Renaldo (4 page)

the waiting rail coaches. The two ‘men of the moment’ had traveled to Córdoba

in normal tourist class railcars, along with the majority of their fellow Prefect

supporters. But not Astor Armondo Luis Gordero. His personally customized

coach had been attached to the rear of the train, affording Gordo and his cronies

the ultimate in mobile comfort, luxury, and privacy.

Astor Gordero made sure that his two saviors stayed right by his side as

they walked down the platform to the last car. His guests were in for “the train

ride of their lives,” he boasted. The Fat Man was in great spirits now that they

were safely out of harm’s way. Once Renaldo boarded the Pullman and entered

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its lavish interior, he was certain that Gordero had not been exaggerating. Before

him, stretching two-thirds the length of the coach, spread a sumptuous buffet

containing the finest delicacies Argentina had to offer. A fully stocked mirrored

bar attracted his attention as well, for the moment the Prefect’s chairman of

the board came into view, two stewards beside it uncorked magnums of Dom

Pérignon.

That popping sound was greeted by a hearty “Ola!” from Gordero, as

glasses were quickly filled and passed first to the patron, then to his privileged

guests. Their numbers had swollen to about ten men with the addition of the

two new arrivals. Before Renaldo had even been offered a sample of the sweet

nectar, something else caught his eye. Two of the most gorgeous women he had

ever seen, resplendent in the sheerest of boudoir attire, pushed their way past

him and embraced their gregarious host.

The trio’s lusty gropes and wandering hands held the young boy spellbound.

When the chairman had consumed his fill, he gestured for the señoritas to

circulate amongst his amigos and make them feel at home. The Fat Man then

headed directly for the buffet. Renaldo tried to make himself as inconspicuous

as possible and retreated to the far rear of the coach. He knew that he would

feel more comfortable back in the obscurity of tourist class, but there was no

escaping Astor Gordero. The boy took a glass of champagne, resigned to his

captivity. Estes Santos was quickly by his side.

“This is the most incredible thing I have ever seen!” he chortled.

“Yes, truly incredible,” was Renaldo’s half-hearted response.

“Those women are unbelievably beautiful, especially for putas.”

‘Yes, they certainly are an eyeful!’ Renaldo thought to himself.

Up to this moment, all of his contact with prostitutes had been at a

considerable distance. There had been times when he had passed them plying

their trade on the streets of the capital, but he would just smile at their overtures

and go about his business. He was not particularly worldly about the opposite

sex, and Santos knew this well.

“Do not worry, Renaldo. I will take your turn with them if you like.”

“Be my guest, Estes. I have had enough exercise for one day.”

“That’s my boy, save your strength for the soccer pitch.”

The train lurched into motion, spilling a small quantity of Renaldo’s

champagne on the plush carpet. Embarrassed, the youngest of the imbibers

tried to find something to soak up the stain.

“Don’t worry about it, Renaldo.” The booming voice of Gordo could be

heard above the crowd. “I am sure that there will be many more stains before we

reach Buenos Aires. I will simply replace the entire carpet, or perhaps we will

have so much fun that I will have to replace the entire coach.” Gordo laughed

at his own frivolity. Nothing was going to put a damper on his celebration!

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As the train sped through the dark Argentine night on its way back to the

capital, a carnival of carnal delights was unfolding before the novice observer’s

eyes. Several of the youth’s traveling companions had become very friendly with

the two ‘hostesses,’ as Gordo referred to them. Individually and in groups, the

victors were taking their spoils.

Renaldo sat quietly sipping his champagne on a sofa that was far enough

away from the action so as not to be bothered. A reefer was lit and shared

amongst the participants. It never made it to the young voyeur. He was

fascinated to observe how each of the men acted. Some were ravenous with

passion, others more theatrical, performing and demonstrating their technical

proficiency for the appreciative audience.

Santos was in the thick of things, having the time of his life. Renaldo’s

coach had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and now the player was seeing why

firsthand. Before today, the two men had been strictly business in each other’s

company. Teacher and pupil, the knowledgeable veteran instructing the

promising prospect in the intricacies of the game of football.

But there was a trait of Estes Santos’ personality that he carefully guarded

from public scrutiny, certain raw and animalistic urges to which he from time

to time succumbed. The stories of his prowess with the gentler sex were legend

despite his best attempts to stifle them. Renaldo hoped for his coach’s sake that

word of his present display of physical education would never transcend the

walls of this rolling pleasure palace.

Estes was still in excellent condition at age thirty-seven. He had left the

playing fields just one year earlier after a triumphant career as an Argentine

first division goalkeeper. His thinning black hair was etched with grey now,

but he still had a lithe physique that was the envy of men half his age. Yet the

man’s ultimate goal at this stage in his life had little to do with his physical

qualifications. Estes Santos was consumed with procuring a managerial posting

to a first division team now that he had retired from the on-field battles. Everyone

knew what he could do physically. It was now time to prove that he possessed

the technical capacity and mental fortitude to survive in the pressure-cooker

atmosphere that was indigenous to premier division football. His actions back

in that dead-end alley in Córdoba had certainly seemed to add value to his

stock, at least in the eyes of Astor Gordero.

The Newton’s Prefect Under Twenty-one team was considered a good

point from which to launch a major league coaching career. Santos had

attained the posting for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that

he had finished his playing days with the Prefect’s second division club. The

veteran goalkeeper had been one of Astor Gordero’s first acquisitions after he

gained control of the Prefect organization. Santos had earned three consecutive

championship rings with River Plate in the premier division before his age

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JAMES McCREATH

made him available on the transfer market. Instead of taking the demotion as

a slap in the face, Estes Santos had endeared himself to his new employer by

shutting out the opposition in his last five games and elevating the Prefects into

the first division after decades of relegation.

The keeper’s good looks and swashbuckling style had made him the

darling of the Argentine press for a time, but Santos had gotten his girlfriend

pregnant when he was barely eighteen years old, and was by now quite

thoroughly married with three children.

The press had focused on the ‘perfect family man’ angle when Estes was

fêted after his amazing shut-out string. As an aspiring big league manager,

he was smart enough to realize that it served him well to keep certain aspects

of his personal life hidden very deeply underground. But the rumors of his

voracious sexual appetite persisted, nonetheless. When questioned on those

terms, he would simply smile demurely and respond,

“Can I help it if the señoritas are attracted to me? It is all fiction, the

rest!”

Santos proved to be a fine teacher of the game, and he had helped Renaldo

realize its subtleties from the opposing goalkeeper’s point of view. He was a stern

taskmaster with his charges, remaining detached from their emotional stream

as a unit. But he possessed the uncanny ability to reach out and touch just the

right nerve to ensure a player’s peak performance. His warriors respected him

immensely, for he was a champion in his own right, and he had made them

champions in his first season at the helm. The Newton’s Prefect organization

was, at this moment, the most dominant force in Argentine football, and its

former star goalkeeper knew exactly why. It all had to do with the shrewdness

and perfect timing of the football club’s guiding light, Astor Armondo Luis

Gordero.

But everything had almost been lost that very afternoon. Estes Santos had

arrived at the door of salvation within a split second of real tragedy. A chill

swept over the manager every time his mind latched on to the reality of how

vastly different the situation could have concluded back there in that fetid alley.

Had either Gordo or his young captain been badly hurt by those maniacs, he

would have been vilified rather than celebrated. The Fat Man could very well

have been hung, drawn, and quartered by now, and then what would all his

hopes for a favorable career word from Astor Gordero be worth? Absolutely

nothing . . . for dead men are worthless!

Even worse things could have evolved because of the boy’s circumstances.

Santos was Renaldo’s coach, his protector. The young player was a brilliant

prodigy, with a bright football future before him. He was a musician and

scholar as well. His safety on this ‘enlightening expedition to a provincial

capital,’ words that he had spoken to convince Señora Florencia De Seta of the

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RENALDO

educational value of the outing, rested squarely on the coach’s shoulders. Had

he not gone out of his way to convince Renaldo’s overprotective mother that her

son would not be in the slightest bit of danger? And should any unpleasantness

arise, that he would personally see to it that the boy stayed safely out of harm’s

way?

On this day, Estes Santos had been a terrible protector. The victory

celebrations had gotten the better of him. He was totally unprofessional and

certainly out of character for a man said to have nerves of cold steel. By the time

he remembered to look to his charge, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Gordo’s

huge flag had brought them together again momentarily, but he had not waited

to save The Fat Man’s hide outside the stadium as his captain had. Estes Santos

had run for his life and forsaken his sworn responsibility. All these thoughts

swirled intermittently through his mind as he tried to suppress the guilt of his

shortcomings in the arms and between legs of the two ‘hostesses.’

Renaldo was both amused and shocked by the performance taking place

only a few feet from where he sat in the rear of the luxurious coach. The boy

had never imagined, let alone witnessed, such a lewd spectacle. He had no urge

to partake of these particular pleasures, preferring, instead, to focus on his host,

who was at that moment holding court at the end of the buffet table.

Astor Gordero took on the role of director for this extravaganza, but he

never indulged in its antics. He sat in his special easy chair choreographing,

cajoling, and encouraging the actors. A large plate of food rested constantly in

his lap, and a steward stood attentively by his side, the Dom Pérignon at the

ready. Every once in a while, his eyes would connect with Renaldo’s across the

room, and the older man would nod his approval of the festivities.

Gordero made sure that the boy was left in peace, the second steward

warding off any enthusiastic reveler that ventured too near. Champagne, cigars,

and repast were Renaldo’s for the taking, but the events of the day still occupied

most of his thoughts. He remembered the fear that permeated every ounce of

his being when he and Gordero had been trapped in the alleyway. But try as he

might, he could not recall the exact actions that supposedly saved their lives.

Renaldo concluded that he had acted instinctively, much as any trapped animal

would have to ensure survival and self-preservation. What had made his acts

of valor so distinct and unusual was that he had saved the life of not just an

ordinary football fan, but one of the richest, most powerful men in Argentina.

Surely Astor Gordero could have been seated in the president’s box at

Córdoba stadium, surrounded by dignitaries and other officials of similar

status. To see his unmistakable form on the terraces with the Barras Bravas,

the ‘Brave Bold Ones,’ was truly a puzzling sight.

“He prefers to rub shoulders with the real followers of the sport at

important games such as this,” Santos had explained. The power and passion of

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football could cut across all social and economic barriers. There on the terraces,

wealth and social status meant nothing. A loud voice and a fearless constitution

meant everything!