Renaldo (3 page)

a large square. There, right in front of him, stood soldiers in full riot gear, police

mounted on horseback, and an array of armored military vehicles. Would they

be friend or foe? Were the Porteños caught in a deadly vice between two legions

of hostile Córdobans?

In this instance, luck was with the men from Buenos Aires. The soldiers

were there to protect them and to assist in the evacuation. Military buses lined

the curb, and Santos could see that the first of the Porteños to arrive on the

scene were already being escorted onto them. To his left he saw an open air

café.

The innermost walls of its kitchen area must back onto that dead-end alley,
Estes

surmised. In a heartbeat, he tore through the neatly arranged tables and chairs

towards the kitchen and what hopefully would be the service entrance from the

alley. The café was almost totally deserted, with all but a few curiosity seekers

having been scared away by the arrival of the soldiers.

The startled kitchen staff could only stare in amazement as this seemingly

madman burst into their midst screaming, “Where is the door? The door to the

alley. Where is it? The door, the door!”

One of the dishwashers pointed to a small hallway, barely visible through

the stacked bags and metal cans of garbage. The pregame festivities must have

been much more lively here than those of the postgame, judging from all the

refuse. Estes flailed bags and cans out of his path as he frantically made for the

blockaded exit. Finally reaching the wooden door, he could hear the screams

and insults from beyond. This must be the right place, but would he be in

time?

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JAMES McCREATH

“Dead end! There is no escape. We are doomed!”

Gordo was screaming, urgently wrestling with one of the locked doors

that stood between him and safety. The blind alley was now filling with their

pursuers, edging forward slowly and cautiously. They sensed that their prey was

trapped and anticipating the kill, started mocking the fat man with a dirge-like

rendition of the famous Prefect fight song that Gordo had sung triumphantly

all afternoon long.

Renaldo could clearly see the weapons. Baseball bats used as clubs, broken

bottles, lead pipe, knives, and even what he thought was the silver plating of a

revolver. Gordo had given up trying to force the doors and was now pleading

for his life. First he begged Renaldo to save them, to find a way out. He then

implored the monster to be merciful and spare their lives. Sarcastic laughter

and then a hail of missiles greeted Gordo’s display of humility.

The younger man tried to shield the former arrogant boaster from the

wrath of the crowd, but the Córdobans wanted the loudmouth’s blood first.

As one of the closer attackers lunged at Gordo with a broken beer bottle,

Renaldo picked up a metal trash can and hurled it at the man. The aggressor

fell sideways, his thrust at Gordo’s ample torso falling just short. Several of the

pursuers were bowled over by the impact of the metal object and the bottle-

wielding assassin’s subsequent stumbling.

Renaldo grasped a second trash can and hurled it into the front ranks

of the ogre as well. The beast seemed to retreat a few paces as a result of the

confusion that the boy had created. The intimate confines of the alley, which

now overflowed with people, produced a domino effect on the closest assailants

once the metal object struck pay dirt.

Curses and screams for the blood of all Porteños filled the reeking cul-de-

sac. But at that moment, before the monster could recover its equilibrium and

finish off its nasty business, Estes Santos appeared, like the Savior himself, in

the doorway behind the two men from Buenos Aires.

It was over in an instant. In unison, Santos and Renaldo grabbed Gordo,

one pulling, the other pushing his enormous bulk through the tiny doorway.

Renaldo used the larger man’s momentum to carry himself to safety. It was

as if he were an appendage of Gordo, the way the two were propelled into the

opening as one.

Once through the portal, the three men managed to close and bolt the door

shut before their antagonists were able to jam the passage open and continue

their fun. Gordo’s generous weight made closing the opening behind them a

much easier task. Santos quickly led the two men through the kitchen and out

into the open café. There, much to their mutual relief, they were met by one of

their traveling companions who had with him a captain of the National Guard.

All four of the Prefectos were swiftly placed aboard one of the waiting buses.

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RENALDO

Once settled inside, they were able to watch the scene unfolding before them

from behind bulletproof windows covered with steel bars.

The angry crowd had, by now, made its way into the open area surrounding

the café. Here they were confronted with the same sight that had brought

relief to the hearts of those they had pursued. But it was a totally different

emotion that swept over the thwarted aggressors. They had been robbed of

their entertainment by the rescuing of these intruders, and they now sought to

vent their frustrations on the local militia.

A familiar pattern repeated itself. First taunts and verbal abuse were

hurled in the direction of the military men, then objects of every description

seemed to take flight. Chairs, tables, bottles, bricks, anything that was not

permanently secured became a messenger of hate. But these soldiers were in a

foul mood as well, thanks, in part, to the loss that their beloved soccer team

had suffered only minutes before. For it was their team, too, and now men that

had cheered together for a Córdoban victory were facing each other, about to

play a much more serious game.

The buses containing the Prefect disciples were surrounded by two rings

of armed soldiers. As soon as all the visitors were sequestered, a colonel of the

army could be seen gesturing to the lead driver to remove his vehicle and its

volatile cargo from the area. As the buses started to snail their way around the

congested military ordinance parked pell-mell in the roadway, the initial burst

of a water canon slammed into the unsuspecting locals.

Bloodthirsty barbarians, all of them!
Renaldo thought to himself as he, once

again, witnessed the canon’s devastating effect. Most of these Córdobans had

left the stadium before the on-field rumble had commenced, and they were not

prepared for the impromptu soaking.

As Renaldo’s armored coach gained speed in its departure, the men inside

remained silent. Even the verbose Gordo was intent on catching a final glimpse

of the brutality that they were leaving behind. It was Gordo, nevertheless, that

broke that silence with the all too familiar fight song. Renaldo’s emotions were

playing tricks on him now. Fear, anxiety, and anger ebbed. Relief, satisfaction,

and pride flowed. One by one, the men around him picked up the chorus of

the song. Soon the entire group had regained the vocal authority and bellicose

attitude of champions.

Song after boisterous song filled the air. The youngest passenger sang

along as well, finally succumbing to the prodding of the fat man to join the

festivities. At the end of one particularly uplifting rendition, Gordo raised his

arms and whistled above the racket for silence. Making his way down the aisle

to where Santos and the boy were seated, he addressed the entire bus.

“These two men saved my life this afternoon, showing great courage and

true Prefect spirit. I will be indebted to them from this day on, for I will never

11

JAMES McCREATH

forget how they put their lives at great risk to save mine. Especially young

Renaldo, who fought off that mob with his bare hands! I salute you both, and I

want you to ride with me on our return journey to Buenos Aires.”

So this is how fate would have it. This is how young Renaldo De Seta

would be enticed into the complex, multilayered web spun by Astor Armondo

Luis Gordero. The boy was about to step into a world far beyond his wildest

dreams, for Gordero, or ‘Gordo’ as he was derisively called behind his sizable

back, was a man unlike any he had ever imagined.

Astor Gordero’s vast wealth and political dexterity had placed him in a

position of favor with both the essential elements necessary to ensure survival

and prosperity in modern-day Argentina: firstly, the ruling military junta that

ran the politics of the country with an iron fist; and secondly, the influential

Porteño business and social communities that controlled the nation’s wealth

with a velvet glove.

At forty years of age, Gordero was the beneficiary of one of the largest

family fortunes in the southern hemisphere. As a result of his diverse business

career, he wore many hats . . . lawyer, investment adviser, political strategist.

He acted as private counsel to some of the country’s best-known celebrities

and dignitaries, was an extravagant philanthropist, a trustee and governor of

the Sir Isaac Newton Academy School (of which he was a graduate and class

valedictorian), and a ranking colonel in the National Guard Reserve. But most

importantly to his traveling companions on this day, Astor Gordero was the

chairman of the board of directors and majority owner of the Newton’s Prefects

professional football club.

Although his weighty proportions had prevented him from playing

football in his youth, he was, nevertheless, swept up not only in the game’s

excitement and passion, but also in its profound cultural teachings. From

his earliest days as a fan, he had developed an analytical enthusiasm for the

sociological ramifications of the sport. It was his ultimate goal to give the

privileged, respectable people of capital city a team to which they could relate.

A team rich in tradition, with old-world ties that instilled a certain aristocratic

arrogance, a team that reflected the ‘attitude’ of the Porteño oligarchy, unlike

those that catered to the masses in districts such as Boca and Avellaneda. When

his floundering, old school team suddenly became available for purchase, it

provided the wealthy elitist with a chance to make a lifelong fantasy into a

reality. The Newton’s Prefect Football Club had the proper pedigree, even for

a snob like Astor Gordero.

Stories of the man’s immoderate and excessive indulgences were often the

topic of discreet gossip at high society gatherings. Discreet was the key word,

for no one spoke publicly of Astor Gordero in a derogatory manner without

suffering the consequences.

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RENALDO

There were rumors of his dark side, whispers that he embraced his

ancestors’ code of honor to the point of having to seek satisfaction if his name

was besmirched. To that end, paid mercenaries usually acted as his angels of

retribution, for Astor Gordero was incapable of forgetting a personal insult.

Moreover, he would not tolerate failure of any kind. Once he set his mind to

achieving a desired goal, the man could not be deterred, even if it meant using

the most unscrupulous of means. And heaven help anyone who stood in his

way!

Many people actually hated the man, but those who did were careful

to hide their feelings and hold their tongues in public. Life in Argentina was

fraught with hidden dangers, and to speak out against a man of such influence

and power could very easily bring disastrous results.

El Hombre Gordo ‘The Fat Man’ was one whom it was better to befriend

than to antagonize, even if that friendship was purely superficial.

A course of cheers and bravos for Gordo’s protectors rang through the bus,

accompanied by much back slapping and hand shaking. The residual effects

of such lavish praise from a man as well connected as Astor Gordero had not

been lost on Estes Santos. He was well aware of The Fat Man’s propensity to

cosset those whom he thought warranted his attention. Many a career had been

accelerated by a simple well-placed word from this porcine dealmaker.

Perhaps now the one thing that the minor league manager craved above

all else would be within his grasp at last. But Estes Santos’ sixth sense told

him that it would be folly to impatiently seek a reward under the present

circumstances. He must bide his time for the right opportunity to state his case

to El Hombre Gordo. Good things could be derived from Gordero’s appreciation

and attention in due course. Until then, he would enjoy his newfound celebrity

and the fruits that his actions of this day had borne him.

Santos and his team captain did not have to wait long for certain of those

fruits to come into bloom. The Prefect supporters soon arrived at the Córdoba

railway station and proceeded to embark on their special charter back to Buenos

Aires. The station was heavily guarded by more soldiers whose officers quickly

orchestrated the visitor’s departure off the buses, through the station, and onto