful

  military and political figures, had come to see and be seen at this extravagant,

  yet culturally rich fundraising gala. But the magnet that drew them to the

  fabled opera house was not drama or music this time . . . it was football! The

  eyes of the world would be focused on their turbulent homeland in a few short

  months, and fifteen other nations would be their guests at a very special party,

  the FIFA World Cup of Football.

  A call, one could say almost a plea, had gone out to all Argentines

  regardless of social standing to pull together to make the games of the eleventh

  World Cup the best that had ever been staged. The junta had promised all

  its native sons and daughters a spectacle that they would never forget, as long

  as the organizers were allowed to focus on the athletic concerns and not on

  terrorist threats or acts of sabotage.

  The recent bank robbery near the army headquarters in Buenos Aires had

  outraged not only the military leaders, but also many left-wing supporters,

  including trade unionists, students, and the leftist-working press. They were in

  sympathy with the government-inspired editorials that vilified the perpetrators.

  The vast majority of both Porteños and Provincials saw this mindless act of

  violence as a blight on their country’s concerted effort to show the world that

  Argentina was a safe and sane land, a land where tourists from around the

  world could come and enjoy the most popular sport on earth in comfort and

  safety.

  Now three misguided zealots had blasted their way into the world

>   headlines, severely undermining much of the credibility that the junta had tried

  so hard to establish. The fact that the robbery occurred in broad daylight across

  JAMES McCREATH

  the street from Argentine army headquarters reflected badly upon the whole

  national security program. ‘Heads were rolling’ in the corridors of power, and

  on the streets. Heaven help anyone that got caught in a police sweep without

  letter-perfect identification.

  But on this night, Saturday the fourteenth of February, all the tensions

  seemed to melt away once the patrons were seated inside the plush amphitheater.

  No one without a valid ticket could get within a city block of the teatro,

  and all the guests and performers were electronically screened and searched

  upon entering the building. Not even the society matrons objected to this

  inconvenience, so great was the outrage at the thought that their country was

  perceived as a breeding ground for thugs and violent revolutionaries.

  Six people had been killed by exploding hand grenades as they tried to

  follow the Montonero thieves from the Banco Nacional.

  Colonel Xavier Rodrigues Borges, the country’s senior antiterrorist

  strategist, was among those slain. Argentines from all walks of life wanted an

  end to the cold-blooded insanity. This night at Teatro Colon was to be their

  new beginning, a new focus on the spectacular events to come. Three thousand

  military policemen ringing the opulent Greco-Roman structure in the heart of

  the capital were there to ensure that nothing would disrupt the gala evening.

  The program was artistically enchanting, covering all aspects of Argentine

  music and folklore, from ancient times to modern day. Native Indians were

  playing the Quena and Charanga, mournful melodies played on a great, long

  instrument called an Erke. Gauchos were performing their Milongas, Estilos,

  and Cifras, always rousing and immensely entertaining. Then, of course, a tribute

  to the late Carlos Gardel, the celebrated innovator of the tango, the national

  dance of Argentina. The legendary Argentine composer Hector Panizza was

  honored with a moving selection from his greatest symphonic works. A host of

  other talented singers and musicians complimented the program.

  The pièce de résistance for the young generation, however, was the

  performance, late in the show, of the nation’s number one pop star, Symca. She

  was to be followed directly by the much anticipated unveiling of the National

  World Cup Football Team.

  This gala evening was being broadcast live over state radio and television,

  and listeners were constantly encouraged to mail donations to the World Cup

  Organizing Committee’s capital fund. A letter of gratitude and a poster of the

  National Team would be sent to all donors.

  By positioning the vivacious Symca near the conclusion of the schedule,

  the producers ensured a national audience until the very end of the festivities.

  Astor Gordero had arranged the entertainment and structured the acts to

  receive maximum exposure vis-à-vis mail-in donations. The introduction of the

  National Team, followed by a spirited and emotional rendition of the national

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  RENALDO

  anthem, was anticipated to bring tears to the eyes, not to mention pens to the

  checks, of millions of patriotic Argentines.

  Renaldo De Seta sat watching the musical feast on one of several television

  monitors placed in the banquet hall, where the National Team waited

  impatiently. He, like all the other footballers, was attired in his new navy blue

  blazer, the breast pocket adorned with a luminous gold crest, which offset

  the black letters ‘AFA,’ (Asociacion Del Futbal Argentino). Lightweight grey

  flannel slacks, black Ferragamo loafers, and a powder-blue and white-striped tie

  completed the ensemble for all the National Team hopefuls.

  The youngest aspirant cut a resplendent figure, one that would make

  almost any lady feel weak at the knees. But at this very moment, his thoughts

  were of one lady in particular. The subterranean structure of the Teatro Colon

  extended for three stories, with seemingly miles and miles of corridors, salons,

  reception rooms, and general work areas. The football players were told to

  stay in their designated area, but because they were the last group to go on

  stage, it didn’t take long for many of them to become restless, despite the fully

  stocked bar and endless procession of hors d’oeuvres. Two armed soldiers and

  two civilian security guards had been placed outside the banquet room with

  strict orders that absolutely no one was to enter or leave the room.

  The guards were only human, of course, and somewhat in awe of these

  national heroes. As a result, they were easily persuaded to turn a blind eye

  when required. An autograph, a handshake, or a brief conversation with one of

  their idols seemed to provide sufficient distraction for several of the players to

  simply disappear.

  Renaldo was able to deftly slide through the door and down the corridor

  without being noticed or missed. Sometimes being an unknown commodity has its

  benefits, he thought gleefully as he set out to find his lost treasure.

  That treasure, buried somewhere in the cavernous depths of Teatro Colon,

  was to be found in a remote, tiny room, two stories below where the musical

  history of Argentina was being woven and spun with great passion.

  A star, a solitary star, much like the one the fabled wise men of years

  gone by must have followed, marked the end of his search. Emblazoned within

  its glittering five silver points was one word, a word that set his heart racing,

  ‘Symca.’

  “Come in,” was the response that greeted the footballer’s knock on the

  door. Renaldo paused for several seconds. “Come in! It’s alright, I’m decent.”

  Peering into her makeup mirror, she tried to focus her eyes on the handsome

  figure that now stood just inside the cramped closet. “Renaldo, my God, is

  that really you?” Dressed in a rose-colored satin robe, she let out a little girlish

  squeal of delight and leapt into his arms, kissing him full on the lips. He was

  taken aback by her enthusiasm.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “Easy, easy, or we will ruin your makeup. You look absolutely ravishing.

  How have you been?” The athlete was suddenly aware that his reaction to her

  greeting had awakened a sleeping giant. He pretended to show interest in the

  beautiful pink roses that adorned a side table, managing to stand with his back

  toward her.

  “These are lovely. From a secret admirer?”

  “Not so secret. A mutual acquaintance actually, Astor Gordero.”

  She was at his side now, running her fingers through the long curls that

  fell past the nape of his neck. A tremor flashed up his spine. He turned, intent

  on removing her hand and freeing himself from any physical contact, lest he

  lose all control.

  Instead, the chanteuse again pressed her lips to his once their eyes met.

  She leaned against his torso, and he simply melted into her arms.

  Even with his eyes closed and his heart pounding, he was still aware of

  the firmness of her breasts against his c
hest, not to mention the inflamed heat

  of her womanhood as the robe parted under the pressure of his concealed,

  unyielding organ.

  The embrace had unleashed a pent-up passion the young man never knew

  he possessed, and his mind surrendered to the spell of her feminine sensuality.

  His right forearm held her tightly to him. His strength and hardness took her

  breath away. Their tongues excitedly explored uncharted waters, entwined in a

  romantic dance of their own.

  When she finally found it necessary to disengage and step back a few

  paces to collect herself, her eyes were glossy and temporarily unfocused. She

  then locked on to his massiveness and licked her lips with unconcealed lust.

  “You may be just a boy in age, Renaldo, but you are more of a man than

  I have ever felt. Look at you! Those trousers are about to rip at the seams. It’s

  unbelievable! I never would have thought . . .”

  He had turned scarlet in color and was trying vainly to conceal his passion

  from her devouring eyes. Renaldo found it impossible to regain his composure,

  however, for she stood in front of him with the robe askew, her lovely breasts

  and light-brown bush fully exposed.

  “I’m sorry, Simone, I should have been more discreet. It’s just that I have

  never been . . .” She was at his side once more, her fingers pressed to his lips.

  “Do not be sorry, Renaldo. Football is obviously not the only gift that

  God endowed you with. There is no cause for embarrassment. I am totally in

  awe!”

  Her hand softly traced the outline of his straining member for a fleeting

  moment. Her eyes traveled from his midsection to his handsome face and back

  again several times before she abruptly stopped her explorations and addressed

  him in a more controlled tone of voice.

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  RENALDO

  “Now, we must regain our composure, my love. Just look at me! You have

  ruined my makeup, and I still have to dress for the show. I was not counting on

  such a distraction to my normal pre-stage routine. So off you go. I don’t trust

  myself in your presence anymore. Do you have the backstage pass that I gave

  you?”

  Renaldo was unable to form a coherent response for several seconds. He

  could only stare at the embodiment of eroticism that stood before him. It was