The Penalty by Mal Peet Read Free Book Online Page A

sent my assistant, Werner, to check the boy out. He says that when he went into the changing room Brujito was squatting in a corner, just staring into space. Werner tried to talk to him, said it was like talking to a dummy. ‘Vacant’ was the word he used. So he left him there and came back to the pitch.”
    “And you lost the game.”
    “Yep,” Fabian said. “Four–two. It was like when Brujito was subbed the heart went out of us. When the final whistle went it was like all hell broke loose. Plastic bottles, coins, God knows what showering down on us, booing like I’d never heard before. Sounded like about a million animals in an abattoir. We hustled the players off the pitch fast as we could, and when we got to the changing room Brujito had vanished. His kit was in a heap in the corner where Werner had left him. Looked like he’d evaporated out of it. And no one has seen him since.”
    Faustino rested his chin on his folded hands, thinking. When he looked up he caught Fabian glancing at his watch.
    “Yeah, okay, Cesar. Thanks.” He poked experimentally at the recorder and the minuscule light turned green.
    “So then, the business in hand. El Gato.”
    “Gato, yeah. Jeez, I tell you what, Paul: I wish we had him now.” Fabian aimed a thumb up at the stadium roof. “Gilberto da Silva spent twenty million on that thing, to keep the rain off. He shoulda spent it on players. Our defence leaks like a damn sieve. Which reminds me.” He reached into a pocket and took out a long slim envelope. “Present for you. Two tickets for Sunday’s game. Directors’ box. We’re playing Espirito Santo, so at least there’ll be one decent side on the pitch.”

 
    T HE CLIMATE CONTROL in the hire car wasn’t up to the job, and when Faustino got to his hotel he went up to his room, stripped to his underwear and stood akimbo in front of the air-conditioning unit for several minutes. Then he sat on the bed and began to play back his conversation with Cesar Fabian about El Gato. After ninety seconds he turned the machine off and stared at the far wall for a while. Then he reached for his phone. Maximo Salez’s answering machine gave a mobile number. At the third attempt, Faustino got a response from it.
    “Yeah?”
    “Maximo? This is Paul Faustino.”
    “My God! Maestro! What have I done to deserve this honour?”
    “You tell me. Max, listen. I want to talk to you. Where are you?”
    “Er, I’m in a meeting at the moment, but…”
    Yes, Faustino thought, a meeting between your mouth and a beer. The background to Salez’s voice was other voices and pole-dancer music.
    “Okay, so how about an hour from now? I’ll come to the office.”
    “What? You mean you’re in San Juan?”
    “I’m afraid so. And Max, do you have a video of the DSJ–Atlético semi-final? I’d like to watch it.”
    Maximo Salez was a thin, nervy man with poor skin and a taste for loud shirts. His writing was, usually, a mechanical recitation of jargon and clichés; but every now and again it would erupt, like a tropical flower after rain, into drunkenly poetic passages of description which
La Nación
’s sports editor would ruthlessly delete. He greeted Faustino with an ironic bow which failed to conceal his anxiety.
    “Excuse the mess in here,” he said. “Things are a little hectic right now. Pull that chair over.”
    His office was a miserable little hutch separated from the reception area by a glass wall. Salez clattered the venetian blind closed and the light turned grey. He sat himself down on a swivel chair that had seen better days and supported better men.
    “Well, Paul. This is an unexpected treat. I didn’t know you were here in the Deep North. I thought you were on leave.”
    Faustino took his time lighting a cigarette. When he considered that Salez had suffered enough he said, “I am. Relax, Maximo. You look like you’ve got piles. I haven’t come up here to take over the Brujito story.”
    “Ah. Well, naturally I