Renaldo Page 2

situation could rapidly deteriorate into more violence. As the tension mounted,

  the words of the military officer flashed in Renaldo’s mind.

  Once you are out of the stadium, you are on your own.

  There was neither a policeman nor a guardsman in sight. The situation

  inside the stadium was still the focus of their attention. This was not the time

  for more of Gordo’s verbal contempt. This was the time to save themselves!

  The mob of Córdobans was growing in size by the second and projectiles

  started to rain down into the midst of the wary visitors. The hunters were now

  edging closer to their prey, and a repeat of what had just occurred inside the

  stadium was all too likely.

  The men from Buenos Aires had chosen to travel to Córdoba by train,

  primarily to allow themselves the freedom to party as a group on both legs

  6

  RENALDO

  of the journey. But that decision was now responsible for their present peril.

  No motor coaches stood at the ready to whisk them away to safety. Most of

  the Porteños had walked the mile from the train station to the stadium in a

  large, vocal mass. The remainder had hired taxi cabs, not one of which was

  anywhere to be seen now. With absolutely no means of transportation available,

  the conquerors had no alternative but to swallow their pride and flee to safety

  on foot.

  But where? None of the visitors were intimately familiar with the lay of

  the land, for a police escort had herded them along the route to the stadium

  before the game. It was glaringly evident that they had to go somewhere,

  however, for to do nothing and wait for help to arrive at their present location

  would be suicide.

  “We must go now!” Renaldo shouted emphatically to the group.

  Gordo was about to offer some resistance to that plan when a piece of

  brick grazed his left shoulder.

  “Mother of Jesus!” he cried out, clutching his collarbone.

  “Do you believe me now? Let’s go!”

  The only escape route available to the Prefectos lay behind them in the

  narrow passages of an open air marketplace. This confined space would offer

  some form of protection to the swift, should the Córdobans try to follow them

  in an unwieldy posse. But subtlety and stealth would be required to disengage

  from the impending punch-up.

  Slowly, so as not to promote panic and tip their hand to the enemy,

  Renaldo sent small groups of men off at a brisk walk in the direction of the

  market. He was working in the midst of his companions as if he had done it

  all before, as if crisis management were, in fact, his calling. But nothing could

  have been further from the truth. Renaldo De Seta was by far the youngest of

  all the Porteños that had made the pilgrimage to Córdoba, but at this moment

  in time, he was their leader, one cool hand amongst the hotheads.

  This journey to Córdoba was supposed to have been his special reward, a

  gift of gratitude handed out to the youngest traveler for past services rendered.

  Barely eighteen years old, Renaldo had captained the Prefect’s under twenty-

  one feeder squad to a national championship of their own. For his immense

  talent and leadership beyond his years, he had been invited by the professional

  side’s chairman to travel to Córdoba along with his coach, Estes Santos. His

  leadership skills were, once again, being called upon, but this time for reasons

  that shocked and disgusted the youth. Renaldo De Seta loved to play the game

  of soccer, but the events that had followed the final whistle in the stadium were

  nothing short of insanity!

  It didn’t take long for the monster to realize its prey was slowly slipping

  away to safer ground. A full beer bottle exploded only feet from where Renaldo

  JAMES McCREATH

  stood. He knew it was time to throw caution to the wind and run for their lives.

  Further persuasion was offered in the chilling shouts rumbling from the bowels

  of the dreaded ogre.

  “Get them! They are trying to escape! Don’t let them get away! Kill the

  bastards! We want Porteño blood!”

  Even Gordo knew that their lives were in great peril. He called out over

  his shoulder as he barreled past Renaldo on his flight to the market.

  “Save yourself, young man. This is no time for heroics.”

  With the last of his companions now departed on their dash into the

  unknown, Renaldo took flight and soon caught up with the fat man and the

  slower members of his band. He sped ahead, wanting to make certain that

  there was some form of refuge waiting for them under the colorful awnings of

  the market stalls. A quick glance confirmed that the lead Prefectos had found

  an opening beyond the jumble of wooden tables and carts. There was a narrow

  passage between two buildings, and it was down that corridor that their only

  hope of escape lay.

  A rush of adrenaline caused the usually soft spoken and painfully shy

  boy to be loudly vocal as he waved his fellow Prefectos on past him, into the

  confines of the alleyway. Renaldo waited to access the escape route until all but

  one had passed, pleading with the final Porteño to make all possible haste to

  save himself. In Gordo’s case, there was not much haste to be made.

  The lawyer carried almost three hundred pounds on his stocky frame,

  and his girth rolled and jiggled as a result of his frantic, waddling gait. The

  gleaming crown of his head was totally bald, with only wisps of greasy salt-

  and-pepper hair shooting back from his temples. His oily olive skin was, once

  again, dripping with sweat from exertion and sheer panic. He seemed to be half

  crying, half reciting some mystic religious incantation as the monster nipped at

  his heels. In contrast, the younger man who waited anxiously to escort Gordo

  to safety seemed cool, rational, and totally in control.

  Standing well over six feet in height, Renaldo De Seta possessed a

  swimmer’s torso, lean and well-proportioned. But it was the boy’s legs,

  particularly his powerful thighs, which distinguished him as an athlete to

  be reckoned with. His fair complexion and ice-blue eyes were a gift from his

  English grandmother, but these features were framed by a curly black mane

  that was worn to below shoulder length. The overall image of this man-child

  was one of strength and determination covered by angelic beauty. He would

  have been teased unmercifully as a ‘pretty boy’ in his early prep school days

  were it not for his incredible skill with a soccer ball. It was this particular

  skill that had earned him respect and changed the course of his life in those

  formative years. But now it seemed that his affection for the black-and-white

  spheroid had landed him in a potentially tragic situation.

  8

  RENALDO

  The events that had led the Prefectos into the narrow maze of alleys had

  not gone unnoticed by Estes Santos. As fearful as he was for his own safety, he

  could not help but marvel at the maturity and take-charge demeanor of young

  Renaldo. The boy had surely never experienced anything as daunting as the

  events that had just transpired, yet he seemed in complete control, not only of

  himself, but of the entire entourage of Prefect supp
orters. To Estes’ dismay, that

  situation was disintegrating rapidly before his eyes.

  As Renaldo’s coach had fled through the snake-like alleys with the main

  pack of men from Buenos Aires, he continually tried to keep Gordo and the

  boy in his sight. Santos had seen that they had failed to negotiate the last turn

  and quickly realized that the two were in deep trouble. The monster exploded

  into Estes’ view in hot pursuit, making it impossible for him to retrace his

  steps and offer any help. He sped ahead, remembering several doors opening

  into the dead-end alley that now held his friends captive. Those doors were his

  only hope.

  Suddenly, the cramped enclosure he was running through spilled out onto

  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?

  9

  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.

  10

  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 befo
re 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