Renaldo (95 page)

are probably watching my home, so I can’t risk going there. I have no money

or credit cards, and no place to hide. Could you find it in your heart to let me

spend the night with you tonight?”

Her voice was cool, and the message not what he had expected from her.

“I’m leaving town in an hour for the weekend, Lonnie. I have a new man

in my life, an investment banker who wants me to marry him. He happens

to hate football and all the commotion that it has caused in the city, so he is

taking me to San Roque Lake near Córdoba. I will not miss the insanity that

has infested Buenos Aires one bit. I am sorry.”

Lonnie felt his heart sink with disappointment and unspent lust. He had

hoped that her tender charms and four secure walls would shelter him from the

gathering storm for a few days. There was no chance of that scenario taking

place now, but he had one last question and nothing to lose by asking it.

“Marla, I am up against a brick wall, and I can see the firing squad taking

aim at me. Could I, as a favor to an old friend and lover . . . could I stay in your

flat for a night or two? I promise you that I will leave on Sunday before you

arrive home, and you will never have to see me or talk to me again. I promise

you that on my father’s grave!”

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RENALDO

It was Lonnie who was in tears now, and he felt that he would break down

totally if his lost love turned him down.

“Marla, I have no money, and there isn’t a vacant room or an empty bed

within two hundred miles of here. The football has seen to that. Marla, I beg

you. Do this one thing for me, and one day, I will be able to repay you beyond

your wildest dreams. You know me, Marla. You know my family and the assets

behind us. I have made some bad mistakes lately, but when everything is settle,

I will not forget you. On that I give you my solemn oath. My life is in your

hands!”

There was silence on the line for the longest time. Finally, “You bastard,

Lonnie. I don’t want your gratitude or your money. I just want to be left alone.

Two nights, that is all. If I arrive home Sunday and you are still here, the police

will evict you. I will make certain of that myself. One more thing. Do not come

to the bank again with the intention of talking to me, for I will ignore you or

turn you over to those two baboons. I don’t want you to try to contact me from

this moment on. I give you these two nights because of what we once shared,

Lonnie, but the slate is wiped clean as of Sunday. Forever! My key will be

under the doormat, and your security box key I will leave beside the telephone.

Understand me now, Lonnie. I will be gone by eight, so do not arrive until after

nine o’clock. I can’t afford a run-in or any questions from the man I am going

away with. Leave the key where you found it when you go. Good-bye, Lonnie.

I never want to hear from you again. Is that clear?”

The line went dead before he could utter his appreciation. Lonnie put

down the receiver and shuffled almost trance-like back to his bench. He tried

to look on the bright side of his dilemma, namely that if he could make it to

Marla’s flat, then he would be able buy a bit more time to work out his next

move. He looked forlornly into his naked wallet. The emptiness of the leather

billfold reaffirmed to the reluctant wanderer that time was about all that he

could afford in his present state.

The ‘Attractive Assassin’ had no alternative but to strike out for Señorita

Gallego’s sanctuary on foot. When they were lovers, he had spent several nights

in her lower level love-nest on Calle Viamonte. He knew it well, and he also

knew that it would take the better part of the three hours he had to kill to

make his way there.

He cursed the overstuffed club bag that was weighing him down and

making his progress even slower. The streets overflowed with tourists and

Porteños alike. The end of the working week always turned the streets of the

capital into a vast parking lot, but the scene that Lonnie was witnessing was

unlike any Friday rush hour he had ever experienced.

Carloads of Brazilians, Italians, Dutch, and especially Argentines blasted

their horns in a symphony of patriotic noise. Men and women protruded

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JAMES McCREATH

through the automobile windows or sat atop their roofs, many with their faces

painted in their national colors, flags waving to and fro.

All of this made it very easy for Lonnie De Seta to remain in the background

of this strange ritual as he followed the route to Marla’s flat. As dusk fell, the

revelry grew in tempo and enthusiasm, fuelled by the large amount of liquor

that was being consumed at every jam-packed bar and cantina Lonnie passed. It

was close to ten o’clock by the time he finally stood in front of Marla Gallego’s

door. He was bone-tired, not having slept at all the night before during his boat

ride from Tigre. The key was exactly where she told him it would be, for which

he was greatly relieved. There had always been the possibility that she could

have changed her mind and decided to be done with Lonnie sooner than later.

Not leaving the key as promised would have taken care of that.

He stood inside the entrance of the tiny two-room flat. Everything was

very much as he had remembered, although on several of his visits, he had been

well into his cups and wanted to get down to business directly. Lavender and

lace was the predominant theme, and he felt rather silly standing all alone in

the midst of Marla’s feminine world. It was, nevertheless, a safe world for the

time being, and for that, he was exultantly thankful.

The weekend guest checked the refrigerator and found it only minimally

stocked. He was not hungry at all, Oli’s morning feast having sated his hunger

pangs completely. The bar was the next object of his attention, and he found

that there were enough spirits to keep himself tipsy for the entire duration of

his stay, if he chose to do so.

It was obvious by the brands of liquor that the young lady kept in her

abode that she entertained her new gentleman friend on the premises, just as

she had entertained Lonnie. The investment banker must have been a Scotch

drinker, he observed, which proved that the two men had more in common

than just the horny little bank strumpet. He poured himself a hefty tumbler of

Johnny Walker Black Label, then collapsed on Marla’s soft double bed.

The Scotch had a soothing effect on the visitor as its warm glow spread

through his body with every sip. Within five minutes, he was up for a refill, but

this time, he brought the bottle back to the night table with him. He would

worry about his future plans in the morning, but right now, all he wanted

was to dull his senses enough to fall into a dreamless sleep. He conjured up

memories of the passion that he and Marla had expended on this very bed,

and he was saddened that he would never again taste the fruits of her bounty.

He wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to taste those fruits with

anyone. How his life had changed, and changed for the absolute worst.

“Fool!” was the last word he mumbled as sleep finally enveloped his

clouded mind.

436

RENALDO

He awoke after noon the next day, Saturday, June the twenty-fourth. The

Scotch had produced the desired effect, for he had slept like a dead man. His

head was clear, however, and he lay on his back for a considerable time trying

to analyze his options and formulate the next move.

Strangely, he kept visualizing his younger brother’s face. Despite the

terrorist’s tenuous situation, all he could focus on was Renaldo. Tomorrow,

the kid would be playing for his country in front of millions of spectators and

television viewers. The enormity of that one fact dwarfed all of Lonnie’s current

problems.

How he would love to be there! To lead the trilled roar that had been

customized to fit Renaldo’s name. To see him hold the championship trophy

aloft. That was his younger brother’s reality. His own was much bleaker.

There was no money left to purchase a ticket to the match, even from a

scalper. Unless he could steal one or rob a ticket holder at gunpoint, there was

no way in the world that he would be able to witness his sibling’s heroics in

person. The truth of this dilemma forced Lonnie’s thoughts to reluctantly drift

back to the Banco Rio de la Plata.

He could not attempt another trip to the bank until Monday, and that

trip could very well be the most dangerous and deadly transaction he had ever

made. One certainty was that he would have to bypass the unstable Señorita

Gallego and go directly to the vault custodian.

Lonnie had seen in a movie once where a bank robber wrapped his throat

in gauze bandages and pretended that he was unable to speak due to a recent

operation. All communication was done by written notes. The former Palermo

playboy had to hope that whoever he was dealing with at that time would

accept the box key and his scribbled instructions with signature as sufficient

identification for access. This would be the initial plan, but he was by no means

certain his act would work. An attempt had to be made though, for without

funds, he could do nothing.

The Llama pistol would be tucked into his waistband for insurance. At

the first sign of trouble, his simple request would evolve into an impromptu

robbery to finance his escape. If that alternative disintegrated, then either the

Llama or his cyanide pill would end everything. Those were his only options!

Still, there was Renaldo. How proud Lonnie was of him! He wished with

all his heart that he could have been with him these last weeks, to help him, to

support him as a brother. The boy had grown to manhood in the few months

that they had been separated, and Lonnie had been forced to read about it in

newspapers, not experience it firsthand.

His brother, the player, seemed untouched by the tremendous publicity

that the idolizing press had laid at his feet. There had been no personal

interviews. Octavio Suarez was the only person that spoke to the press directly,

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JAMES McCREATH

but all the articles and stories praised Renaldo’s youthful enthusiasm, his

natural talent, his stamina, and the ability to play, even when injured and of

course, his beautiful maleness.

It was said that truckloads of fan mail addressed simply to ‘Renaldo’

arrived at the team’s compound in Rosario daily. Again, Suarez interceded and

refused to let the players be diverted from their purpose by such trivialities.

After the tournament, there would be plenty of time to deal with the requests

for autographs, pictures, sexual liaisons, and marriage. It was also said that

the young center half could open his own lingerie boutique with all the ladies’

undergarments that had been shipped to him in perfumed envelopes. All

fan letters were screened electronically by x-ray as a security precaution, so

it was very likely that the rumors were true about the ‘gifts’ sent to young

Señor De Seta. All correspondence was packed away in a warehouse until after

the championship final, but Lonnie smiled to himself at the thought of how

embarrassed the kid would be with each package he opened.
Oh, to be a star!

Hunger finally got the best of the weekender, and he rose from his

deliberations to see if this pension provided breakfast with the bed. There was

coffee, a bit of bread on the verge of outright staleness, and some extremely ripe

fruit, enough to stop the rumbling down below for a while. There were also

some canned meats and soups that would provide the evening feast.

Not too bad, not five-star fare, but passable terrorist provisions.

There was some time to kill before the day’s premier entertainment event

commenced. Lonnie didn’t really care who won the third-place match kicking

off at three p.m., but other than television, there was nothing to occupy his

mind. The soccer game would provide a temporary diversion from his dilemma,

so he tried to get excited about it. Besides, there might be an update or feature

on the Argentine National Team, maybe even something on ‘the kid.’

On one of his tours around the flat, he noticed his safety deposit key

beside the telephone. He retrieved his wallet from the suit jacket that he had

worn the day before and went to replace the ‘key to his future’ in its lonely

confines. The white business card caught his eye.

“Astor Armondo Luis Gordero, Barrister and Solicitor.”
Astor Gordero?
It

was as if he had been struck by lightning. He was holding the business card

of his younger brother’s agent. A man said to have deep inroads into the inner

workings of the Argentine National Team. If anyone could pull some strings

and get the fugitive a ticket, that person was Astor Gordero!

Lonnie stared at the gold script. What were the risks of placing a call

to the famous lawyer? Gordero was involved in some way with his mother,