for such a relocation on our part would be considerable. After all, Newton’s
Prefects are one of the oldest teams in Argentina, with years of tradition and
all that nostalgic drivel. If the truth be known, I would be happy to leave that
dilapidated bandbox of a stadium we call home. Velez Sarsfield is a magnificent
facility, with a capacity three times our current venue!”
Another pause for the last few forkfuls to disappear.
“Señor Dominico is not party to these thoughts, however. Perhaps the
transfer of Ramon Vida to Newton’s Prefects, and thus under my control,
would provide me with enough emotional comfort to allow me to part from
the team’s historic roots. Vida must still be convinced to go along with this
plan, of course. He has no agent and makes all his monetary deals himself.
That is good for us, for it means one less body to get in the way. In that regard,
I know that one thing is for certain. If I am able to make arrangements with the
Boca Football Club concerning Vida, and I present a proposition to both these
players, they themselves will want to meet with you personally. The boys will
certainly have questions, some of more relevance than others, which brings me
to the topic of their remuneration.”
A bowl of lemon ice to cleanse his considerable palate sat in front of the
Buenos Aires lawyer. He pushed it aside, wanting instead to savor the symphony
that had been played on his taste-buds. He called for the finest port in the
house, as well as the humidor. Only Astor Gordero wrapped his lips around a
sizable Havana cigar, the other gentlemen having declined the boxed gems.
“You see, perfect timing! It always seems to come down to money, doesn’t
it? Which is why I prefer to talk about money on a full stomach. Financial talk
makes me famished, all those digits and numerals flying through the air.” He
smiled at his audience, pleased with his offhandedness. “Now, Lady Russell, I
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am sure that you and your father had a figure in mind when you opened these
negotiations several days ago. I would be very interested in finding out what
that sum amounts to.”
The Fat Man’s gaze bore down on the English Lady. She noticed an
intensity in his stare that hadn’t been evident before. There was a coldness, a
tough sense of resolve that the word ‘money’ had draped over his false charm.
This was serious business that they were down to now. There was no mistaking
that fact for Mallory Russell after one look into the laser-like eyes of Astor
Gordero.
“We were thinking in the range of two hundred thousand pounds sterling
a year for each player, provided that they make the starting eleven, of course.”
Reginald Russell was sticking to their predetermined script of how the financial
proceedings should commence.
“Not nearly enough!” the agent responded with a tone of dismissal. “I
would be wasting my time trying to get either of those players to accept such
an offer. Why, they could earn that sum right here in Argentina, without even
leaving the capital city. After the fame that they have fashioned for themselves in
this tournament, I expect that there will be others to follow in your footsteps.”
Gordero called for a new bowl of lemon ice, giving pause to let his words sink
in.
“No, my newfound friends, you were smart enough to track me down in
Rosario where your competition did not. Do not let your present advantage
slide through your fingers. Once I depart for Buenos Aires in the morning, who
knows what ‘Angels of Destiny’ will be awaiting my return, and with what kind
of financial incentives to entice my client. No, I advise you to make your best
deal right here, right now, or I am afraid we must terminate our discussions.
There is much to do in the four days before Argentina becomes champion of the
world, and I will not be distracted from that purpose.”
Gordero motioned with a flick of his head that the meeting had drawn
to a conclusion. He began to sway back and forth in his chair, as if to work up
enough momentum to rise. Stoltz was at his side in the blink of an eye, the pen
and pad dispatched to his inner jacket pocket.
“Señor Gordero, please, please, sit down!” Mallory Russell’s pulse was
racing. The thought of losing Renaldo De Seta was more troubling than she
was willing to admit to anyone, except herself.
“Please, Señor, my father did not mean to be offensive or trite. Give us
your figure. What would it take to deliver these players to the Canary Wharf
Football Club?”
The rocking motion ceased. “Double your figure, and it’s a deal. Two
years guaranteed, no matter where they play. All visas, accommodations, motor
vehicles, and sundries to be at the expense of Canary Wharf Football Club.
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JAMES McCREATH
And, of course, admission into a medical school for the future Doctor De Seta.
On the latter point, I will allow some ‘poetic license’ to be taken. All the other
conditions must be met unequivocally. If you accept these terms, I will have
the contracts drawn up and ready for signature in my office on the afternoon of
June twenty-sixth. That is five days hence, and the day after Argentina wins the
World Cup. I will guarantee delivery of those two players to the Canary Wharf
Football Club under the said terms and conditions.”
The lawyer leaned slightly forward and locked eyes with Mallory
Russell.
“You see, dear Lady, while I am certain that I can ‘facilitate’ the delivery
on my part, the consummation of this marriage now rests with you and your
father. You have until I reach my limousine to give me your answer!”
Neither the chauffeur nor the finely turned out lady in the rear of the
Rolls Royce noticed the man watching them depart Casa San Marco. The
stranger stood concealed behind thick shrubbery on the opposite side of Calle
Arenales from the only place he had ever known as ‘home.’ As soon as the
car had disappeared from view, the scruffy looking drifter bounded across the
street, threw open the wrought iron gate that Olarti had closed behind the
vintage automobile, stepped up to the front door of the casa, and pressed a
filthy finger to the buzzer.
He could hear Oli’s footsteps on the ceramic tiles as she approached the
entrance. She was uttering invectives in her native tongue, a trait that she
practiced whenever her well-oiled routine was interrupted. The look of disgust
on her face when she opened the small security portal and peered through told
the visitor that his faithful servant and friend had not recognized him.
“Oli, it’s me, Lonnie. Lonnie De Seta. Open the door!”
The servant remained steadfast, not moving a muscle. The puzzled
expression on her face made it evident that she was trying to equate the man
with the message.
“It’s really me, Oli. Lonnie, you know, Renaldo’s brother. Has he gotten
so famous now that you have forgotten his older brother? Come on now, open
up, or I will tickle you under your ribs until you cry for help. You couldn’t have
forgotten how I used to
do that to you!”
“Lonnie, is that really you? My God, what have you been doing to yourself
to arrive home in such a state?”
The small opening slammed shut, and there followed the sound of locks
and bolts being released. The large metal door swung inwards on its hinges until
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it slammed against the inner wall. The tiny woman framed by the entranceway
stood with her hands outstretched in welcome. Lonnie De Seta was home again,
if only for a few precious minutes.
The native lady was full of questions about his health and well-being over
the past few months. She commented on the pallid color of his skin, his weight
loss, his filthy clothing, and his ridiculously short hair, all of this before they
had reached the bottom of the staircase leading to Lonnie’s bedroom.
“Celeste and I have been camping on the glaciers in Bariloche, Oli. We
lost all our possessions during one particularly bad blizzard. I had to come
home to pick up some fresh clothes and a few other things, for I am off on a
boat cruise around Cape Horn in a day or two. There, are you satisfied? Now I
am going up to take a shower and pack some clothes. Don’t be scared, I know
mother just left. I was watching from across the street. It has been such a long
time since I have spoken to her. Does she ever mention my name, Oli?”
“No, Señor Lonnie, your mother is very busy with her new friends,
particularly that German man. She seems quite sweet on him. She never talks
of Renaldo either, if that makes you feel any better. She disapproves of his
playing football and won’t allow either of you to be discussed in the casa at all.
But she is still your mother, and I know that in her heart, there will always be
a tender place for you.”
“I hope so, Oli, and I hope that one day I can make up for any pain I have
caused her. But I am not in a position to patch things up today, and I don’t
want her to know that I was here. Is she gone for the day, or do you expect her
home shortly?”
“She has a meeting with that famous lawyer, Astor Gordero, downtown at
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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RENALDO
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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JAMES McCREATH
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
Renaldo Page 69
