Renaldo (92 page)

volumes in itself. The game of soccer is changing, and we are not learning from

the world around us. We are simply content to rest on past laurels. Yes, we were

champions of the world, once. Well, that was too long ago for my liking, and I

don’t intend to sit idly by and never see England’s name on the championship

trophy again!”

Mallory could feel the passion that her favorite sport evoked flowing

through her veins. She took a sip of the Chianti to settle her emotions, then

pressed on.

“Your players are taught a different style of football from the time they

begin to walk. They have different skills, different thoughts and patterns of

action and reaction. If we can incorporate and blend these divergent strategies,

well, English football will be forced to wake up and smell the coffee. That is

what I want to accomplish, Señor Gordero.”

The stylish lady crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, satisfied that

she had spoken her case as articulately and earnestly as possible.

“There is another matter of concern regarding Ramon Vida’s situation. I

do not personally handle his affairs, and of course, you are aware that he is the

property of the Boca Juniors Football Club.” Gordero stopped speaking long

enough to inhale the aroma of the veal medallions saltimbocca that had just

been placed before his ever-expanding girth

The talented ‘Boy from Boca’ had increased his own worth tenfold when

he notched his second tally of the evening in the seventy-second minute of the

game against Peru. It would be the sixth and final goal for Argentina in their

march to the championship final. Two goals for De Seta, two goals for Vida!

The score-line had made the selection of the second player on Mallory Russell’s

list an obvious choice. Now what she needed was information on Vida’s future

plans.

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JAMES McCREATH

“I understand that Ramon is a tough customer. A gang leader who was

plucked right off the streets of Boca into their football program. It is said the

only reason he is still alive today is that he is as good with his fists as with his

feet!” Gordero revealed.

The medallions now became the primary focus of The Enormous One,

and his three dinner companions were forced to amuse themselves while he

attended to their disposal.

“Luckily, I have some ‘favors’ outstanding with Caspar Dominico, the

president of the Boca Club. We are currently working on negotiations to move

the Newton’s Prefect First Division Club to Velez Sarsfield Stadium on the

outskirts of the Federal District of the capital. That would leave Boca Juniors

as the only major club team left in the Central District, or heart of the city.

Without the competition our league champions would give him at the gate,

Dominico feels that he could reassert his former popularity at the box office.

The man is very keen to have us move, and I have informed him that the price

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