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
“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
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