Renaldo

by James McCreath

“Señora Lydia will not stand for anyone on her staff bearing a child out of

  wedlock, my little sugar bouche!”

  Esquela could still remember that lecture. Now the words had come back

  to haunt her and panic had set in. She was three months late. The father could

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  be any one of a host of men, and she was hardly able to conceal her growing

  proportions from Señora Taseo anymore.

  She was desperate to keep her job at Buenos Requerdos, and that meant

  getting rid of the unwanted bastard she was carrying. The problem was that

  she had neither the money nor the knowledge needed to go about the tragic

  task. Beside herself with anguish, she decided to ask Pablo, one of the farm

  hands with whom she had been intimate.

  Pablo drove the pickup truck into Pergamino several times a week, and

  confiding her dilemma to the comparatively worldly local hunk might get

  results. The stud had a reputation for getting girls into trouble, so surely he

  must know how to ‘fix’ things.

  Wolfgang Stoltz was still fuming inside from the personal slight that

  the old English prune had levelled at him. He could not let such an insult go

  without rebuttal. Lydia De Seta controlled the empire that his employer sought

  to oversee. The arrogant Englishwoman had now become an obstacle to that

  end, and Stoltz was about to provide the means to remove that obstacle.

  There had been a young German sailor who had landed in Argentina back

  in the forties with Wolfgang Stoltz. Paul Rheinhart had been a good friend,

  both in Germany before the war and at sea during it. The two men had kept in

  touch over the years, both settling in their adopted country.

  Paul Rheinhart chose to continue his studies in the field of medicine and

  eventually ended up running the general hospital in Pergamino, of all places.

  When asked why he chose such a remote location to set up his practice, he

  always used to say that “Five years of bobbing around the Atlantic Ocean in a

  tin can had given him an overwhelming appreciation for the wide open spaces

  of the Pampas.” Pergamino was where he settled and prospered.

  Both these ex-Nazis still wistfully longed for the old days in Germany,

  and whenever they could, they reminisced about the past glories of the Reich.

  They held a mutual contempt for things and people not of German origin,

  especially things American or English.

  Paul Rheinhart had felt the sting of Lydia De Seta’s bigotry himself. She

  had refused to let him attend to her on several occasions during visits to his

  hospital, preferring instead a less experienced physician of Argentine origin.

  Dr. Rheinhart subsequently refrained from offering his services to the English

  bitch and had remained bitter about the affront ever since.

  “Your call is very timely, Wolfie. I cannot believe the coincidence. That

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  swine Englander frau has gone too far this time! Insulting a man of your

  stature, and in front of her daughter-in-law! I have exactly the substance and

  method you require. The poison is a mild arsenic extract that is tasteless,

  odorless, colorless, and if applied over an extended period of time in small

  doses, undetectable even by autopsy. It is perfect, but here is the best part. One

  of the local pimps works on the De Seta estancia. He sets me up with women

  for parties and stags when I have male guests come to visit. Remember the last

  time we were together here, Wolfie?”

  “Very well, Herr Doctor, a marvelous time indeed, but do please continue,”

  Stoltz urged.

  “Well, this local worker named Pablo uses me for fast, no question

  abortions should one of his putas ‘screw up,’ so to speak. He came to me just

  yesterday saying that the kitchen maid at De Seta’s estancia was knocked up,

  but didn’t have the money to pay. As soon as I heard she worked for the English

  I told him that I would not help. No fucking way! But, on second thought, the

  kitchen maid would have access to the Señora’s food and beverage. A few drops

  of my substance in the old fart’s tea, and after a few days, the lady of the house

  would start to feel out of sorts. A few weeks and she will be gone forever. It’s

  perfect. I’ll do the abortion for the little tart, but in return, I will have Pablo

  instruct her what to do. There will be money needed to pay them both off,

  however. Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all, but what about any implication or connection to her death on

  your part?” Stoltz queried.

  “There won’t be. The farmhand will handle everything. He has loyalty

  only to the almighty peso. I will pay him enough to keep him quiet, and

  believe me, Pablo is very appreciative. The girl we will pay off and send away,

  maybe to some Holy place from whence she will never return. Why leave any

  witnesses around, eh, Wolfie? As for covering our tracks with Señora De Seta,

  you are talking to the coroner of Pergamino District. I will conduct the autopsy

  on the deceased old witch myself. If, that is, the distraught family even desires

  to have one. So relax, it’s perfect. My personal hatred for the woman overrides

  all sense of conscience, and besides, it is a great pleasure to be of service to my

  dear old friend!”

  “You always were a genius, Pauli. I will bring you the money tomorrow,

  including a healthy honorarium for this medical consultation. I will be in

  Rosario while the tournament is here. Expedite the arrangements as soon as

  possible. I want Señora De Seta to begin her treatments immediately. The

  sooner the world is relieved of that snooty English whore, the better!”

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  “I’ve located Lonnie De Seta, Señor Gordero. I just wanted to confirm that

  you require the subject terminated. Are those still your instructions, sir?”

  Rojo Geary stood outside the same Tigre groceteria of which Lonnie had

  become a patron. An operative in Tigre had been told to keep surveillance on

  camp No Se Preocupe and the nearest dry goods retailer. Geary’s hunch had

  been right.

  A suspicious stranger had shown up on the morning of the eleventh and

  returned four days later. He stood out to the groceteria owner as someone

  vaguely familiar, but the man never spoke a word or offered any information

  about his needs. The provisions that he had bought seemed to suggest that he

  was a camper, but the local campgrounds were closed for the winter. And there

  were no tourists in the area, especially during the World Cup Tournament.

  The stranger’s second visit was a carbon copy of his first. An issue of every

  newspaper in the store was picked up as his first order of business, followed

  quite literally by the purchase of everything from soup to nuts. Dark glasses

  and an old slouch hat obscured the visitor’s true features, and the only dialogue

  was a grunt of thanks upon completion of the transaction.

  That army intelligence agent must be notified at once! the excited retailer

  thought as he made his away to a private phone kept in the back office. Where

  did I put his number? I hope he is still paying the reward for information that he

  promised!

 
Geary’s agent, posing as an antiterrorist intelligence officer, had arrived at

  the groceteria within minutes. The owner described the suspect’s appearance and

  clothing, then pointed out the direction in which his customer had departed.

  At nine in the morning there was next to no traffic on the road down

  to the river and camp No Se Preocupe. The agent drove his car cautiously

  along the gravel thoroughfare, stopping periodically to scan the woods with

  binoculars. As he slowly rounded one particular curve almost at the entrance

  to the camp, he saw the figure of a man sprint into the brush from the side of

  the road. It was his man, for there was no mistaking that hat! The subject was

  obviously using the camp as a hideout. The agent put his car into reverse and

  headed for the pay phone at the groceteria.

  Geary’s man relayed the double sighting to his superior, who, in turn,

  set out for Tigre immediately to confirm the report. The groceteria owner

  identified one of the original clean-shaven artist’s sketches of Lonnie’s likeness

  as being similar to the man that had entered his store twice. The slouch hat and

  sunglasses were added by means of overlays, and there he was. It was the same

  man, there was absolutely no question. The ‘Attractive Assassin’ was in Tigre,

  and Rojo Geary felt that familiar rush of adrenaline as he prepared for action.

  Polite inquiries at camp No Se Preocupe from an ‘old friend’ of Lonnie

  De Seta’s yielded nothing. A sweep of the camp was ordered for the following

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  night. The commander summoned the rest of his platoon to Tigre, then called

  Astor Gordero in Rosario.

  The hired gun had his team in position just after dusk on the night of the

  sixteenth. They would wait for total darkness to begin a search of the camp’s

  buildings and grounds. Geary anticipated that it would be the faint glow of a

  propane lantern shimmering in the eerie blackness that would reveal his prey.

  Then, sadly for all concerned, the end would come quickly.

  Sadly for the two fugitives because their young lives were prematurely

  ending. Sadly for Rojo Geary because he loved the game almost as much as

  the kill, and it was a ‘kill’ that Astor Gordero had confirmed in their phone

  conversation the previous day. De Seta had been a fairly challenging adversary.

  The soldier admired and respected that fact. He had seen many a fugitive go

  berserk from the constant strain of being on the run, and this always led to

  carelessness.

  Lonnie had been smart until he showed up at that Tigre groceteria. Geary

  knew that the hunted man must have exhausted all his resources if he had to

  hide-out at his family’s camp. The game was drawing to a close.

  A faint beam of light from the Coleman lantern was barely visible behind

  the blanket that covered the unboarded window. ‘Barely’ was all Rojo Geary

  and his men needed. Once the old dormitory cabin was surrounded, the

  commander gave the signal. A single blow of a sledge hammer brought the

  padlocked front door crashing inward off its hinges. Rojo Geary was through

  the opening before it hit the floor.

  Lonnie De Seta had become disenchanted with the musty world inside the

  dormitory. He frequently went for clandestine excursions around the property.

  His favorite place to think was down by the canoe shed on the dock. The squat,

  dark wood building afforded a perfect shield from unwelcome eyes, and the

  lapping of the water around the dock cribs soothed Lonnie’s wound-up nerves.

  It was to this very spot that Lonnie had ventured to just before Rojo Geary and

  his men arrived to finish their cold-blooded assignment.

  Celeste was threatening to leave him altogether if they didn’t depart from

  their safe house and find her brother. Another heated argument sent Lonnie

  down to the dock to cool off. He had been there staring at the tide for several

  hours when the wrenching, crashing sound jarred him to his senses.

  Lonnie sat some forty yards from the dormitory, but his vantage point

  afforded him a clear view of the padlocked doorway entrance and side window

  of the cabin. Suddenly, light spilled through the hole in the front wall where

  the door used to stand. He could clearly see the figures of several men hurtling

  into the sick yellow-green light. There was very little commotion and almost no

  noise. The fugitive stood frozen on the pier. He could do nothing.

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  In a matter of seconds, those same figures were outside in front of the

  cabin. One of the assassins, the one Lonnie took to be the leader, was visibly

  and audibly upset. He swore and cursed in loud English as the others followed

  him down to the river’s edge.

  Lonnie’s heart pounded in his chest. He had his Llama pistol tucked into

  his belt buckle, but all his grenades and extra ammunition were in the cabin.

  He was virtually defenseless against those who stalked him.

  The only means of escape lay overturned right beside the eyewitness.

  Someone had left one of the wooden canoes out on the dock instead of in the

  shed. Lonnie had noticed it on his first visit to the pier and had visualized

  exactly what he was about to now do. He had thought of the canoe as a possible

  escape vehicle in an emergency, and this clearly was an emergency.

  Celeste was dead, there was no mistaking that fact! But Lonnie was

  shocked by his lack of emotion as a result of her death. He thought it strange

  that he hadn’t raced to the dormitory with his Llama blazing. Strange that the

  thought of helping Celeste never entered his mind. He was tired, oh so tired.

  He would miss her, to be sure, but he would miss his beautiful, spirited lover,

  not the apparition that she had become.

  Lonnie was also bitter. Bitter with Celeste for leading him down the

  road that shattered his once-prosperous, law-abiding life. How had she ever

  convinced him that terrorism could change anything? The only thing violence

  had accomplished was to ruin more lives, his own included!

  No, he would not help her. She was beyond help. The deadly silence inside

  the cabin confirmed that. The ‘Attractive Assassin’ was thankful that his former

  companion had died swiftly, without torture or sexual abuse. A protracted,

  brutal death would have been unthinkable! That was all the remorse that

  Lonnie could muster for the passing of Celeste Lavalle.

  He slid into the bottom of the canoe, grabbed a paddle, and pushed

  himself away from the dock heading silently downstream and out of sight from

  his pursuers. His thoughts remained with Celeste. Lonnie was comforted by

  the quickness of her killers’ actions, for in his mind, he was certain that she had

  been put down by a silenced bullet within seconds of the forced entry.

  Rest in peace, my dear Celeste. We will surely meet again in Hell!

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  Chapter twenty-Six

  The Group A qualifying countries for the second round of the World

  Cup Tournament were all from Europe. Italy, Holland, Austria, and

  West Germany took to the pitches in Córdoba and Buenos Aires to

  determine their representative in the final.

  Italy had been heavily favored a
t the outset, but by the time they faced off

  against Holland in the final match of the round, they had scored only once in

  one hundred and eighty minutes of soccer. Their 0-0 draw with the Germans,

  as well as their 1-0 victory over the hapless Austrians had shown the Azzurri to

  be erratic in their finishing skills.

  The West Germans had nary a victory to show for their first two outings.

  They were buoyed somewhat after holding favored Italy to a scoreless draw at

  River Plate, but failure to maintain the lead against their usual whipping boys,

  the Dutch, turned their camp into a hostile, finger-pointing compound. That

  2-2 tie was an embarrassment bordering on disaster. An all-out effort against

  weak sister Austria was demanded by the German coaching staff and their

  disgruntled followers.

  It was the men from the Netherlands that seemed to be hitting their full

  stride at the perfect time. An opening 5-1 blowout of Austria left no doubt in

  anyone’s mind about the overwhelming offensive skills of the men who wore

  the orange and white. Moreover, their struggle to tie the hated Germans had

  removed a huge monkey from their backs. That outing had convinced their

  quickly growing legion of fans that the Dutchmen had acquired an abundance

  of true grit, as well as the determination not to lose.

  Finally, in the early afternoon of June twenty-first, they stood in white

  shirts, orange shorts, and white stockings on the hallowed turf of River Plate

  Stadium. The men from Holland were tied with their opponent Italy in points,

  but they had played much more inspired football. A clear victory by either

  team would mean a berth in the World Cup final.

  The Dutch got off a disastrous start. An own goal by defender Willie

  Brax after only nineteen minutes injured starting keeper Hendric Van Der Ven

  as well. The blond-haired guardian of the Dutch twines was carried from the

  game on a stretcher, not to compete in the tournament again.

  The Italians sought to take advantage of their opponents’ misfortune

  immediately. Substitute keeper Dirk Wilhelmus had to rise to the occasion

  JAMES McCREATH

  time and time again. The young keeper was not the field general that his more

  experienced, more vocal predecessor had been. The Dutch defenders floundered,

  unsure of where their midfielders had gone. In truth, those midfielders were