Renaldo (100 page)

The hunter and the hunted were finally standing toe to toe. Both searched

silently for clues as they held eye contact for almost a quarter of a minute. As is

usually the case, only the hunter knew the rules of the deadly contest in which

the two men were about to participate.

Lonnie had watched the man for ten minutes from across the street before

making a move. He wanted to be sharp, take precautions, and especially, stay

alive. Not that Astor Gordero would have any reason to set him up. It was

just that past experience had shown that these mystery killers had a habit of

turning up when you least expected them. Out of thin air, silently, and with

deadly result!

Gordero had been right though. There was no mistaking Oswaldo. A black

baseball cap with the Newton’s Prefect crest now covered his carrot-topped

crown, but he had been instantly recognizable from twenty yards while bare-

headed. His bright blue eyes were warm and friendly as he paid his respects to

Lonnie’s younger brother.

This man is alright,
the elder sibling decided.
He likes Renaldo. Great! We

will get along just fine.
The desperado relaxed a bit, ready to have a ‘big day!’

The two press accreditations that had been bestowed upon Astor Gordero

had initially arrived as a ‘thank you’ for the ‘calling off’ of government

henchmen out to get the editor of a left-wing newspaper. Although the solicitor

considered them only partial payment for the man’s life, he had accepted the

field-level photographer’s passes several months before the tournament began,

then filed them away until needed. That need had arisen with Lonnie De Seta’s

phone call.

“Here, put this on, then take this camera and sling it around your neck.

This is your identification card. Stick it in your pocket, somewhere handy. We

will have to show it several times before we get settled on the field.”

Rojo Geary handed Lonnie a red photographer’s vest with ‘38’ emblazoned

in large white numerals. That was the day’s pass code, a well-guarded secret

until just hours before game time. Geary had already been to the stadium and

secured the two vests by the time he met Lonnie. Now they were ready. It was

time to enter the palace of the Gods!

Lonnie De Seta had left no trace of his stay at Marla Gallego’s flat. He

had been meticulous in his efforts to not cause the lady any more discomfort.

Actually, he didn’t want the little bitch screaming at him that he had left his

underwear in her bathroom sink when he attempted to discreetly visit the bank

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again. The flat would be exactly as she had left it, except for the consumed

foodstuffs, and, of course, a few quarts of Scotch.

Lonnie had changed into blue jeans and a sweater. A brown leather

bomber-style jacket and a very special accessory finished off his game clothes.

That ‘special accessory’ was a white toque, with two powder-blue stripes

circling around the turned-up headband. Above the stripes was written the

word ‘Argentina’ in matching powder blue.

The toque had been a going away gift from Renaldo last Christmas. Both

brothers had been set to embark on new adventures way back then. His little

brother had told him to wear the toque only if Renaldo made the team, and

Lonnie was there to see him play. That way, the toque would bring them safely

together again.

It had been too precious an item for Lonnie to take away with him during

his life as a terrorist and murderer, so he left it safely in his closet at Casa San

Marco. The gift was the first item he had packed on his return home.

Lonnie’s wallet, containing only the safety deposit key and Astor Gordero’s

card, sat in his rear jean’s pocket. The Llama pistol rested against his waistband,

concealed by the brown jacket. He had hidden his club bag behind some refuse

cans in the rear of Marla’s building. His plan was to return and collect his

portable possessions later that evening.

As they came under the shadow of the mammoth steel and concrete home

of the gladiators, Lonnie remembered his second request given to the genie.

“Did Señor Gordero give you an envelope for me, by any chance?”

Rojo Geary could see the hopeful anticipation on his new friend’s face.

“Ya, he did! He told me the envelope contained important documents and

to keep it locked up until after the game. It is stashed in the glove compartment

of my car. I parked back there by the café. I didn’t think I should risk bringing

it out around this crowd. We can get it after the match, then I can give you a

lift to wherever you’re going.”

Lonnie would have preferred to have the pesos crammed in his wallet

right away, just in case anything unusual went down. But Oswaldo seemed

like a straight up, responsible fellow. By the time the hunted man arrived on

the floor of the swirling cauldron that was River Plate Stadium, he felt totally

at ease in Rojo Geary’s company, and he was ready to lose himself in Renaldo’s

glorious efforts.

By two o’clock, River Plate was overflowing, five thousand bodies above

official capacity. Eighty thousand voices, eighty thousand faithful, believing

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voices! If there was a Dutchman in the crowd, he was to become invisible

under the fluttering white storm of paper and ticker-tape. The national colors of

Argentina were everywhere. One hundred-foot-long cloth banners, flags large

and small, streamers, scarves, homemade signs. Everything under the sun that

could be fashioned in powder-blue and white existed here. But most of all, it

was the noise, the noise of those believing voices. Songs of national pride and

heroic deeds rained down upon the green carpet. Surely no team in the world

could conquer both the Argentine players and the Gallery Gods! This was

Argentina’s day! This
must
be Argentina’s day!

At game time, manager Octavio Suarez remained in his office. His team

had already been called to the field, but the man in charge told his assistant

coaches to stall for time. He, and he alone, would give the word when to start

down the path to glory.

For now, he listened, arms folded across his torso, chin resting on his

chest, eyes closed, his back facing the door. He would not leave the room until

he heard that sound, ‘the buzz!’ The sound of champions!

Goalkeeper coach Estes Santos sat on a small table directly in front of a

large, orange plastic tarp. This strange item had appeared on one of the dressing

room walls before any of the players had entered the facility. Santos was told by

the manager to “guard that thing with your life. Let no man look beneath the

orange shield.” Santos had been steadfast in his resolve to carry out the boss’s

instructions, and he had managed to repel all curiosity seekers.

This had been a rewarding tournament for the former player-turned

goalkeeper coach. Argentina’s goals against statistics were the best in the

tournament, and that was largely due to the strong bond that had formed

between coach Santos and National Team keeper, Junior Calix.

The two men understood each other, and they had formed a mutual respect

as teacher and student. Over the last three days, they had spent innumerable

hours practicing together, defending against the curling long balls that the

Dutch had used to sink every team they had played to date. By June the

twenty-fifth, Santos was well pleased, and Junior Calix was ready to meet the

orange onslaught!

There was a second request for the Argentine National Team to take

the field. Ubaldo Luque, the assistant manager, vaguely described some small

‘problem’ that was holding the team back. He assured the uptight Austrian

linesman that they would be along momentarily.

The players were wondering what was up! They were dressed in what had

become their number one strip, starting with their alternating powder-blue and

white vertically striped jerseys. Black shorts with five tight vertical stripes on

the sides, blue, then white, then blue, white again, and finally a last stripe of

blue, gave a sinister, aggressive posture to their uniform. Black stockings with

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three white horizontal rings on the fold complimented the shorts. They had

never lost a game in World Cup ’78 attired in this fashion. They felt comfortable

suited up in this battle dress. They felt ready to play, and win!

But the waiting was getting to them. Each one, to a man, questioned what

Suarez was doing in his office alone. Why had he not given his charges one of

his patented inspirational lectures to propel them onto the field? Their voices

rose in volume with impatient, nervous banter.

“There! There it is! ‘The buzz’ of champions. I have heard it!

Champions!”

Octavio Suarez wheeled around, grabbed a cardboard box from the edge

of his desk, and strode into the dressing area. Every voice in the room stopped

in mid-sentence.

“Gather around this table, all of you. Thank you, Estes.”

The goalkeeper coach stepped aside as the man in charge placed the box

on the space he had vacated. Suarez turned and gave a hearty tug to the orange

tarp. As it fell to the floor, the national flag of Argentina loomed in its place.

“La Bandera Immaculada, Señors. Our immaculate flag! This is the flag

of the greatest nation on earth. A flag for all our people.” Suarez took a nearby

pointer and held it on the bottom horizontal blue band of the sacred object.

“Here, here is the blue of the great Atlantic Ocean that laps at our fair

shores. In the middle, the white snow of the Andes Mountains, so pure and

true. And here, the blue of the sky . . . breathtaking, never-ending! But it is

here, right here in the center, that you will find the source that will light your

way today. It is the sun, Señors! The sun that shines down from the clear blue

sky, over the pure-white mountains, and glistens on the bright blue sea. The

sun that always guides us, shows us the way, leads us to our destiny!”

The manager paused, looking into the glazed eyes of his players. He

placed his hands on the lid of the box in front of him.

“Today, the sun will guide your way. Today, the sun will be with you every

step that you take. The sun will keep your aim true and your heart strong. The

sun will guide you to victory!”

Suarez cast aside the lid, reached into the rectangular crate, and held up a

pair of stockings. White football stockings with three horizontal powder-blue

rings on the fold. The boss extended his arms straight out in front of his body

at shoulder height. He then made a slow one hundred and eighty degree sweep

of the room with the precious article held lovingly in his hands. Atop the three

powder-blue rings on the outer side of the stocking was a sewn-on patch. That

patch was adorned with the smiling golden sun of La Bandera Immaculada.

“Here is the sun that will guide you to victory today! Now, each one

of you step up here and take a pair. Change your stockings, now! All of you.

Move!”

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JAMES McCREATH

The pale blue sky as described on La Bandera Immaculada turned into a