Renaldo (79 page)

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 could 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

the ride! And no more blackmail or you are gone! Try it, and I will disgrace you

publicly. You will never play football in Argentina again! Do you understand

me? Now, how will it be, Señor ‘Killer’ Chacon?”

363

As the first round of World Cup competition drew to a close, the

Argentine national psyche had been only slightly damaged by their

heroes’ loss to the Italians. There was still time to make corrections and

adjustments, and moreover, the weak showing of the pretournament favorites

was reason for cautious optimism.

Italy was the only team to advance to the second round of play with a

perfect record. Three victories in three matches to top group one. Argentina

also advanced from that group with two victories and one defeat. France flew

home with a single victory over the hapless Hungarians to complete its South

American visit with some semblance of respectability.

Group Two, consisting of Poland, West Germany, Mexico, and Tunisia,

held one of the major surprises. The reigning champion of the world, West

Germany, looked totally out of step and confused in their nil-nil encounters

with Poland and Tunisia. A 6-0 shellacking of a terrible Mexican team did

little to silence their critics on both sides of the Atlantic. Poland topped the

group with two wins and a tie, followed by West Germany with one win and

two ties. The very game Tunisians were a pleasant surprise but they were sent

home along with the dismal Mexicans.

The despised Brazilians had been the favorites to top Group Three, despite

their whining about having to play in the frigid seaside resort of Mar del Plata.

But they had accomplished only two ties in their first two games, with only one

goal to show for one hundred and eighty minutes of football played. It would be

fair to say that the entire host nation was reveling in the misfortune of yellow-

shirted prima donnas.

There was some merit to the Brazilian’s claim of unfair treatment,

however. They were the only team in the group forced to play all its fixtures on

the horrendous pitch of Mar del Plata Stadium. Each of their three adversaries

had been lucky enough to play at least one game in brand-new Velez Sarsfield

Stadium in the capital city.

Judged the finest pitch in the tournament, Velez Sarsfield also afforded

its competitors the moderate climate of Buenos Aires. The Brazilians were

adamant that they needed a good playing surface to excel at their ‘change of

pace’ style of play.

JAMES McCREATH

The soggy, rutted field at Mar del Plata resembled a groundhog’s convention

after Brazil’s 1-1 tie with Sweden. To make matters worse, the chilling winds

and biting rain that invited themselves to each of the Samba King’s games

made for plodding, disjointed contests.

These were not the Brazilians of Pelé and Socrates. The elements and the

pitch had reduced them to mere mortals. A 1-0 victory over group winner

Austria in the final game of the first round gave but slim hope for a resurgence

to the form of yesteryear. It was a confused and troubled team that headed for

Mendoza to open the second round against Peru. Spain and Sweden booked

passage back to Europe as Austria and Brazil advanced.

Peru turned out to be the undisputed dark horse of the first round.

Thought to be an easy adversary whose players were too old and too unfamiliar

with each other’s style, the Peruvians pulled the rug out from under Scotland’s

hopes in their opening match. An impressive three-goal comeback after Hamish

MacPherson had given the Scots an early lead sent the Tartan army reeling. A

scoreless draw with the Netherlands followed. Inspired by those two confidence-

building games, the men of the Andes then thrashed Iran 4-1, achieving first

place in Group Four. The Netherlands also advanced, giving game but luckless

Scotland and Iran their leave.

Thus, the eight teams advancing for further battle were Italy, Argentina,

Poland, West Germany, Austria, Brazil, Peru, and the Netherlands. Three

South American teams, five European teams. A decent balance, and at this

point, the Italians looked to be the class of the tournament.

The National Team of Argentina had been placed in Group B for the

second round of play, along with Brazil, Poland and Peru. Each team would

play the others in the group once. A complicated tie-breaking system would

determine the winner of each group, should there be equal merit for the top

spot.

Transposing the entire National Team operation to Rosario was a logistical

nightmare that Octavio Suarez had hoped to avoid. There had been contingency

plans made well before the fact, however, and the relocation was carried out in

less than twenty-four hours without any major trauma. That left three days to

adapt to their new surroundings and prepare for their opening second round

match against Poland. On the bright side, the Italian victory had provided an

opportunity to let fans outside of the capital city view their darlings in the

flesh.

The move to this new home base posed logistical problems for more than

just Octavio Suarez and his legions. Rosario was an industrial port city of seven

hundred and fifty thousand people, some two hundred miles northwest of

the capital up the Paraná River. The new host city for the National Team of

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Argentina found its infrastructure strained to the limit once the world turned

its eyes on the spectacle that was unfolding there.

Central Stadium, the venue for Argentina’s games in Rosario, was the

most intimate of all the facilities in the tournament. No moats or warning

tracks separated spectators from their idols. The steep second tier of the stadium

seemed to hang over the touch lines at an impossible angle. The problem was

that only thirty-two thousand-odd hearty souls could be shoehorned into its

tight enclosure. This was much less than half of River Plate’s capacity.

Demand for first-class hotel rooms and tickets of any denomination were

at an extreme premium. The flourishing local black market in ‘beds, broads,

booze, and a board,’ the latter referring to the plank that one’s derrière would

cover in the stadium, managed to keep almost everyone happy, for a considerable

brokerage fee.

With luxury accommodations all but nonexistent, the two finest suites

in the Hotel Libertador had been booked for their respective guests using all

the power and influence that they could muster. People of discriminating taste

simply had to stay there. This prime billet was head and shoulders above all

the other establishments in town. After all, they were the only ones to serve

high tea at precisely four o’clock each afternoon. This fact would not be lost

on the occupants of suite number 237, one Astor Armondo Luis Gordero and

associates from Buenos Aires.

Similarly, the occupants of suite 358, Miss Mallory Russell and her father,

Lord Reginald Russell of London, England, would luxuriate whenever possible

in the lobby café over sandwiches, scones, and cakes. It was there, in the Café

Inglaterra, that the two parties would make one another’s acquaintance for the

first time. It would be a meeting that would change all of their lives.

It had been necessary for Astor Gordero to delay his departure to Rosario

by several hours to enable him to deal with a potentially embarrassing situation.

On the morning of June eleventh, Wolfgang Stoltz had informed his employer

of a telephone call that had been placed to Florencia De Seta by her bank

manager, Anthony Rodrigues.

The wire tap operator had recorded the entire conversation. Luckily,

Señora De Seta was not at Casa San Marco at the time of Señor Rodrigues’

call. The female servant, Oli, had spoken to the banker briefly, the male voice

stating in a blunt, agitated manner that his name was Rodrigues and that he

would call again.

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