Renaldo (77 page)

would be a very, very good day for Astor Gordero.

Renaldo De Seta’s heart started to pound as his visitor to the National

Team Training Center handed him a heavily perfumed envelope. There was

no mistaking either Simone’s handwriting or her fragrance. Thoughts of their

dressing room embrace at Teatro Colon flooded the boy’s mind. Her scent had

made his head spin then, as it did now. He tore open the missive with shaking

hands, unable to wait until he was completely alone to read its contents.

Astor Gordero smiled patiently as his client devoured Symca’s words. She

had written the note in the back of Gordero’s limousine on their way home

from the match the evening before, and while she would not let The Fat Man

read her private jottings, she assured him that what she had inscribed would

fill the recipient with courage . . . and passion!

Renaldo was no more forthcoming with the letter’s contents than the

author had been. Gordero was smart enough to give the boy his leave to go

off and ponder the words and thoughts that preoccupied him at the moment.

354

RENALDO

Before parting company, however, Gordero again offered Renaldo tickets to

the upcoming Argentina-Italy match for his mother and brother, Lonnie. The

answer was exactly the same as it had been for the last month.

Señora Florencia De Seta had absolutely no interest in watching her son

play his dangerous little games, and as for Lonnie, Renaldo had not heard from

him for the last several weeks.

“I think he still must be traveling the country with his girlfriend, but he

did express an interest in seeing me play if I made the team. He will probably

show up before long. I just don’t know when,” Renaldo explained.

Gordero was careful not to make the boy suspicious by asking too many

questions concerning his brother’s whereabouts, so he dropped the subject.

Wolfgang Stoltz had also inquired after Lonnie’s locale in a discreet manner

when the opportunity arose with Florencia, but the lady would turn to ice

and make some offhand comment about her vagabond, communist son. The

impression was given that there was no love lost between mother and offspring,

and Stoltz would never pursue the topic after getting the standard response.

There was no doubt that neither Renaldo nor his mother had the slightest

inkling of Lonnie’s whereabouts.

Astor Gordero was shocked by the foul humor that he found manager

Suarez in as he entered the team leader’s inner sanctum after leaving Renaldo.

One would have thought that the thrilling victory over France the previous

evening would have elevated Suarez temporarily to cloud nine, but the manager

sat chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette as he picked up files that were

scattered pell-mell over his office floor.

“Those bastards from Independiente. Do you know what they are trying

to pull? Juan Chacon comes in to see me at nine a.m. sharp and informs me that

I had better start Miguel Cruz at center half against Italy because he has served

his suspension! That if I had other plans for that position, I should rethink

them, for if Cruz is not in the starting lineup, all five of the Independiente

players will leave the team in protest. Then he pushed me further into a corner.

He insisted that his cohorts Arzu, Argueta, and Rios be returned to the starting

lineup as well, or Chacon will refuse to play! How do you like that? The ugly

cocksucker is trying to run this team!”

“So what will you do, Octavio? De Seta played so well against France,

and on the whole, the lineup for that game was much more cohesive than the

game against Hungary. You can’t let the inmates rule the asylum!” Gordero

responded.

“I know, I know, Astor, but I must have Chacon on the back line against

Italy. He is the one player who sets the tone and tenacity of our defense. I am

afraid that without him guarding the gate, the Italians will swarm all over our

goal area.”

355

JAMES McCREATH

“What does it matter?” an agitated Gordero screamed. “Both Italy and

Argentina have already advanced to the second round. The game is meaningless.

Call their bluff! If you give in to them now, they will own you for the rest of

the tournament!”

Suarez’s eyes narrowed, his face turned red, and the veins in his temples

bulged.

“Goddamn it, Astor, no one runs this team except me, and you know

that. I am not afraid to stand up to Chacon, no matter how badly I need him

on the pitch, but this game is not meaningless! If we lose, we have to pack up

our operation and play the second round in Rosario. I want to stay right here

in Buenos Aires! Your boy De Seta had his opportunity and did an admirable

job. Cruz wants the chance to win back his old position. After all, he did have

an enviable record in the warm-up matches.”

“One game, Octavio, one game is all that he excelled in. A lucky hat

trick, and now he is untouchable? My boy can play circles around that little

fagot, Cruz. I think that you owe the position to De Seta on the merit of his

performance against France. Do you not agree?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes, of course, I do. But these are not normal

times. We are in the middle of the biggest sporting event this nation has ever

seen, and five of my players are threatening to pack up and leave! I must think

on this subject for a while. Stand by me, Astor, for I might just have to give the

Independiente players enough rope to hang themselves with.”

With that, the beleaguered manager walked out of his office, en-route to

the training pitch where his charges were limbering up for the first workout of

the day. There were three days left to prepare for the contest against Italy, and

Astor Gordero knew that they would not be good days to spend in the company

of Octavio Suarez. He would leave the manager to his own designs and trust

that he would make the right decision come the night of June the tenth.

The reaction of his bedraggled customer was startling. The news vendor

could see the drifter’s hands start to shake and his knees buckle slightly. Fear

seemed etched in those black eyes for the first time since he had met the

stranger. Señor Geary would be pleased. This was definitely his man.

The statement that someone was looking for the ‘Attractive Assassin’ had

drawn an affirmative reaction. The two Argentina-Italy football tickets that

had been promised as a reward for positive identification would be like manna

from heaven to the newsy. He doubted that he would ever see his shaggy client

again, but the tickets more than made up for the loss of a customer!

356

RENALDO

Rojo Geary had gone directly to the special investigative services branch

of army intelligence to have the poster likeness of a clean-shaven Lonnie De Seta

enhanced by computer to include a long beard and scraggly hair as detailed by

the newsy. It was this updated version of Lonnie’s countenance that Geary’s

agents showed to boarding house and hotel owners in the Boca district.

Once again, there was an affirmative reaction from one particular landlady,

who confirmed that a person resembling the new poster image was a resident

in her establishment. A wad of pesos freed up the information that this guest

resided in lower room number three, and that he seldom, if ever, was seen by

anyone.

It took less than an hour for Rojo Geary to arrive on the scene with two

other heavily armed men. Swiftly and silently, they descended to the lower

level, set their positions on either side of the door bearing the numeral ‘3,’ then

Rojo Geary sent a jackboot flying against the cheap door clasp.

The obstruction came crashing off its hinges, tumbling back into the

room. The assassins, their heads now covered in black balaclavas, surged into

the quarters beyond, fanning out and hitting the floor as soon as they cleared

the portal. Not a single shot was discharged. Silence, absolute silence!

The intruders studied every corner of the fusty dungeon, their fingers

gently stroking the triggers of their silenced Uzzis. The room was empty. The

terrorist had eluded the assassin . . . this time!

Lonnie De Seta was well-known to the manager and staff of the Banco

Rio de la Plata on Avenida San Martin back in Palermo. After all, he had

been given a sizable inheritance on his twenty-first birthday. Branch manager

Anthony Rodrigues was the man that personally designed the boy’s investment

portfolio. Rodrigues’ father had been Lonnie’s grandfather’s banker, and this

same branch also counted Florencia De Seta among their valuable clients.

The female staff at the Banco had their own reasons for noticing Lonnie.

He had bedded several of them personally, which, in truth, was the reason he

kept all his assets under Señor Rodigues’ roof, rather than divesting the funds

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.

35

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.”