career, he wore many hats . . . lawyer, investment adviser, political strategist.
He acted as private counsel to some of the country’s best-known celebrities
and dignitaries, was an extravagant philanthropist, a trustee and governor of
the Sir Isaac Newton Academy School (of which he was a graduate and class
valedictorian), and a ranking colonel in the National Guard Reserve. But most
importantly to his traveling companions on this day, Astor Gordero was the
chairman of the board of directors and majority owner of the Newton’s Prefects
professional football club.
Although his weighty proportions had prevented him from playing
football in his youth, he was, nevertheless, swept up not only in the game’s
excitement and passion, but also in its profound cultural teachings. From
his earliest days as a fan, he had developed an analytical enthusiasm for the
sociological ramifications of the sport. It was his ultimate goal to give the
privileged, respectable people of capital city a team to which they could relate.
A team rich in tradition, with old-world ties that instilled a certain aristocratic
arrogance, a team that reflected the ‘attitude’ of the Porteño oligarchy, unlike
those that catered to the masses in districts such as Boca and Avellaneda. When
his floundering, old school team suddenly became available for purchase, it
provided the wealthy elitist with a chance to make a lifelong fantasy into a
reality. The Newton’s Prefect Football Club had the proper pedigree, even for
a snob like Astor Gordero.
Stories of the man’s immoderate and excessive indulgences were often the
topic of discreet gossip at high society gatherings. Discreet was the key word,
for no one spoke publicly of Astor Gordero in a derogatory manner without
suffering the consequences.
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RENALDO
There were rumors of his dark side, whispers that he embraced his
ancestors’ code of honor to the point of having to seek satisfaction if his name
was besmirched. To that end, paid mercenaries usually acted as his angels of
retribution, for Astor Gordero was incapable of forgetting a personal insult.
Moreover, he would not tolerate failure of any kind. Once he set his mind to
achieving a desired goal, the man could not be deterred, even if it meant using
the most unscrupulous of means. And heaven help anyone who stood in his
way!
Many people actually hated the man, but those who did were careful
to hide their feelings and hold their tongues in public. Life in Argentina was
fraught with hidden dangers, and to speak out against a man of such influence
and power could very easily bring disastrous results.
El Hombre Gordo ‘The Fat Man’ was one whom it was better to befriend
than to antagonize, even if that friendship was purely superficial.
A course of cheers and bravos for Gordo’s protectors rang through the bus,
accompanied by much back slapping and hand shaking. The residual effects
of such lavish praise from a man as well connected as Astor Gordero had not
been lost on Estes Santos. He was well aware of The Fat Man’s propensity to
cosset those whom he thought warranted his attention. Many a career had been
accelerated by a simple well-placed word from this porcine dealmaker.
Perhaps now the one thing that the minor league manager craved above
all else would be within his grasp at last. But Estes Santos’ sixth sense told
him that it would be folly to impatiently seek a reward under the present
circumstances. He must bide his time for the right opportunity to state his case
to El Hombre Gordo. Good things could be derived from Gordero’s appreciation
and attention in due course. Until then, he would enjoy his newfound celebrity
and the fruits that his actions of this day had borne him.
Santos and his team captain did not have to wait long for certain of those
fruits to come into bloom. The Prefect supporters soon arrived at the Córdoba
railway station and proceeded to embark on their special charter back to Buenos
Aires. The station was heavily guarded by more soldiers whose officers quickly
orchestrated the visitor’s departure off the buses, through the station, and onto
the waiting rail coaches. The two ‘men of the moment’ had traveled to Córdoba
in normal tourist class railcars, along with the majority of their fellow Prefect
supporters. But not Astor Armondo Luis Gordero. His personally customized
coach had been attached to the rear of the train, affording Gordo and his cronies
the ultimate in mobile comfort, luxury, and privacy.
Astor Gordero made sure that his two saviors stayed right by his side as
they walked down the platform to the last car. His guests were in for “the train
ride of their lives,” he boasted. The Fat Man was in great spirits now that they
were safely out of harm’s way. Once Renaldo boarded the Pullman and entered
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JAMES McCREATH
its lavish interior, he was certain that Gordero had not been exaggerating. Before
him, stretching two-thirds the length of the coach, spread a sumptuous buffet
containing the finest delicacies Argentina had to offer. A fully stocked mirrored
bar attracted his attention as well, for the moment the Prefect’s chairman of
the board came into view, two stewards beside it uncorked magnums of Dom
Pérignon.
That popping sound was greeted by a hearty “Ola!” from Gordero, as
glasses were quickly filled and passed first to the patron, then to his privileged
guests. Their numbers had swollen to about ten men with the addition of the
two new arrivals. Before Renaldo had even been offered a sample of the sweet
nectar, something else caught his eye. Two of the most gorgeous women he had
ever seen, resplendent in the sheerest of boudoir attire, pushed their way past
him and embraced their gregarious host.
The trio’s lusty gropes and wandering hands held the young boy spellbound.
When the chairman had consumed his fill, he gestured for the señoritas to
circulate amongst his amigos and make them feel at home. The Fat Man then
headed directly for the buffet. Renaldo tried to make himself as inconspicuous
as possible and retreated to the far rear of the coach. He knew that he would
feel more comfortable back in the obscurity of tourist class, but there was no
escaping Astor Gordero. The boy took a glass of champagne, resigned to his
captivity. Estes Santos was quickly by his side.
“This is the most incredible thing I have ever seen!” he chortled.
“Yes, truly incredible,” was Renaldo’s half-hearted response.
“Those women are unbelievably beautiful, especially for putas.”
‘Yes, they certainly are an eyeful!’ Renaldo thought to himself.
Up to this moment, all of his contact with prostitutes had been at a
considerable distance. There had been times when he had passed them plying
their trade on the streets of the capital, but he would just smile at their overtures
and go about his business. He was not particularly worldly about the opposite
sex, and Santos knew this well.
“Do not worry, Renaldo. I will take your turn with them if you like.”
“Be my guest, Estes. I have h
ad enough exercise for one day.”
“That’s my boy, save your strength for the soccer pitch.”
The train lurched into motion, spilling a small quantity of Renaldo’s
champagne on the plush carpet. Embarrassed, the youngest of the imbibers
tried to find something to soak up the stain.
“Don’t worry about it, Renaldo.” The booming voice of Gordo could be
heard above the crowd. “I am sure that there will be many more stains before we
reach Buenos Aires. I will simply replace the entire carpet, or perhaps we will
have so much fun that I will have to replace the entire coach.” Gordo laughed
at his own frivolity. Nothing was going to put a damper on his celebration!
14
RENALDO
As the train sped through the dark Argentine night on its way back to the
capital, a carnival of carnal delights was unfolding before the novice observer’s
eyes. Several of the youth’s traveling companions had become very friendly with
the two ‘hostesses,’ as Gordo referred to them. Individually and in groups, the
victors were taking their spoils.
Renaldo sat quietly sipping his champagne on a sofa that was far enough
away from the action so as not to be bothered. A reefer was lit and shared
amongst the participants. It never made it to the young voyeur. He was
fascinated to observe how each of the men acted. Some were ravenous with
passion, others more theatrical, performing and demonstrating their technical
proficiency for the appreciative audience.
Santos was in the thick of things, having the time of his life. Renaldo’s
coach had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and now the player was seeing why
firsthand. Before today, the two men had been strictly business in each other’s
company. Teacher and pupil, the knowledgeable veteran instructing the
promising prospect in the intricacies of the game of football.
But there was a trait of Estes Santos’ personality that he carefully guarded
from public scrutiny, certain raw and animalistic urges to which he from time
to time succumbed. The stories of his prowess with the gentler sex were legend
despite his best attempts to stifle them. Renaldo hoped for his coach’s sake that
word of his present display of physical education would never transcend the
walls of this rolling pleasure palace.
Estes was still in excellent condition at age thirty-seven. He had left the
playing fields just one year earlier after a triumphant career as an Argentine
first division goalkeeper. His thinning black hair was etched with grey now,
but he still had a lithe physique that was the envy of men half his age. Yet the
man’s ultimate goal at this stage in his life had little to do with his physical
qualifications. Estes Santos was consumed with procuring a managerial posting
to a first division team now that he had retired from the on-field battles. Everyone
knew what he could do physically. It was now time to prove that he possessed
the technical capacity and mental fortitude to survive in the pressure-cooker
atmosphere that was indigenous to premier division football. His actions back
in that dead-end alley in Córdoba had certainly seemed to add value to his
stock, at least in the eyes of Astor Gordero.
The Newton’s Prefect Under Twenty-one team was considered a good
point from which to launch a major league coaching career. Santos had
attained the posting for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that
he had finished his playing days with the Prefect’s second division club. The
veteran goalkeeper had been one of Astor Gordero’s first acquisitions after he
gained control of the Prefect organization. Santos had earned three consecutive
championship rings with River Plate in the premier division before his age
15
JAMES McCREATH
made him available on the transfer market. Instead of taking the demotion as
a slap in the face, Estes Santos had endeared himself to his new employer by
shutting out the opposition in his last five games and elevating the Prefects into
the first division after decades of relegation.
The keeper’s good looks and swashbuckling style had made him the
darling of the Argentine press for a time, but Santos had gotten his girlfriend
pregnant when he was barely eighteen years old, and was by now quite
thoroughly married with three children.
The press had focused on the ‘perfect family man’ angle when Estes was
fêted after his amazing shut-out string. As an aspiring big league manager,
he was smart enough to realize that it served him well to keep certain aspects
of his personal life hidden very deeply underground. But the rumors of his
voracious sexual appetite persisted, nonetheless. When questioned on those
terms, he would simply smile demurely and respond,
“Can I help it if the señoritas are attracted to me? It is all fiction, the
rest!”
Santos proved to be a fine teacher of the game, and he had helped Renaldo
realize its subtleties from the opposing goalkeeper’s point of view. He was a stern
taskmaster with his charges, remaining detached from their emotional stream
as a unit. But he possessed the uncanny ability to reach out and touch just the
right nerve to ensure a player’s peak performance. His warriors respected him
immensely, for he was a champion in his own right, and he had made them
was, at this moment, the most dominant force in Argentine football, and its
former star goalkeeper knew exactly why. It all had to do with the shrewdness
and perfect timing of the football club’s guiding light, Astor Armondo Luis
Gordero.
But everything had almost been lost that very afternoon. Estes Santos had
arrived at the door of salvation within a split second of real tragedy. A chill
swept over the manager every time his mind latched on to the reality of how
vastly different the situation could have concluded back there in that fetid alley.
Had either Gordo or his young captain been badly hurt by those maniacs, he
would have been vilified rather than celebrated. The Fat Man could very well
have been hung, drawn, and quartered by now, and then what would all his
hopes for a favorable career word from Astor Gordero be worth? Absolutely
nothing . . . for dead men are worthless!
Even worse things could have evolved because of the boy’s circumstances.
Santos was Renaldo’s coach, his protector. The young player was a brilliant
prodigy, with a bright football future before him. He was a musician and
scholar as well. His safety on this ‘enlightening expedition to a provincial
capital,’ words that he had spoken to convince Señora Florencia De Seta of the
16
RENALDO
educational value of the outing, rested squarely on the coach’s shoulders. Had
he not gone out of his way to convince Renaldo’s overprotective mother that her
son would not be in the slightest bit of danger? And should any unpleasantness
arise, that he would personally see to it that the boy stayed safely out of harm’s
way?
On this day, Estes Santos had been a terrible protector. The victory
celebrations had gotten the better of him. He was totally unprofessional and
certainly out of character for a man said to have nerves of cold steel. By the time
he remembered to look to his charge, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Gordo’s
huge flag had brought them together again momentarily, but he had not waited
to save The Fat Man’s hide outside the stadium as his captain had. Estes Santos
had run for his life and forsaken his sworn responsibility. All these thoughts
swirled intermittently through his mind as he tried to suppress the guilt of his
shortcomings in the arms and between legs of the two ‘hostesses.’
Renaldo was both amused and shocked by the performance taking place
only a few feet from where he sat in the rear of the luxurious coach. The boy
had never imagined, let alone witnessed, such a lewd spectacle. He had no urge
to partake of these particular pleasures, preferring, instead, to focus on his host,
who was at that moment holding court at the end of the buffet table.
Astor Gordero took on the role of director for this extravaganza, but he
never indulged in its antics. He sat in his special easy chair choreographing,
cajoling, and encouraging the actors. A large plate of food rested constantly in
his lap, and a steward stood attentively by his side, the Dom Pérignon at the
ready. Every once in a while, his eyes would connect with Renaldo’s across the
room, and the older man would nod his approval of the festivities.
Gordero made sure that the boy was left in peace, the second steward
warding off any enthusiastic reveler that ventured too near. Champagne, cigars,
and repast were Renaldo’s for the taking, but the events of the day still occupied
most of his thoughts. He remembered the fear that permeated every ounce of
his being when he and Gordero had been trapped in the alleyway. But try as he
might, he could not recall the exact actions that supposedly saved their lives.
Renaldo concluded that he had acted instinctively, much as any trapped animal
would have to ensure survival and self-preservation. What had made his acts
of valor so distinct and unusual was that he had saved the life of not just an
ordinary football fan, but one of the richest, most powerful men in Argentina.
Surely Astor Gordero could have been seated in the president’s box at