Renaldo (2 page)

a loudspeaker, into which he screamed several commands. As one, the soldiers

then advanced toward the smoke-obscured chaos.

Renaldo, having done his best to get help, sprinted past the guardsmen to

see if he could find his friends and get them started toward the escape tunnel.

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RENALDO

It was pandemonium on the field. More smoke flares had been ignited,

and the boy could hardly distinguish the Córdobans from his own companions.

Some groups were engaged in hand-to-hand combat, while others stood staring

each other down, using verbal abuse as a prelude to a more physical display of

their machismo. Renaldo had wisely discarded the black-and-white scarf that

he had worn all afternoon, and he was able to streak through the midst of his

would-be assailants without being detected as a Prefect invader.

Confusion reigned supreme until miraculously, through a clearing in the

smoke, the boy caught a glimpse of what he thought was Gordo’s huge Prefect

flag surrounded by both friends and foes. Renaldo pushed his way further into

the maroon mist until he found himself face-to-face with Gordo and a throng

of his dazed blood brothers. The men had formed a tight circle around Gordo’s

insolent object, for to lose the colors would be a great dishonor no matter what

the outcome of the game had been.

Gordo, although sweating profusely, had lost none of his loud, aggressive

bearing. He continued to insult his detractors, all the while taunting them

with his sacred cloth.

“We must get out of the stadium now or we won’t have a chance!” implored

Renaldo.

“I would not give these peasants the satisfaction of driving us from this

place. This is our field of victory!” spat the fat man defiantly.

“It will be our field of doom if we do not leave right now!” the newcomer

retorted.

Gordo did not stand convinced, but just as he was about to resume his

verbal tirade against the provincials, the first jet of water slammed into the

group of men immediately to their left.

“Water canon!” screamed one of the combatants.

All at once, it seemed as if the sky had opened up and let loose a torrential

downpour. Men were thrown to the ground or propelled into one another with

terrifying velocity. The National Guard officer had made good on his promise

to separate the antagonists, but he was employing a most vicious method of

doing so.

A water canon mounted on an armored military vehicle was randomly

sweeping the pitch with devastating effect. The National Guardsmen had

halted after advancing only a few paces, then formed a corridor leading to the

escape tunnel. The officer in charge was no fool. He would not risk the safety

of his soldiers by sending them into the smokey fray. Besides, the water canon

made for great spectacle, something to amuse his troops and take their minds

off the sad defeat that the home team had suffered.

Renaldo knew he had to act quickly or his friends would be separated and

left alone to make their way to safety. In one swift motion, he grabbed the flag

5

JAMES McCREATH

from Gordo’s grasp, pushed him around, and pointed in the general direction

of the tunnel.

“Brave amigos, follow me to glory!” he shouted.

To think that he was leaving the field in glorious fashion was somehow

satisfying to Gordo, and he motioned for the group to follow Renaldo and the

fluttering standard. That was not altogether an easy task, through the jumble

of men, the spray of the canon, and the dissipating smoke. The flag, however,

served as their beacon, and most of the Porteños made it to the warning track

where the guardsmen stood nervously awaiting their arrival.

Only Prefect supporters were allowed through the corridor of soldiers

formed where Gordo’s pennant swung proudly as a rallying point for the men

from Buenos Aires. Many of those assembling there had been bloodied, but

their wounds were looked upon as proud souvenirs of a great and glorious

victory.

When Renaldo was satisfied that a full complement of the Prefectos, as

they called themselves, were in the narrow tunnel, he led them swiftly down

the passage and out into the stadium concourse. From there it was an easy walk

past the entrance gates and into an open air plaza.

Relief swept over the rescuer as he watched his fellow Porteños file into

the bright sunshine. It was an emotion that would be short-lived. Renaldo still

held the giant battle colours in his right hand. As he stood surveying the ranks

of the rescued and talking to a member of his group, the standard was suddenly

torn from his grasp. A young street urchin clad in Córdoban colors sped away

down the plaza into a gang of hostile ruffians. Instantly, the flag was set ablaze,

then waved defiantly at its owners as it disintegrated into flaming pieces.

The stunned Prefectos could only watch in silence as their colors turned

to burning embers. But mute disbelief was soon replaced by Gordo’s booming

voice, chiding and chastising the vile arsonists. The locals returned Gordo’s

salutations with their own invectives, and it was all too evident that the

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.

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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 supporters. 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