to some of the other financial advisers that he knew. The employees at the
Banco Rio de la Plata were so accommodating!
Anthony Rodriques was also an acquaintance of Astor Gordero’s. The two
men had conducted many a transaction together. Rodriques was, nevertheless,
pleasantly surprised to see the ‘rotund one’ filling his office doorway one early
May morning.
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JAMES McCREATH
“Señor Rodrigues, a minute for an old friend?”
“Señor Gordero, by all means, I am honored. What brings you to Palermo
this fine day?” Rodrigues scrambled from behind his huge mahogany desk and
extended his hand in welcome.
“I wish that it was for some idle chit-chat about our National Football
Team, Anthony, but unfortunately, I come to discuss a very delicate matter
with you.” The Fat Man made himself comfortable on the plush sofa that sat
against a tapestry-covered wall in Rodrigues’ large office.
“It is a matter that should probably be handled by the police or the army,
but I have been personally asked by the family to seek your cooperation discreetly
and quietly. The authorities would tell the press if they became involved, and
my team of specialists can ensure complete censorship of all activities. It could
be our only chance to strike first before they know that we are on to them!”
Rodriques’ face was puzzled as Gordero paused.
“Astor, what on earth are you talking about? Is someone in danger?”
“Anthony, forgive me. It is all so shocking, what things have come to in
this country. You have as clients of your branch the De Seta family accounts,
I believe?” Rodrigues nodded his acceptance of these facts. Gordero continued
his explanation.
“Señora Florencia De Seta has reason to believe that her eldest son is being
held hostage by a left-wing group of communist terrorists. She fears that they
plan to extort money from his bank account and then kill him! Do you know
the boy, ‘Lonfranco,’ or ‘Lonnie,’ as he is called?” Again Rodrigues nodded, this
time a shocked look replaced his former puzzlement.
“I act for his younger brother, Renaldo, who is on the training roster of
the National Team. A gifted young boy, that Renaldo! In any event, Señora
De Seta, who is a longtime friend, is too distraught to talk to you personally,
Anthony, so she has asked me to seek your assistance on her behalf.”
Gordero paused for effect, eyeing a bowl of fruit that sat just out of reach.
Rodrigues was quick to offer his guest some of the bounty, and The Fat Man
accepted. Coffee was sent for, and the two men settled in for the details of
Gordero’s plan.
“You must freeze the boy’s account temporarily, Anthony, and alert your
staff to notify you if someone attempts to make a withdrawal in person from
his account. I have pictures of his likeness for your staff, although if he is in
captivity, he may look much more haggard than the photographs. You have
modern surveillance cameras in this bank, do you not?”
“Yes, of course, the very finest available,” was the manager’s response.
“Good, good! I want to send a two-man team of special agents to monitor
the activity in your branch. They are very discreet and will dress appropriately.
I am certain you could find them a desk to make things look legitimate to the
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public. These men will be armed, however, and able to alert their team leader
once they are notified that Lonfranco is in the branch, or that there has been
activity on his account. Should he enter the branch, his abductors will likely be
close by. My men will be instructed to detain Lonfranco for his own safety, and
then the area will be swept by the team leader and additional agents looking
for anything suspicious.”
“Astor, this is very serious! Do you not think that the authorities should be
brought in? After all, a kidnapping, and the threat of an armed confrontation
in my bank, these are grave matters.” Rodrigues felt ill as he hoped that this
was all some sort of a joke The Fat Man was playing.
“Too many loose lips, Anthony. Believe me, Lonfranco De Seta’s life
depends on him believing that no one is aware of his predicament. If it is his
money these scum want to get their hands on, then they will keep him alive
until he comes to your bank to get it. Be assured that my agents are the very
best at their profession. They are especially trained for exactly such situations.
Trust me, Anthony, a young man’s life is in the balance.”
Astor Gordero gloated over his performance in front of Señor Rodrigues
as he rode in the rear of his Mercedes on the way to the offices of A. R. Gordero
and Sons. It had been a brilliant ruse, the kidnapping story.
Rodrigues was told to speak only to Astor Gordero about this operation, no
one else. Should Florencia De Seta come by the branch on anything other than
normal banking business, Gordero should be called at once. No information
should be divulged to Señora De Seta until Astor Gordero was present, as to
not cause the lady undue stress.
Rodrigues had not seen Florencia personally in almost a year, so Gordero
thought it unlikely that the two would actually cross paths in the near future.
The ruse had its risks, but those risks might just net Gordero the elusive Lonnie
De Seta.
The fact that there had been no activity, whatsoever, on the De Seta
boy’s account by the end of a month’s time had made Anthony Rodrigues
even more anxious and fretful. He phoned Gordero, insistent upon having the
two distracting agents removed from the branch, but was stonewalled for two
more weeks by the persuasive lawyer. The bank manager had not received
satisfaction. For the first time, he started to smell a rat.
Perhaps a discreet meeting with Señora Florencia De Seta would clarify
the picture and allow me to find out what is really going on at my bank, the
disgruntled head official thought to himself.
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JAMES McCREATH
It did not take much to convince Celeste Lavalle that her lover was dead
serious about departing their temporary home quickly and permanently.
“They are on to us. We are leaving, now! Get up and pack your bag. We
are traveling light, so only necessities. And get your weapon ready. We may just
have to use it today!” Lonnie was already stuffing his rucksack full of personal
items by the time he had completed his instructions to Celeste.
“Who is on to us, Lonnie? Where are we going to go?” Celeste was near
tears and trembling. “How will we ever find Serge if we leave? We haven’t
tried hard enough to help him! What are we going to do, Lonnie? Who is on
to us?”
“The newsy knows for sure. He tipped his hand today, the way he looked
at me when he showed me a poster of the ‘Attractive Assassin.’ I could see it!
God knows who he is working for, but we have to go from here right away. We
will hide at No Se Preocupe first, until I can get some money. After that, we
will leave the country. As for the rest, I don’t know, Celeste. Just stay sharp and
in control. We
can’t help Serge if we are in jail, or worse!”
At precisely :15 p.m. on an unusually chilly June the tenth, Independiente’s
Enrique Rios stood over the white-and-black ball and awaited Israeli referee
Cohen’s whistle. A short lateral pass to Nicholas Pastor on the left wing got
things going.
There was strong concern throughout the seventy-five thousand powder-
blue-and-white-clad spectators about the radically alerted lineup. To start
with, Angel Martinez had replaced Junior Calix in goal. That move might be
understandable in the light of goaltender coach Estes Santos wanting to give his
backup keeper some experience in the pressure cooker during the first round
games. But what was Suarez thinking of when he penciled in the rest of his
roster?
While the back four remained intact for the third straight game, only
Ruben Gitares was on the pitch from among the forward six players that
had started the French contest. The entire half line had changed. It was all
Independiente now with Arzu, Cruz, and Argueta. Caesar Castro had been sat
down from the wing position that he had played so competently in favor of
Pastor, while Rios rounded out the changes. Six players on the bench who had
played a large part in the victory over France! So much for continuity!
Thousands of armchair coaches in the noisy stadium hoped that Octavio
Suarez knew exactly what he was doing.
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Perhaps Astor Gordero was the only person present that night that really
understood Suarez’s strategy. The two had chatted earlier in the day, with
the manager confirming that he would start all five Independiente players as
Chacon had insisted. There would be other changes as well. Santos wanted to
give keeper Junior Calix a rest. He had sprained his ankle slightly against the
French, and the extra time to mend would serve him well.
De Seta would be on the bench for the entire game! Barring the necessity
of substitution due to injury, Suarez planned to leave his starting eleven on the
pitch for the complete ninety minutes.
“I plan to let the cards fall where they may tonight, Astor. If this lineup
can bring us a victory against the Italians, well, I will be very surprised. But if
they fail me, then all Hell will break loose, I guarantee you that! Chacon and
his bum-boys will finally have the chance to put up or shut up, once and for
all!”
The Italian team was one rich in experience and skill. They played a 1-3-4-
2 tactical game, with tight defensive marking orchestrated by one sweeper with
three defenders in front of him. A concentration of four players in the midfield
was complemented by two counterattacking forwards. Ferocious tackling and
relentless pursuit made their defensive zone hard to penetrate and next to
impossible to score on with veteran Juventus keeper Enrico Sala between the
posts. Up front, newcomer Paolo Martini combined with the poetic Romeo
Nazzareno to strike fear into opposing defenders. It was a lineup that would
overshadow their hosts for the entire evening of June the tenth.
Nothing seemed to work for the men in powder-blue and white. They
could not get untracked against the disruptive pressure that the visitors applied
constantly from the opening whistle. Angel Martinez was forced to be no less
than brilliant in the Argentine goal. Martini, Nazzareno, Speza, and Giancarlo
all tested the substitute keeper in the first quarter hour.
In the other half of the field, there was little about which to become
excited. Only two clear chances were garnered by the host nation in the entire
first half, Sala easily dispensing with these.
The half line was dreadful, Cruz never seeming to find the space he
needed to get his game on track. With their center half teammate playing
below par, the two other Independiente midfielders looked like wandering
nomads. Moreover, Pastor and Rios had barely touched the ball by the time
the interval was signaled. The faithful on the terraces were getting restless, and
there was expectation throughout the throng that manager Suarez would make
his two substitutions during the break. This team needed revitalization, and it
needed it right away!
To the dismay of many, the original eleven players took the field for the
commencement of the second half of play. Octavio Suarez had little to say to
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his laborers in the dressing room. A few words to an individual player here and
there, but no reorganizational plans were discussed and no inspiring pep talk
was offered. Fingers were pointed among the impatient players, and the mood
was dark and somber.
The Azzurri pressed forward with the resumption of play. The blue of
their jerseys seemed deeper, somehow, more vibrant, than the pale shade of
the same color that the home side was attired in. The Azzurri blue ran even
deeper and stronger when, in the sixty-seventh minute, the roof caved in on the
Argentine defense.
Miguel Cruz was unable to apprehend the gifted Martini at midfield,
and the Italian sent a twenty-yard pass laterally to halfback Giussepe Speza.
The Fiorentina player paused to draw three defenders towards him, then softly
placed the ball a further twenty yards upfield, dead on the toe of Romeo
Nazzareno’s right foot.
Nazzareno’s volley to the streaking Paolo Martini was slightly off the
mark, forcing the creative Azzurri striker to turn and come back to the ball.
By this time, Juan Chacon was all over Nazzareno, but he left his mark
standing alone to pursue Martini when the fleet striker had to turn back after
the ball.
I’ve got the little bastard now! ‘Killer’ Chacon envisioned in that split second.
Miguel Cruz and Ricardo Arzu had come back to help out, and all three
Independiente players were descending on the beleaguered Italian.
Martini’s reception of Nazzareno’s volley stunned millions. Instead of
trapping the ball, he simply right-healed it behind him, upfield!
Romeo Nazzareno was a lonely man, his dear friend Juan Chacon having
sought the affections of another temporarily. The slick veteran hit full stride
and gathered in Martini’s gift at the top of the penalty arch. After only a few
paces, he pounded home the game winner from eighteen yards out, with a
swing of his graceful right leg. Ignacio Suazo’s long, sliding frame glided by too
late to obstruct the sphere’s flight.
Chacon knew he was in trouble when Martini’s back pass rolled by him,
just out of reach. As he tried to turn and chase the man that he was assigned
to mark, his footing gave way, and The Ugly One tumbled directly into the
oncoming Miguel Cruz. The two relatives watched Nazzareno’s goal from the
prone position, and Chacon wanted to dig a hole to hide in right then and
there.
Octavio Suarez sat motionless in the dugout. No reserves pranced the
sidelines warming up. There would be no substitutions this night, even though
the fanatics were extremely vocal in their call for changes.
For the remaining twenty-three minutes, the visitors owned the ball.
Their hosts coul
d accomplish nothing, the theatrics of Nazzareno and Martini
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having thoroughly confused and demoralized them. The long-legged Italians
reminded one of dashing thoroughbred ponies in the heat of a polo contest.
Short, poetic strides, then a perfect exchange. Long, loping runs at the full
gallop, then a well-taken shot!
The players exchanged jerseys and handshakes after the hard-fought game.
Each one of them knew that before either team was crowned champions of the
world, they might very well have to meet again, under much more intense
circumstances!
“Chacon, in my office now!” Octavio Suarez tried to keep his temper under
control. “Shut the door.”
The manager spoke softly, his hands pressed against his desktop as he
leaned over the object, his gaze staring down on its polished surface. He let the
big defender stand squirming in front of him for almost a full minute before
addressing him.
“So, that was not a very convincing performance that you and your
compatriots gave out there tonight! As a matter of fact, you stank the fucking
stadium out! Now listen to me, you ugly piece of meat. This is my team, and
only my team. This game was meaningless in the big picture, so I gave you the
rope you needed to hang yourself, and that is exactly what you did, you dumb
fuck! Where were you when Nazzareno scored? On your fat ass, that’s where!
And where was your brother-in-law, Cruz? Right there beside you, rolling
around on the grass like two fucking homos! You cost us this game, Chacon!
Nazzareno was your mark. Asshole!”
Suarez tried to calm himself. He still needed Chacon’s help if this team
was to accomplish anything of substance in the tournament.
“So now it is time for you to make a choice. You can pack your bags and
leave with the rest of your pathetic crowd, or you can stay and play by my rules,
and my rules alone. Do that, and you keep your National Team sweater and a
chance to help bring the world championship to our great country!”
The Ugly One was speechless. He knew that his manger spoke the truth.
He had no rebuttal. Suarez eyed the sheepish defender with disgust.
“I will tell you right now. The lineup that started the French game will
take the field in Rosario. Sorry, no more fucking friends and relatives along for
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