Renaldo

by James McCreath

  for such a relocation on our part would be considerable. After all, Newton’s

  Prefects are one of the oldest teams in Argentina, with years of tradition and

  all that nostalgic drivel. If the truth be known, I would be happy to leave that

  dilapidated bandbox of a stadium we call home. Velez Sarsfield is a magnificent

  facility, with a capacity three times our current venue!”

  Another pause for the last few forkfuls to disappear.

  “Señor Dominico is not party to these thoughts, however. Perhaps the

  transfer of Ramon Vida to Newton’s Prefects, and thus under my control,

  would provide me with enough emotional comfort to allow me to part from

  the team’s historic roots. Vida must still be convinced to go along with this

  plan, of course. He has no agent and makes all his monetary deals himself.

  That is good for us, for it means one less body to get in the way. In that regard,

  I know that one thing is for certain. If I am able to make arrangements with the

  Boca Football Club concerning Vida, and I present a proposition to both these

  players, they themselves will want to meet with you personally. The boys will

  certainly have questions, some of more relevance than others, which brings me

  to the topic of their remuneration.”

  A bowl of lemon ice to cleanse his considerable palate sat in front of the

  Buenos Aires lawyer. He pushed it aside, wanting instead to savor the symphony

  that had been played on his taste-buds. He called for the finest port in the

  house, as well as the humidor. Only Astor Gordero wrapped his lips around a

  sizable Havana cigar, the other gentlemen having declined the boxed gems.

  “You see, perfect timing! It always seems to come down to money, doesn’t

  it? Which is why I prefer to talk about money on a full stomach. Financial talk

  makes me famished, all those digits and numerals flying through the air.” He

  smiled at his audience, pleased with his offhandedness. “Now, Lady Russell, I

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  am sure that you and your father had a figure in mind when you opened these

  negotiations several days ago. I would be very interested in finding out what

  that sum amounts to.”

  The Fat Man’s gaze bore down on the English Lady. She noticed an

  intensity in his stare that hadn’t been evident before. There was a coldness, a

  tough sense of resolve that the word ‘money’ had draped over his false charm.

  This was serious business that they were down to now. There was no mistaking

  that fact for Mallory Russell after one look into the laser-like eyes of Astor

  Gordero.

  “We were thinking in the range of two hundred thousand pounds sterling

  a year for each player, provided that they make the starting eleven, of course.”

  Reginald Russell was sticking to their predetermined script of how the financial

  proceedings should commence.

  “Not nearly enough!” the agent responded with a tone of dismissal. “I

  would be wasting my time trying to get either of those players to accept such

  an offer. Why, they could earn that sum right here in Argentina, without even

  leaving the capital city. After the fame that they have fashioned for themselves in

  this tournament, I expect that there will be others to follow in your footsteps.”

  Gordero called for a new bowl of lemon ice, giving pause to let his words sink

  in.

  “No, my newfound friends, you were smart enough to track me down in

  Rosario where your competition did not. Do not let your present advantage

  slide through your fingers. Once I depart for Buenos Aires in the morning, who

  knows what ‘Angels of Destiny’ will be awaiting my return, and with what kind

  of financial incentives to entice my client. No, I advise you to make your best

  deal right here, right now, or I am afraid we must terminate our discussions.

  There is much to do in the four days before Argentina becomes champion of the

  world, and I will not be distracted from that purpose.”

  Gordero motioned with a flick of his head that the meeting had drawn

  to a conclusion. He began to sway back and forth in his chair, as if to work up

  enough momentum to rise. Stoltz was at his side in the blink of an eye, the pen

  and pad dispatched to his inner jacket pocket.

  “Señor Gordero, please, please, sit down!” Mallory Russell’s pulse was

  racing. The thought of losing Renaldo De Seta was more troubling than she

  was willing to admit to anyone, except herself.

  “Please, Señor, my father did not mean to be offensive or trite. Give us

  your figure. What would it take to deliver these players to the Canary Wharf

  Football Club?”

  The rocking motion ceased. “Double your figure, and it’s a deal. Two

  years guaranteed, no matter where they play. All visas, accommodations, motor

  vehicles, and sundries to be at the expense of Canary Wharf Football Club.

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  And, of course, admission into a medical school for the future Doctor De Seta.

  On the latter point, I will allow some ‘poetic license’ to be taken. All the other

  conditions must be met unequivocally. If you accept these terms, I will have

  the contracts drawn up and ready for signature in my office on the afternoon of

  June twenty-sixth. That is five days hence, and the day after Argentina wins the

  World Cup. I will guarantee delivery of those two players to the Canary Wharf

  Football Club under the said terms and conditions.”

  The lawyer leaned slightly forward and locked eyes with Mallory

  Russell.

  “You see, dear Lady, while I am certain that I can ‘facilitate’ the delivery

  on my part, the consummation of this marriage now rests with you and your

  father. You have until I reach my limousine to give me your answer!”

  Neither the chauffeur nor the finely turned out lady in the rear of the

  Rolls Royce noticed the man watching them depart Casa San Marco. The

  stranger stood concealed behind thick shrubbery on the opposite side of Calle

  Arenales from the only place he had ever known as ‘home.’ As soon as the

  car had disappeared from view, the scruffy looking drifter bounded across the

  street, threw open the wrought iron gate that Olarti had closed behind the

  vintage automobile, stepped up to the front door of the casa, and pressed a

  filthy finger to the buzzer.

  He could hear Oli’s footsteps on the ceramic tiles as she approached the

  entrance. She was uttering invectives in her native tongue, a trait that she

  practiced whenever her well-oiled routine was interrupted. The look of disgust

  on her face when she opened the small security portal and peered through told

  the visitor that his faithful servant and friend had not recognized him.

  “Oli, it’s me, Lonnie. Lonnie De Seta. Open the door!”

  The servant remained steadfast, not moving a muscle. The puzzled

  expression on her face made it evident that she was trying to equate the man

  with the message.

  “It’s really me, Oli. Lonnie, you know, Renaldo’s brother. Has he gotten

  so famous now that you have forgotten his older brother? Come on now, open

  up, or I will tickle you under your ribs until you cry for help. You couldn’t have

  forgotten how I used to
do that to you!”

  “Lonnie, is that really you? My God, what have you been doing to yourself

  to arrive home in such a state?”

  The small opening slammed shut, and there followed the sound of locks

  and bolts being released. The large metal door swung inwards on its hinges until

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  it slammed against the inner wall. The tiny woman framed by the entranceway

  stood with her hands outstretched in welcome. Lonnie De Seta was home again,

  if only for a few precious minutes.

  The native lady was full of questions about his health and well-being over

  the past few months. She commented on the pallid color of his skin, his weight

  loss, his filthy clothing, and his ridiculously short hair, all of this before they

  had reached the bottom of the staircase leading to Lonnie’s bedroom.

  “Celeste and I have been camping on the glaciers in Bariloche, Oli. We

  lost all our possessions during one particularly bad blizzard. I had to come

  home to pick up some fresh clothes and a few other things, for I am off on a

  boat cruise around Cape Horn in a day or two. There, are you satisfied? Now I

  am going up to take a shower and pack some clothes. Don’t be scared, I know

  mother just left. I was watching from across the street. It has been such a long

  time since I have spoken to her. Does she ever mention my name, Oli?”

  “No, Señor Lonnie, your mother is very busy with her new friends,

  particularly that German man. She seems quite sweet on him. She never talks

  of Renaldo either, if that makes you feel any better. She disapproves of his

  playing football and won’t allow either of you to be discussed in the casa at all.

  But she is still your mother, and I know that in her heart, there will always be

  a tender place for you.”

  “I hope so, Oli, and I hope that one day I can make up for any pain I have

  caused her. But I am not in a position to patch things up today, and I don’t

  want her to know that I was here. Is she gone for the day, or do you expect her

  home shortly?”

  “She has a meeting with that famous lawyer, Astor Gordero, downtown at

  his office. I expect that she will be away several hours.”

  “Good, now maybe while I clean up, you could fix me some of your special

  eggs that were always my favorite. It has been a long journey home, and if you

  don’t feed me, I will be forced to tickle you until you pass out!”

  A tap on the fanny sent the woman on her way to the kitchen, then Lonnie

  strode up the grand marble steps to the upper level. He paused at his mother’s

  bedroom door, something drawing him to turn the brass knob and enter.

  A thousand memories cascaded over the fugitive as he inhaled the

  perfumed scent of Florencia’s world. The room was exactly the same as he

  had remembered it ever since childhood. Rich burgundy and soft pink tones

  combined throughout the boudoir to offer a warm, inviting aura.

  It all seemed so familiar. The times he had spent in that big bed when he

  was sick or frightened. The mahogany cabinet containing her precious Royal

  Doulton figurines. Florencia’s crystal decanters in all shapes and sizes. The daily

  freshly cut flowers. The mirrored vanity with its sterling silver brushes, combs,

  and lady’s knickknacks. Her large desk overlooking the front courtyard and

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  gates of Casa San Marco. Everything in its place, just as he had remembered

  it.

  He walked slowly to the desk and sat down in his mother’s working chair.

  The room was like a museum to him now, full of precious artifacts and mementos

  of his once-pampered existence. Pictures of his father, his grandparents, and of

  his younger brother and himself in their adolescence. “So long ago, and so far,

  far, away,” he muttered.

  As he stood to leave these timeless surroundings, a goldleaf-embossed

  business card sitting on the edge of the desk caught his eye.

  “Astor Armondo Luis Gordero. Barrister and Solicitor,” read the bold script.

  The well-known lawyer had become very involved with his family’s affairs since

  Lonnie’s departure. He remembered reading in the newspapers about The Fat

  Man representing Renaldo’s football interests, but he was unaware that his

  mother had been conducting business with the famous blowhard. He picked

  up the card, peered down at it for several moments, and then placed it in his

  wallet.

  This man could be worth getting to know, Lonnie pondered solemnly. Heaven

  knows, there is a very good chance that I will need a lawyer myself if things get out of

  hand. It might as well be a famous, well-connected attorney that already knows the De

  Seta family!

  He closed the door gently behind him as he exited into the hallway. At

  least Mama’s world has maintained its appearance of order and stability, he reflected,

  even if my world has collapsed around me.

  Lonnie’s voyage to Casa San Marco this Friday, June the twenty-third, had

  been remarkably uneventful. The former terrorist had planned his escape from

  the Jimenez cottage down to the final detail, even allowing for the pounding

  hangover that he awoke to following his brother’s two-goal performance against

  Peru. It had been very hospitable of Señor Jimenez to leave a fully stocked

  bar available to impromptu visitors such as himself. As a result, it was with

  great familial pride that Lonnie De Seta had imbibed almost a quart of the

  unknowing host’s Chivas Regal Scotch in a tribute to his brother, Renaldo.

  Nearly all of the private summer retreats in Tigre had an adjacent boat

  house down at the shoreline. A wide variety of nautical transportation such as

  sailboats, paddleboats, ski boats, and regular motor launches filled these lightly

  secured marine garages. Lonnie had been able to locate a suitable craft in which

  to navigate the Rio de la Plata downstream, under the cover of darkness.

  The fugitive had always had a faculty for things mechanical, be it cars,

  motorbikes, or boat engines. He had discovered and made seaworthy one

  particular vessel during his nocturnal wanderings around the nearby Tigre

  estates.

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  There was no water in the bilge of the old Seabird cedar-strip launch that

  sat solemnly covered with bedsheets to keep bird droppings from ruining the

  varnished woodwork. The dry hold meant that she would not sink underneath

  him when they hit the first wave in the open water. The fuel gage registered

  three quarters full, and just for insurance, Lonnie took along several portable

  petrol cans that the old ark’s captain kept in the shed for emergencies. The key

  to his successful escape sat trustingly in the ignition of his maritime accomplice,

  and it had been necessary to crank the engine over only a few revs to determine

  it was in working order.

  These unknown part-time residents of Tigre had been very gracious to

  the stranger who was running for his life. Thanks to their foresight in leaving

  accessible everything Lonnie needed to survive, the much sought-after murderer

  was able to drift silently from his moorings and strike a course away from this

  deadly town. Using only the moonlight
to guide him, he arrived well before

  sunrise at the long wharf of the Fisherman’s Club in the northeastern suburbs

  of the capital. He was just a few miles from his home in Palermo when he

  abandoned his vessel and struck out overland on foot.

  Lonnie lingered in the steaming shower for what seemed like hours. It was

  his first really thorough cleansing in months, and he had forgotten how good it

  felt. It was only Oli’s summoning to the spread she had brought to his bedroom

  that lured him away from his watery pleasures. She was gone by the time he

  set foot in the bedroom proper, but the savory aroma emanating from the tray

  she had placed on his old desk reminded him of all the hearty, mouthwatering

  feasts she had turned out over the years.

  His wardrobe held a special excitement, and yet, a certain amount of

  anxiety as well. After living in rags and tatters of late, the Gucci blazers and

  slacks, the custom-made silk shirts from Sulka, and the Feragamo shoes all

  seemed so incongruous. He had been transformed from the ‘Ralph Lauren’

  playboy to the ‘Charles Manson’ murderer in a matter of months. How could

  he have been so stupid?

  The drifter had precious little time to ruminate on the answer to his own

  question. It was Friday, which meant that he had only a few hours left to make

  it to the Banco Rio de la Plata in order to collect his passport, credit cards, and

  a mountain of cash, American dollars preferably. With all the foreigners in the

  capital for the weekend football festivities, the lineups could be horrendous.

  The banks were also known to run out of U.S. currency, even on a normal

  business day.

  Lonnie knew that the expedition was fraught with danger. The bank could

  very well be under surveillance by any number of enemies. Although Lonnie

  De Seta’s name had never been mentioned in the media in connection with a

  misdemeanor of any kind, one fact remained paramount. Someone was tracking

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  him with ‘malicious intent.’ Lonnie remembered that stupid textbook term

  from one of his university law courses. “Bullshit!” he cried aloud in torment as

  he beheld his lost universe for the last time. Somebody was trying to fucking

  kill him, and he didn’t know who or why.

  Celeste’s killers were not from the police or regular militia hunting