Renaldo (63 page)

confrontation on his brother’s special day. She never utters his name in my

presence. It would seem as if she has totally disowned him.”

“The lady is given to uttering no one’s name but yours these days,

from what I hear. That is because she thinks of nothing other than your big,

uncircumcised cock, Wolfie!” Astor Gordero chuckled as he shoveled in another

forkful of food. A sly grin was firmly planted on Wolfgang Stoltz’s face.

“Wait just one moment. Barracas? Barracas! Look at this.” Gordero held

out a copy of the morning Clarín to his associate.

“That terrorist was murdered in Barracas yesterday. This could be mere

coincidence, but on the other hand, there could be a lot more to it. Look, look

at this. It says that the act was clearly an assassination, that the dead man was

tortured before he was killed. There were several revenge notes found at the

scene from another left-wing group. There were also several sets of identification

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found, but it does not say what the man’s real name was. Let’s see if they have

identified him yet.”

A huge, jam-stained hand reached for the telephone receiver and dialed

in several numbers. “I want to speak with Colonel Clavijo right away. This is

Astor Gordero speaking.”

Police Colonel Rafael Clavijo was an old crony of The Fat Man’s and was

one of the Newton’s Prefect celebrants on Gordero’s private rail car that had

traveled to Cordoba.

“Colonel, Astor here. Tell me, have you made a positive identification on

that terrorist in Barracas?”

“Yes, yes, of course. The police department is very efficient, and in this

case, very lucky. Two sets of identification were found bearing the same address

in Tucumán, a terrorist hotbed. We checked them out and they came up

positive. The documents belong to a pair of brothers, it would seem. Lavalle

was the dead man’s name, Jean Pierre Lavalle. The other man, Serge Lavalle, is

still unaccounted for. He may be a hostage, or he may turn up in some ditch.

It certainly is nice when this scum eradicate their own. Gives me more time

for the finer things in life. I will keep you posted, Astor. Anything else I can

do for you?”

“You have been most helpful, as always, Colonel. We will dine together

soon. I will see to it! Good-bye, Rafael.”

“Lavalle, Celeste Lavalle’s brother! Florencia always refers to her as ‘that

communist slut,’ for she makes her leftist leanings very clearly known. The

university had alerted the police about her,” Stoltz enthused as his precise mind

assembled the pieces of the puzzle.

“Then it would seem that Lonfranco De Seta has made the acquaintance

of the Lavalle brothers, and perhaps they have converted him to their terrorist

ways,” Astor added. “Get some men down to Barracas right away and see what

else you can find out through our other sources. If Lonnie De Seta has turned

into a terrorist, it will make his elimination even easier than we expected. I

want to see Rojo Geary as soon as possible. Not here, but at the usual location.

Good work, Wolfie! Make sure you give the wire tap operator a raise for his

fine work.”

Astor Gordero threw his linen napkin down on the table and rose from his

breakfast. He patted his enlarged girth with both hands and smiled contentedly

to himself.

“Isn’t it funny how life works out sometimes, Wolfie? I was expecting

to have a lot of trouble removing the elder De Seta brother from the family

structure, but if things unfold as I suspect, we will have less work to do on him

than any of the others. If the police don’t find him, Rojo Geary will. Then it

will be ‘rest in peace, Señor Lonfranco De Seta.’ The family fortune is falling

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into our hands even more easily than I had anticipated. This good news calls

for some champagne! Herr Stoltz, would you kindly crack a bottle of our finest,

while I call down for some hors d’oeuvres? Fate really does work in strange ways!

Come, let us toast the pending acquisition of the De Seta financial empire!”

294

London, England. May 6, 1978.

“Two fingers for Sir Reggie!” someone yelled above the din.

“Two fingers? Bloody hell, crack the jeroboams!” was Sir Reginald

Russell’s retort.

Instantly the sound of corks popping reverberated throughout the dank,

cramped confines. Paper coffee cups were filled to overflowing with Moet &

Chandon’s finest bubbly. Mud-splattered, half-naked players rubbed shoulders

with gentlemen in Savile Row overcoats and suits. The air was thick with cigar

smoke, sweat, and backed-up latrines. Sir Reggie gulped down the contents of

an entire vessel in one swallow.

“More! Fill it up again, Monteith, and keep filling it up until I bloody

well fall on my keister.” Another paper chalice was drained in a heartbeat.

“Again, Monteith. Be spry with that bottle, you old sod!”

Archibald Monteith reacted to the request with a steady hand that spilt

nary a drop of the precious liquid. Replenished, Sir Reggie allowed himself to

slump against a dirty brick wall.

“Forty years! Forty bloody years! We’re back now though, we’re really back!

Monteith! Keep the cup filled, man. Is that too hard a task to perform?”

Monteith knew his retainer too well, though. He could always find some

trivial matter to busy himself with that would allow him to ignore his Lordship’s

requests for more alcohol. The ex-Royal Marine medic was now absorbed in

topping up some of the board of director’s cups. Sir Reggie understood. The two

men had an unspoken agreement, the result of many years spent in each other’s

company. When Sir Reginald Russell began drinking, Archibald Monteith

assumed the ultimate control of how much and when to holler ‘enough!’ This

had enabled his Lordship to avoid countless embarrassing situations.

“Two fingers, huh! I prefer the taste of the bubbly. Think I could get used

to it, too,” Sir Reggie mumbled to himself as he drank in the atmosphere of

the fetid cavern. Two fingers of his favorite Glen Moray single malt Scotch had

most often been consumed to dull the pain of frustrating defeats during the

long climb back to the top. ‘The top’ being a return to the first division ranks

of the English Football Association.

Today they had made it back, back after forty years in the shadows. “The

Canaries are back!” he shouted to no one in particular. That was certainly cause

JAMES McCREATH

enough to crack the huge bottles of champagne that Monteith had hidden

in the dressing room after the interval. The score had been tied at nil, but

Sir Reggie just had a feeling. All they needed was a tie, one point, to clinch

promotion. The Canaries did better than that, though. They won, 2-0, sending

the home crowd into a long-awaited frenzy.

“The Isle of Dogs will be howling tonight!” he laughed out loud.

Now the real work would begin, and Reginald Russell knew it all too

well. It was one thing to attain promotion to the FA first division, but it was a

totally different thing to represent yourself well and avoid being embarrassed

by the ‘Gods of English football.’

Manchester United vs. Canary Wharf in a first division fixture? Surely

some people would take it as a misprint, a jest. Those poor souls didn’t know

their FA history. Canary Wharf had been there many times, to Old Trafford,

to Highbury, to White Hart Lane. The Canaries had competed since 1897,

never missing a season. There had been many peaks and valleys . . . deep, deep,

valleys, but now they were back. Back where Sir Reggie wanted them, back

where they belonged.

Someone in the crowd called for a few words from their patron, and with

that, Sir Reggie tried to disappear into the shadows, heading for the therapist’s

door.

“Come on, me Lord. All’s they want is a few words. Just tell them how

proud of them you are. Come on, here he is, here’s Sir Reggie for you.”

Monteith led the chairman of the board of directors to the trainer’s wooden

crate and gave Sir Reggie an arm up.

The assembled mass cheered wildly. Sir Reggie motioned for them to stop,

only encouraging them further.

“Please, gentlemen. Gentlemen, please! Thank you, thank you. Allow me

a few words of thanks. To the board of directors for their judgment and support,

to the working press for remembering history, to manager Randal Horton and

his staff for a fine strategy and the perseverance to see it bear fruit, and last, but

certainly not least, to you, the Canary Wharf players. You were the ones that

made our dreams come true. Thank you, thank you all. Now gentlemen, a toast

to the Canaries! Three cheers, hip hip hooray, hip hip . . .”

As he was partway through the cheer, Sir Reggie remembered one person

who he had forgotten to thank, the person perhaps most responsible for the

team, and himself, being where they were today. He whistled loudly for silence

as the last hooray echoed above the unusual scene.

“Gentlemen, your attention for one more moment, if you will. There is a

very special person that I forgot to acknowledge, and I think you all know the

influence this person has had on me. For obvious reasons, this lovely creature

is not in the room with us at the moment, lest she be scared out of her wits

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by those dangling participles that seem to escape their towels every so often.

However, my daughter, Mallory, is the one person who instilled in me the will

to bring the Canaries back to the first division. I can tell you in all honesty that

it was her unflinching spirit and daily enthusiasm that transformed me into a

man possessed with accomplishing this feat. Now, Monteith, get me a full cup,

for I am going to find the lady and give her some of the celebratory reward.

Carry on, gentlemen!”

To the sound of a hearty “here, here,” Sir Reggie leapt from his pedestal

with two full cups of cheer, Monteith having relented and given his Lordship a

cup of his own with which to join his daughter in celebration.

It was an arduous journey to the exit, numerous well-wishers and story

seekers blocking the way. The English press had been full measure in their

support of the Canaries ascension, for tradition and history were what made

English football so unique. The Canaries were one of the old-guard teams,

and as such, were shown the respect Sir Reggie felt they should be accorded.

Each scribe seemed to want a personal word from the chairman as he struggled

toward the door. Reggie politely sidestepped all requests and pushed onward,

but he stopped dead in his tracks when he came upon Lawton MacRae.

The man cut a striking pose, sitting astride a dust bin, a Marlboro cigarette

and bottle of Bass Ale keeping him company. He was stripped to the waste, but

had retained his match shorts, stockings, and cleats. A large, toothless grin was

plastered on his weathered face.

He was the eldest of the lot. Their captain. Experience personified! Thirteen

seasons with the club, all in the netherlands of the charts. Third division, then

second. Really never a thought of the big league, not until Mallory Russell got

involved. Then it all changed, and Lawton MacRae was there to see it happen.

“Lawton, hail fellow, Lawton. How does it feel, man? We made it, made

it to the big time again!”

“Aye, gov’nor, it feels right smug, it does at that!”

“There’ll be a bonus in your stocking, Lawton! Enjoy yourself, you’ve

earned it.”

Then it was on through the crowd and finally out into the passageway.

She stood in the shadows, almost invisible. The body moved first,

intercepting the intruder.

“Right, Sir Reginald. Lady Russell, it’s your father.”

With that, the plainclothes Marine sergeant withdrew to the shadows

himself. According to proper military protocol, the sergeant should have

addressed his superior officer by his rank, Lieutenant Colonel, but Reginald

Russell forbade military decorum when he was in civilian clothing.

“Reggie, isn’t it wonderful? They’re tearing up the turf, and the singing .

. . it sent shivers up my spine.”

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JAMES McCREATH

The commotion from the pitch was still reverberating down the player’s

tunnel as a triumphant father and daughter stood relishing the moment. Sir

Reggie gave his daughter a loving smile.

Even in the half-light there was no mistaking her beauty. Her long blond

hair was tucked neatly into a tam, accentuating her fine cheekbones and flawless

complexion. Her eyes remained a mystery, however, hidden behind dark glasses

that afforded her the anonymity she felt she required on occasions such as these.

It was false security, for everyone in the football circles knew or knew of Mallory

Russell. Sir Reggie’s favorite, the real brains behind the Canary Wharf revival,

the best-looking and shrewdest woman connected with football in all of Great

Britain! This was really her moment, and Sir Reggie knew it well.