Renaldo (89 page)

You got some chicks in there or something? Come on, open up!”

A disoriented and disheveled Renaldo De Seta appeared in the doorway.

Vida was past him and into the room in a flash.

“So, where is she, man? Where’s the dolly, the quim, the

puuuuusssssyyyyy?”

“There’s no puuusssy here, Ramon. I fell asleep and forgot to set my alarm.

That’s all. Come on, I’m ready to go. Sorry.”

Number seventeen quickly buttoned and tucked in his shirt, slipped on

his loafers, and stuffed Simone’s letter in his jeans pocket.

The missive had sent him to a Utopian land of milk and honey, and he

knew that he would be there still were it not for the rude knock of reality on

his door. Astor Gordero’s visit had thrown his studied pregame routine into a

tailspin. Thoughts and images he never before imagined flew through his brain

as he tried to concentrate on Suarez’s instructions.

408

RENALDO

Simone was most prominently in his mind, but the unusual notion of

cutting his mother’s apron strings for fame and fortune in a foreign land kept

recurring. Had Gordero struck a nerve at the right time in his young life? The

thought was as compelling as it was frightening.

The Pandora’s box of emotions was hard to exorcise to make room for the

immediate task of the hour. It was only after the Argentine team bus pulled into

view of Rosario Central Stadium with its flags, banners, and raucous fanatics

that Renaldo was able to come to grips with the present. He felt that a good

showing here tonight would allow him to take charge of his life, to become a

man. A man that was worthy of loving the most famous woman in Argentina.

“So be it, head and feet as one!”

The burglar could still not believe his good fortune. He had been a

resident at the comfortable summer home of the Jimenez family for five nights,

and he had remained undisturbed as Peru kicked off against Argentina on the

night of the twenty-first of June.

The large, two-story frame ‘cottage’ sat on the shore of one of the Delta’s

more fashionable islands, but as this was the off-season, it and all the adjacent

summer retreats were boarded up and deserted. That suited the uninvited guest

perfectly. No one had come by to make him take flight prematurely, for what

the intruder needed was time. Time to make the assassins that were after his

head give up their hunt in the Tigre area and move on to search elsewhere.

The cottage was adequately stocked with dry goods and canned foodstuffs.

The electrical power had been shut down, and the visitor was careful not to

turn on the main breaker switch unless it was to quickly cook some food or

to watch the news and sports report on the old television set. He had made up

his mind to move on in the morning, for extending his stay could prove to be

hazardous to his health. No sense pressing one’s luck, and besides, it was really

the football match that had kept him in these cozy surroundings this long.

Yes, Lonnie De Seta considered himself lucky to be able to sit back and

take in his little brother’s starting performance against Peru. In fact, Lonnie

considered himself lucky to be alive.

He had drifted out into the middle of the channel and floated downstream

with the current that deadly night of the sixteenth. There was no attempt

to follow his nautical course. Celeste’s killers must have been so sure of their

success that they had overlooked a maritime escape route and were unprepared

to take to the waterways in pursuit. Lonnie rationalized that they may never

409

JAMES McCREATH

have discovered that the fugitive had made his getaway by canoe. In any event,

no one had come searching around the Jimenez cottage for him . . . yet.

He had spent that first night deep inside the meandering canals that

snake through the Delta islands. Lush tropical foliage made it easy for him

to paddle his canoe behind an outcropping of vegetation whenever he felt the

need for complete privacy. There were no sounds at all that night as he lay on

the floor of the canoe and tried to rationalize his situation. Tears of regret and

anguish flowed freely down his cheeks as the events of the past months swept

over him.

For the first time, the thought of ending the ordeal by his own hand

passed through his mind. Yes, it was an alternative better than torture, or a

life in one of those abysmal junta prisons. He still carried a cyanide pill in his

hollowed out tooth for expressly that purpose. If all else failed, suicide could be

considered, but not yet, not now.

There was still the chance that he could make it to his bank in the

capital. Once he had made it that far without being detected, he could pick

up his identification and credit cards from the safety deposit box, withdraw a

substantial amount of money from his bank account, and flee Argentina forever.

What Lonnie needed now was time to let his trail get cold, and that meant

staying out of sight and away from any form of civilization.

He remained in his sylvan surroundings until darkness the following night,

when he cautiously continued his silent journey. The fugitive knew exactly

where he was headed, for he had been familiar with these waterways since his

youth. He had dated a girl long ago that owned one of the seasonal retreats just

along from the Jimenez cottage. There was a good possibility that one of those

structures could afford him the sanctuary he so desperately required.

Lonnie’s only possessions were crammed into his dirty chinos. A wallet

containing false identification, the key to the safety deposit box, and a few

hundred pesos lay in his back pocket. Under his belt buckle rested the Llama

pistol. He hoped with all his heart that he would have to use only the contents

of the wallet, not the pistol, to reach Buenos Aires and continue his flight to

freedom.

For a fleeting moment, the pole atop Central Stadium bearing the national

flag of Argentina stood perfectly silhouetted in the glaring full moon. It was

the first sight witnessed by Renaldo De Seta as he took the field of play for this

World Cup semifinal game.

410

RENALDO

A full moon with our national flag nestled inside it. Certainly a good omen,

number seventeen thought to himself as he pranced nervously in his warm-up

jacket prior to the national anthems being played.
Its bright beams will guide us

to the mother-lode!

Such was the unabashed confidence of the young and talented center

halfback. And well it should have been, for ‘the mother-lode’ was exactly what

the Argentine National Team needed to find on this bejeweled evening.

Four clear goals against any of the World Cup contenders was a tall order.

Against Peru, the team that had dispatched the Scots from the tournament

licking their inadequacies, overconfidence on the part of the home side could

be disastrous. Even though the men of the Andes had already lost to Brazil 3-

0 and Poland 1-0 in the second round, they were still a team to be taken very

seriously.

The North American professional leagues had sent their scouts to the

southern reaches in search of new heroes to help fill their stadiums. Several of

the Peruvians had been mentioned in the press as being slated for a financially

rewarding trip north. These men in red shirts and white shorts were playing for

their futures, and instead of stars, they saw dollar signs in the sky that night.

It was black stockings and black shorts for the men in the powder-blue

and white vertical stripes again. Octavio Suarez was impressed with the ornery

attitude that his tactic had produced against the Brazilians, and he was hoping

that the somber shade would have the same effect this night.

It was the Peruvians that stormed the barricades at the outset, however.

Junior Calix was called upon to save the national pride three times in the

opening minutes. There was a cocksure defiance to the red team’s game.

The Argentine defenders were cement-footed spectators to some of the most

proficient passing of the whole extravaganza to date. Suarez bit his nails on the

sidelines, waiting for the true home side to come out of the closet.

The manager would only have to wait ten minutes for the talent he knew

existed in his charges to surface. The Peruvian attack became predictable, always

the same players coming forward at the Argentine defenders. That meant a less

than warm welcome from Juan Chacon, and he made short work of any red

sweater that came within his range of contact.

The opening flurry by the visitors gave them a good taste of ‘Killer’

Chacon’s style of hospitality. Octavio Suarez had seen the ensuing result in

other games where the surly defender’s opponents lacked true motivation and

the ‘victory at any cost’ mind-set. It was not long before the men from the north

tired of the physical punishment being dealt out by number eight of the host

nation. As one quarter hour of play elapsed, the initial spirit and sheer love

of the game seemed to have disappeared from the red shirt’s demeanor. No

longer did they venture under the shadows of the Argentine woodwork. Their

411

JAMES McCREATH

passes started to misfire, and their shots were taken from an increasing longer

distance.

The Argentine boss knew that The Ugly One had single-handedly

changed the course of the match. The French referee was an unaffected onlooker

to the punishment meted out by the grotesque back-liner. Juan Chacon had

cast a sorcerer’s spell on the Peruvian nationals, a spell that would last the

remaining seventy-five minutes of football. It was a belligerent, bruising, one-

man defensive spectacle that would prove to be the penultimate performance

of his career.

Yet Juan Chacon’s stellar showing would be overshadowed this night in

Rosario. The seams in the visitors’ defensive formations came apart the minute

the red shirts started to lay back in the midfield. Challenges were now uniformly

won by the hosts, and offensive thrusts deep inside Peruvian territory became

more and more frequent.

The two Argentine outside defenders had been given permission to come

forward with the play. This tactic would enhance the all-out offensive thrust

that would be needed to produce four goals. Captain Daniele Bennett and Jorge

Calderone used their new freedom with great zeal, and their timely runs and

sure passes drew in the red defenders, opening space for the other powder-blue

and white marksmen.

Renaldo’s foot was holding up solidly after a few skirmishes. Tonight’s

opposition had not tried to drive him hobbling from the pitch as the Brazilians

had. The longer the game went on, the more chance number seventeen had to

test the limb’s strength and resiliency. He could feel himself growing stronger

and more confident with every touch of the ball.

At the twenty-minute mark, Humberto Velasquez undressed a Peruvian

midfielder at the sideline and sent a nifty relay ten yards upfield to Ruben

Gitares. The league-leading goal scorer beat a hasty path deep into the Peruvian