Renaldo (82 page)

thinking of? Chacon! Chacon! Get rid of that ball and get back where you

belong! Who do you think you are, Franz Beckinbauer?”

The manager’s reference to the multitalented, world-class German sweeper

was laughable. Luckily for Suarez, his big defender was within earshot of the

boss, and number eight suddenly realized that he was leaving a gaping hole in

the defense behind him. The nearest player he could direct his treasure toward

wearing powder-blue and white was number seventeen.

Renaldo De Seta graciously accepted his tormentor’s gift. He had followed

his deformed teammate upfield and was ten yards deep into the Polish half

when the parcel arrived. Ramon Vida was on the move to his right, and the

center half placed the ball directly at his friend’s galloping feet.

Vida was poetry in motion. A swing of his hips one way, then another,

kept the last line of Polish defenders guessing. Three Europeans closed for the

kill twenty-five yards from the Polish goal line.

“Come on, come and get me!” Vida shouted as he plunged ahead. Over his

right shoulder he could feel the looming presence of defender Antoni Wroclaw,

whose outstretched right leg swept for the ball. Vida saw the flash of stocking

as it approached and deftly sure-footed the prize six yards to his left.

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RENALDO

“Oh no, not again. It’s my turn this time! You said you would share,

man. It’s not fair!” Ramon Vida called out after his Argentine cohort who had

trapped the pass. Vida lay on his stomach, facing the Polish goal twenty yards

away, the defender Wroclaw sprawled underneath him. He was yelling at the

black numerals ‘one-seven’ on the back of his teammate’s jersey.

Renaldo De Seta was in the right place at the right time again. Dead

center of the field, square on the penalty spot. Red-clad defender Jacek Poznan

closed to intercept the intruder, but the boy turned to his right, then put on

the brakes.

The Pole was running at full speed and could not stop when the Argentine

feinted. Poznan overshot his mark, then made a vain attempt to reach back for

the ball with a lunging left leg. A stationary Renaldo watched the twirling

sphere rotate ever so slowly at his feet. He took one glance goalward, then

merely let swing his own left leg.

Poland’s keeper moved too late. His feetfirst dive at the ball resembled

someone jumping into a swimming pool. The shot was past him to his left

before he could get his arms in the outstretched position. Rising only inches

off the turf, Renaldo De Seta’s sure blast came to rest in the mesh at the rear

corner of the Polish net. Argentina 2, Poland 0. An earthquake of jubilation

shook the entire country.

Mallory Russell could only stare in awe at the spectacle taking place a

few tables to her left in the Café Inglaterra. She had never seen one man devour

so much food while holding what seemed to be some sort of continual press

conference. People with notepads and tape recorders were shown one by one

to his table, where they were encouraged to stand and listen to the gospel

espoused by this terribly large and ebullient man.

Only the waiters who cleared and then restocked the table interrupted the

dialogue. The regular morning diners had all but deserted the café’s comfortable

confines, and tables were being quickly reset for the noon meal, except for

the two occupied by Mallory Russell, her father, and the much sought-after

epicurean.

Mallory knew from the Spanish she was able to decipher that the man

was connected with the World Cup Tournament in some way, but she had been

unable to determine exactly how. Curiosity had gotten the best of Reginald

Russell, who sought out the maître d’ to reveal the hungry one’s identity. He

was all smiles when he returned to join Mallory at the table.

3

JAMES McCREATH

“You won’t believe our luck, my dear. It seems that our breakfast companion

is some big shot from Buenos Aires. But no ordinary big shot. The man is the

chairman of Newton’s Prefects, who happen to be the current Argentine first

division champions. But it gets better! He is also the personal manager of that

boy, De Seta. You know, the one that scored both the goals for Argentina last

night. What was his given name? You wrote it on your notepad, didn’t you?”

“Renaldo, Renaldo De Seta. Young, only nineteen. Has never played a first

division game. Came to the National Team directly from their feeder system.

There is next to nothing in the team’s biographical information about him.”

As usual, Mallory Russell had done her homework in her signature

thorough fashion. She knew the names and statistics of every player who

remained in the hunt for the sport’s ultimate prize. The Russells were looking

for a few diamonds in the rough to take back to England with them, and both

Reggie and Mallory had spent hours of preparation prior to and following their

arrival in South America. Both were determined that they would not go home

empty-handed.

“I tipped the maître d’ to get us an audience with Señor Glutton before

he departs. Judging by the food still left on his table, we should have plenty

of time.”

Several minutes later, an impeccably turned out gentleman ventured to

the Russell’s table.

“Herr Wolfgang Stoltz at your service. I am Astor Gordero’s executive

assistant. The maître d’ informed me that you have requested a few minutes of

Señor Gordero’s time. May I be of assistance, for as you can see, Señor Gordero

is in great demand this morning.”

A warm smile rained down upon the seated Anglos as Stoltz finished

his introduction and glanced admiringly at his pontificating employer. Reggie

Russell rose from his seat and handed the visitor his card.

“Sir Reginald Russell of London, England, Herr Stoltz. A pleasure to meet

your acquaintance. This is my daughter, Mallory.”

The gorgeous blonde lady extended her right hand. Stoltz held it tenderly

and brought it to his lips. A slight click of his heels accompanied the respectful

gesture.

“An honor, my Lady.”

“Would you be so kind as to join us for a moment, if you can spare the

time, Herr Stoltz?”

“My pleasure, to be sure, my Lord,” responded the German as he drew

another chair to the Russells’ table.

“We were wondering, Herr Stoltz, as to the status of one of Señor Gordero’s

clients. The young soccer star, Renaldo De Seta. You see, Mallory and I operate

a first division professional soccer organization in London. You may have heard

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RENALDO

of the Canary Wharf Football Club if you are a fan of the game. Are you a fan,

Herr Stoltz?”

“Most definitely so, my Lord. I attended last evening’s festivities. A

triumphant occasion! I am also well aware of the great history and past glory

of the Canary Wharf Football Club. Any student of the game would recognize

that name. You are newly promoted to the top division, is that not so?”

Reggie Russell was reassured by the stranger’s knowledge of things

‘English,’ and at the same time, put at ease by his comfortable manner and

openness.

“Tell me, if you don’t mind my Lord, what did you think of the atmosphere

at the stadium? Did you feel safe attending the game? I am very interested to

know your thoughts on our country, as well as on our football players.”

The three soccer fanatics launched into a candid half-hour discussion

on a myriad of topics. Football was always the cornerstone of each segment.

Throughout the thirty minutes, the central theme would continually revolve

back to the handsome Argentine footballer with the prolific scoring touch.

Renaldo De Seta had been discovered!

Stoltz, for his part, was impressed with the gentleman’s astuteness

regarding Argentina’s culture, politics, and sports. But it was the sculpted

beauty of the lady’s fine features and the cultured lilt of her accent that really

enthralled him. It became evident to Stoltz that this woman was no vapid piece

of fluff from the first time she opened her mouth to speak. The German found

himself hoping that his employer would continue to lecture the two journalists

that had become his latest attentive audience for a considerably longer period.

“I like to think of myself as a ‘facilitator’ more than anything else,” a

thoroughly satisfied Astor Gordero mused to his new English acquaintances.

“It would seem that these days, I am forced to wear many different hats, but

whatever function I am performing, I always strive to facilitate a conclusion

that is of benefit to all the parties involved. I have spent my life putting people

together and facilitating supply and demand. I practice law only to ease the

transactions to their happy endings. That is my calling. That is what I enjoy

most in life, the transfer of knowledge and currency. I have thought about

entering politics many times, to perhaps facilitate on a grander scale, but in

reality, I operate more effectively on the fringes of the system. Bipartisan,

that kind of thing. A facilitator must always be flexible, ready to adapt to the

moment.”

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JAMES McCREATH

Gordero paused to sip his cappuccino and pulled a chained pocket watch

from his vest. His raised eyebrows attested to his sudden concern. He addressed

his European guests once more.

“At this moment, my Lord and Lady, I, like yourselves, am consumed with

the evolution of this football tournament. I have lingered far too long in the

glow of last night’s achievements. This country has a ‘what have you done for me

lately’ attitude. There are many factors that combine themselves into making

a championship team, and I operate by leaving as few of them to chance as I

can manage. I must, therefore, be off to consult with manager Suarez. You are

interested in young De Seta, is that correct? Herr Stoltz informed me briefly. A

very fine choice of talent. Young, raw, impetuous, with great natural skills. He

could be trained to adapt to your style of soccer. I have always said that he plays

the game as if his head and feet are one!”

As The Fat Man attempted to stand, Stoltz appeared out of nowhere,

grasped his employer under both arms from the rear, and literally hoisted him

to his feet.

“Here is my card with my local phone number. I will be in Rosario

until matters dictate a return to Buenos Aires. Perhaps we can have a cocktail

together and further our discussions. Are you guests of this hotel?”

“Most assuredly so, Señor Gordero. We occupy suite 358. Allow me to

present you with my card and credentials. To further our relationship, it would

be our distinct pleasure to offer you dinner at the establishment of your choice.

Shall we say tomorrow night?”

Lord Russell was quick to capitalize on the one weakness to which his new

Latin friend obviously was prone.

“Dinner, tomorrow evening? Are we clear, Stoltz?”

The German produced a trim, leather daybook from his breast pocket,

pulled the red ribbon marking the current week, and ran his index finger down

the column for June fifteenth.

“General Ustedes requested an evening meeting to discuss stadium