Renaldo (93 page)

his office. I expect that she will be away several hours.”

“Good, now maybe while I clean up, you could fix me some of your special

eggs that were always my favorite. It has been a long journey home, and if you

don’t feed me, I will be forced to tickle you until you pass out!”

A tap on the fanny sent the woman on her way to the kitchen, then Lonnie

strode up the grand marble steps to the upper level. He paused at his mother’s

bedroom door, something drawing him to turn the brass knob and enter.

A thousand memories cascaded over the fugitive as he inhaled the

perfumed scent of Florencia’s world. The room was exactly the same as he

had remembered it ever since childhood. Rich burgundy and soft pink tones

combined throughout the boudoir to offer a warm, inviting aura.

It all seemed so familiar. The times he had spent in that big bed when he

was sick or frightened. The mahogany cabinet containing her precious Royal

Doulton figurines. Florencia’s crystal decanters in all shapes and sizes. The daily

freshly cut flowers. The mirrored vanity with its sterling silver brushes, combs,

and lady’s knickknacks. Her large desk overlooking the front courtyard and

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gates of Casa San Marco. Everything in its place, just as he had remembered

it.

He walked slowly to the desk and sat down in his mother’s working chair.

The room was like a museum to him now, full of precious artifacts and mementos

of his once-pampered existence. Pictures of his father, his grandparents, and of

his younger brother and himself in their adolescence. “So long ago, and so far,

far, away,” he muttered.

As he stood to leave these timeless surroundings, a goldleaf-embossed

business card sitting on the edge of the desk caught his eye.

“Astor Armondo Luis Gordero. Barrister and Solicitor,” read the bold script.

The well-known lawyer had become very involved with his family’s affairs since

Lonnie’s departure. He remembered reading in the newspapers about The Fat

Man representing Renaldo’s football interests, but he was unaware that his

mother had been conducting business with the famous blowhard. He picked

up the card, peered down at it for several moments, and then placed it in his

wallet.

This man could be worth getting to know,
Lonnie pondered solemnly.
Heaven

knows, there is a very good chance that I will need a lawyer myself if things get out of

hand. It might as well be a famous, well-connected attorney that already knows the De

Seta family!

He closed the door gently behind him as he exited into the hallway.
At

least Mama’s world has maintained its appearance of order and stability,
he reflected,

even if my world has collapsed around me.

Lonnie’s voyage to Casa San Marco this Friday, June the twenty-third, had

been remarkably uneventful. The former terrorist had planned his escape from

the Jimenez cottage down to the final detail, even allowing for the pounding

hangover that he awoke to following his brother’s two-goal performance against

Peru. It had been very hospitable of Señor Jimenez to leave a fully stocked

bar available to impromptu visitors such as himself. As a result, it was with

great familial pride that Lonnie De Seta had imbibed almost a quart of the

unknowing host’s Chivas Regal Scotch in a tribute to his brother, Renaldo.

Nearly all of the private summer retreats in Tigre had an adjacent boat

house down at the shoreline. A wide variety of nautical transportation such as

sailboats, paddleboats, ski boats, and regular motor launches filled these lightly

secured marine garages. Lonnie had been able to locate a suitable craft in which

to navigate the Rio de la Plata downstream, under the cover of darkness.

The fugitive had always had a faculty for things mechanical, be it cars,

motorbikes, or boat engines. He had discovered and made seaworthy one

particular vessel during his nocturnal wanderings around the nearby Tigre

estates.

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There was no water in the bilge of the old Seabird cedar-strip launch that

sat solemnly covered with bedsheets to keep bird droppings from ruining the

varnished woodwork. The dry hold meant that she would not sink underneath

him when they hit the first wave in the open water. The fuel gage registered

three quarters full, and just for insurance, Lonnie took along several portable

petrol cans that the old ark’s captain kept in the shed for emergencies. The key

to his successful escape sat trustingly in the ignition of his maritime accomplice,

and it had been necessary to crank the engine over only a few revs to determine

it was in working order.

These unknown part-time residents of Tigre had been very gracious to

the stranger who was running for his life. Thanks to their foresight in leaving

accessible everything Lonnie needed to survive, the much sought-after murderer

was able to drift silently from his moorings and strike a course away from this

deadly town. Using only the moonlight to guide him, he arrived well before

sunrise at the long wharf of the Fisherman’s Club in the northeastern suburbs

of the capital. He was just a few miles from his home in Palermo when he

abandoned his vessel and struck out overland on foot.

Lonnie lingered in the steaming shower for what seemed like hours. It was

his first really thorough cleansing in months, and he had forgotten how good it

felt. It was only Oli’s summoning to the spread she had brought to his bedroom

that lured him away from his watery pleasures. She was gone by the time he

set foot in the bedroom proper, but the savory aroma emanating from the tray

she had placed on his old desk reminded him of all the hearty, mouthwatering

feasts she had turned out over the years.

His wardrobe held a special excitement, and yet, a certain amount of

anxiety as well. After living in rags and tatters of late, the Gucci blazers and

slacks, the custom-made silk shirts from Sulka, and the Feragamo shoes all

seemed so incongruous. He had been transformed from the ‘Ralph Lauren’

playboy to the ‘Charles Manson’ murderer in a matter of months. How could

he have been so stupid?

The drifter had precious little time to ruminate on the answer to his own

question. It was Friday, which meant that he had only a few hours left to make

it to the Banco Rio de la Plata in order to collect his passport, credit cards, and

a mountain of cash, American dollars preferably. With all the foreigners in the

capital for the weekend football festivities, the lineups could be horrendous.

The banks were also known to run out of U.S. currency, even on a normal

business day.

Lonnie knew that the expedition was fraught with danger. The bank could

very well be under surveillance by any number of enemies. Although Lonnie

De Seta’s name had never been mentioned in the media in connection with a

misdemeanor of any kind, one fact remained paramount. Someone was tracking

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him with ‘malicious intent.’ Lonnie remembered that stupid textbook term

from one of his university law courses. “Bullshit!” he cried aloud in torment as

he beheld his lost universe for the last time. Somebody was trying to fucking

kill him, and he didn’t know who or why.

Celeste’s killers were not from the police or regular militia hunting

the ‘Attractive Assassin.’ The men at No Se Preocupe were true assassins.

Professionals! The police would have telegraphed their arrival in the silent Tigre

night long before they reached the camp gates. Lonnie was outside, enjoying

the beautiful night while keeping watch and listening on the dock. He had

heard nothing until the sledgehammer fell!

With the exception of his roughly cropped hairstyle, Lonnie De Seta

looked, for all the world, like a successful business executive in his blue silk

double-breasted suit and Newton’s alumni tie. A jaunty straw fedora solved

the coiffure problem, and a pair of dark sunglasses further shielded his true

identity. He had thrown an assortment of clothes and keepsakes in a folding

leather club bag, then slowly made the heartbreaking walk to the main floor

entrance foyer. His eyes darted everywhere as he moved, searching, reflecting,

inspecting, remembering.

“Good-bye, dear Oli. I will miss you more than you will ever know. Now,

make sure there is not a word of this visit to my mother, or I will be forced to

break my vacation short and arrive unannounced again to tickle you for your

indiscretions.”

He bent forward from the waist and kissed the native woman on her

cheek. In all the years of their friendship, it was the one act of affection that he

had never thought of committing. The fugitive’s eyes welled with tears behind

his dark glasses as he turned and left the shocked lady muttering his name in

the doorway.

It was an easy walk from Lonnie’s home to the Banco Rio de la Plata on

Avenido San Martin. He had devised a scheme in his solitary hours in Tigre

that would allow him to circumvent the long queues at the teller’s wickets

and keep his public exposure to a minimum. That scheme was called Marla

Gallego.

Señorita Gallego was an assistant to branch manager Anthony Rodrigue’s

personal secretary. She was a nicely wrapped package that Señor Rodrigues

did not mind staring at through his office window. As a matter of fact, the top

executive had reorganized his outer office in order to afford himself a better

view of the young lady’s long, velvety gams and tight curves.

Marla Gallego was as friendly as she was erotically stimulating. She would

always strike up conversations with the bank clients waiting close to her desk

for their turn to pay homage to the boss. One of those conversations with

Lonnie De Seta culminated in the best fuck she had ever experienced. They

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had dated a few times, but Lonnie was too wild, and ultimately too moody for

the marriage-minded Marla. That did not stop her from often fantasizing about

their unions as she sat working at her desk near the marble-topped service

counter.

“Marla! Marla, can I talk with you for a moment?” The pretty clerk looked

up from her ledger at the stranger who was softly calling her name. She had no

idea who was hiding under the fedora and glasses.

“Marla, come here for a second. I have to talk to you.” The customer was

now motioning with his hand for her to approach the counter.

Who is this man that knows my name? I don’t recall him at all!
she pondered.

More out of curiosity than courtesy, Marla finally gave in to the persistence

of her admirer. Even as they stood face-to-face over the counter, there was no

flash of recognition in her sweet mind.

“Marla, it’s me, Lonnie De Seta. How have you been? You look good

enough to eat!” The customer removed his dark glasses and doffed his hat

momentarily while making his introduction. He was totally unprepared for the

look of shock and horror that greeted the announcing of his name.

Marla’s eyes almost fell out of their sockets, and she backed up several steps

until she was flush against her desk. The sexy stenographer glanced around the

immediate area to make sure that no one was watching, then stepped cautiously

back to the counter. Her voice was barely a whisper when she finally spoke.

“Lonnie, are you in trouble? There are men here looking for you. They are

not bank people. They have guns under their jackets! We have all been told to

notify them if you or anyone else tries to make a transaction on your accounts.

They have been here waiting for you for several weeks. I don’t like them. They

are rude and ignorant scum. What is going on, Lonnie? We have only been told

that you may have been kidnapped, and that if you came here it would be to

collect ransom money against your will. They have told us that the men with

guns are here to protect you from your kidnappers. The longer those two swine

are around here, the less I believe that story. Tell me quickly now, before they

notice us!”

Lonnie De Seta had to grasp the bevelled edge of the counter for support.

He had walked into the lion’s den unprepared to tame the wild beasts. He just

wanted a few simple items, one small transaction, that was it. His knees buckled

and the remaining color drained from his face as Marla’s words registered.

“Marla, you must help me! I am not being held hostage by anyone, but

there are people who are after me. Those two thugs you speak of must be

working for the people that want me dead. Marla, you must trust me now, and

do as I ask.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and removed his wallet. The safety

deposit box key was then placed between them. Lonnie took a deposit slip and

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pen from the adjacent reservoir and scribbled several numerals. He then tore