Ricky liked his seat, but didn’t like the chap seated next to him.
‘It was a spectacular goal, wasn’t it? Chuffed to bits, have to say. If he keeps scoring like that, I won’t be able to fend off all the big guns swooping in for him. I hope Real Madrid are watching. I met their sporting director once. Absolute baller in his day. The man’s 50 but looked like he’d only retired the day before. Still popular with the ladies. But I guess that goes for you as well?’
The persona non grata leaned back and laughed. Ricky didn’t feel like laughing along.
After the final whistle, Ricky and his fellow spectator descended to the dugout. Mateo, the scorer of the winning goal, walked over and reached out to shake Ricky’s hand.
‘Ricky! ¿Cómo estás? It’s good to see you amigo.’
‘Gracias Nemo. Estoy bien. Congratulations that was a sick, sick goal! Are you ok though? That guy on the pitch was fucking crazy.’
Mateo dropped his eyes.
‘Si, si. It’s ok, just some fan.’
The persona non grata pushed Ricky aside and cut in, waving his hands furiously.
‘Mateo, I’m going to have a word with the club. I’m going to make sure they get a proper fence around this pitch. It’s an absolute asylum! They can’t keep having these hooligans running around - now we got the Chinese jumping in! What did he say? Did he speak English? Or just Chinese? You’re not hurt right?’
‘No Julian, I’m ok. He wasn’t Chinese I think.’
‘Ok well wherever he’s from we’ll get him. We’ll make sure to deport his sorry ass back to China.’
‘Julian. It’s really ok. I want you make sure he don’t get trouble in police.’
‘What?’
‘Just say something. Say I’m ok with it. Make sure police let him go.’
‘Why?’
Julian frowned and bit his lip, something Ricky had noticed several times during the two hours they had just spent side by side. Then his face lit up and the frown evolved into a wry smile as he triumphantly stuck his index finger in Mateo’s face.
‘One for the press old boy? Clever, clever, clever. Don’t worry I’ll make you look like Mother Theresa.’
And with that he swiveled around and got to work.
Ricky looked on with a real sense of pride at his childhood friend as he answered questions from the mixed zone. They hadn’t kept in touch very well but Ricky had read all about Mateo’s ascent up the ladder of European football.
‘Mateo, do you think you will win the title?’
Mateo raised his forearm to wipe the sweat off his face. He looked inexplicably subdued.
‘Well, there is one game left. It’s the big game, against Manchester United. It is simple. If we win, we win the title. Anything else, Manchester win title.’
‘Congratulations on the goal. And you had an unexpected visitor for your goal ceremony.’
Mateo just blinked.
‘Would you like to comment on that?’
‘No, not really.’
The journalist let out an embarrassed laugh.
‘Right. But these kinds of incidents also point to your popularity perhaps. There’s a lot of speculation on whether you’ll leave the team in the summer or not. Can you comment on that?’
‘No, he won’t. I think I’ll take it from here.’
The club manager, Tony Barlow, stepped in to rescue his player.
‘We’re focused on the title charge and we’ll not be drawn into transfer speculation thank you.’
‘Tony, is this your year? Is this the year that London Football Club clinches its first ever top flight title?’
‘We have enough momentum at the moment to do it, yeah. I’d like to take this club into the history books and give our supporters something to remember for the rest of their lives. Look around the stadium. You can just feel the buzz. The players know it too - they have a chance to leave a unique legacy. We have 90 minutes left to do that, and you can bet next Sunday we’ll be fighting until the last second.’
‘Thank you Tony. And good luck.’
Tony left the mixed zone and walked into the dressing room. His speech was short and straightforward, warning them about complacency. Given his deteriorating health, he tried to keep most things short. His attention span was also shorter; when he saw Mateo sneak away stealthily he raised an eyebrow, but quickly forgot all about it as he indulged in the sweet aftertaste of victory.
Marissa flipped through her iPad and navigated through the web of folders mechanically yet precisely. The inside of the Rolls-Royce Spectre was air conditioned, also very precisely, to match her employer’s preferred temperature. The partition separating the front seats from the back seats was of soundproof one-way glass. Behind it, no subject matter was taboo.
Chuck Jones looked out the window, waiting for her to fill him in on the gala details.
‘Got it, Mr. Jones. One moment please...’
‘Take your time, Marissa.’
The directive betrayed no hint of vexation. His eyes did not wander down to his Patek Philippe but stayed glued to the cityscape outside. Despite his calm demeanour, Marissa’s battle-hardened survival instincts goaded her brain cells to scramble. She prided herself at being exceptionally quick and smart; her ruthless speed was made possible by a nonjudgmental compass that never raised moral questions, while her perceptive prowess enabled her to deliver exactly what was desired without ever requiring explicit verbal confirmation. By virtue of these assets she had maneuvered past many a competitor, and at the still tender age of 37, she oversaw all commercial aspects of London FC as its commercial director.
‘Ready. Right after the photo op there will be a 5-minute Q&A session with journalists. I’ve only red-flagged one of them, from the Daily Chronicle. He has a history, and he may ask about the takeover bids and taxes.’
‘Why is he coming?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Marissa’s brain cells scrambled again.
‘Oh. We couldn’t cut him off because apparently he’s the warden’s nephew.’
She took his silence to be an approval to continue.
‘But here are the questions he’s most likely to ask. Like everyone else, he’ll be afforded a single question, and I’ve also prepared responses to tricky questions, all cleared by the legal team.’
He received the iPad from her, scanned the screen, and handed it back to her.
‘Good work, Marissa.’
‘I’ll be at the table to your right. Nike and Adidas are there and they’ll want to talk about our shirt sponsorship. Louis Vuitton also sent someone and I’ll discuss some terms with them. It seems the sport-plus-art idea is gaining quite a bit of traction. At your table, you’ll be seated to the warden’s right and an MP from the culture committee will be at his left. As you know, the warden is using the gala to ask you for more money. I expect something in the region of two or three million pounds in addition to our official commitment.’
‘What have they done with the money I gave them five years ago?’
‘You know how it is, with government funding drying up.’
‘Yes, the British are very proactive aren’t they?’
Chuck continued to look out the window.
‘As I was saying, you’ll be seated next to the warden, but at your table there will also be some young alumni. Some of their bigshot grads. One of them’s giving the opening address.’
‘Do I need to know?’
‘I’ll give you a quick rundown. Ricky Vega. Graduate of the MFA program. Studied music and mechanical engineering at Princeton before moving to London to study at Goldsmiths. Adopted at six months, moved around New Jersey and New York. Sound artist and DJ.’
‘DJ?’
‘Yes. At those electronic music festivals and clubs.’
‘Go on.’
‘Won the Turner Prize upon his graduation from Goldsmiths. Caused quite an uproar at the time because it was purely a sound piece, an aural work.’
‘Ah yes. I remember something about it. Some installation piece about Asian folk songs?’
‘It was an army song changed to different folklore versions and sung in languages of Asian countries that hosted foreign troops.’
‘I should look it up.’
‘I’ve already prepared recordings and a video of the installation piece in case you’d be interested. It’ll be ready for viewing from your flat or your office.’
‘Perfect. Anything else I need to know?’
‘He quit the London art scene a couple years after his breakthrough. He’s only recently returned to England.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Hong Kong mostly, but traveled around Asia doing a lot of artist-in-residence programs. DJing in clubs here and there.’
‘Good for him.’
‘Very good for him. He made over a million dollars last year from spinning records. But there’s more. During his time in Hong Kong, he solved a murder case.’
‘A man of many talents.’
‘The police were going to close the book as a suicide, but he went on his own and determined it was homicide. Brought the killer to the police and the killer fessed up.’
‘Fascinating.’
Marissa looked up in time to see her employer’s face turn away from the window and toward her. He was sporting a dry smile.
Mateo stuck out like a sore thumb among the gala’s artsy crowd. There were some art students and some collectors who were stealing glances at him, wondering whether no one from the public affairs office had bothered to tell him that the ‘Sports in Art’ moniker was not to be taken at face value. It was in fact precisely what Mateo was pondering as he did a nervous tango, stepping back and forth indecisively. He was deeply relieved when Ricky saw him and waved.
‘Ricky, when can I leave?’
‘Nonsense you just got here. Besides, I don’t remember complaining when you asked me to plan the afterparty for your title celebrations.’
‘No victory yet. We have one game more still.’
‘Yes, well you still felt confident enough to ask. I’ll make sure you guys celebrate in style. It’ll be an unforgettable party. Now instead of complaining you can go say hello to your club owner.’
Ricky pointed toward the front, where Chuck Jones held a champagne glass as he entertained several members of the art world royalty. But as he tugged on his friend’s sleeve, he felt a strong jerk in the other direction.
‘Sorry Ricky. I’ll be right back,’ he pulled out his phone and hurried off to a faraway corner. Ricky observed Mateo’s shaky gait and remembered how downcast Mateo had looked after today’s victory. He didn’t want to pry, but he couldn’t help it - something was wrong. He felt his ears twitching, getting ahead of himself. He tried his best to control them. His mind was already rationalising the need for an intervention. Perhaps Mateo needed Ricky’s help. Perhaps it was something for which he could be of service. But no, Ricky fought back, anytime he relented to his urges no good came of it.
But it was too late, and his ears started shutting out all the talk around him. The clinking of glasses and high-pitched laughter slowly grew distant as his eyes locked on to his friend some 20 metres away. Ricky squinted to keep Mateo in his sight - having visual aid was always better - and succeeded in clearing out all the noise in his head. All was serene and quiet, allowing the Spanish footballer’s voice to travel undisturbed down Ricky’s ear canal. His ears grew slightly red as more blood pumped into them, turning up the volume.
‘...anything. Everything...No danger. He must be safe...No, nobody must know...I tell later. But no one can know...Now? Let me go. I will pay, yes.’
Ricky missed a couple words as a drunk woman bumped into him and threw an inviting look. When he had got her hands off him Mateo was nowhere to be seen.