IT'S A TOUCH past 8 o'clock on an overcast April morning in Santos, Brazil. The man they call the King won't be here for another four hours. He doesn't do mornings. But inside the Santos Football Club museum his talents helped fill, a desperate intensity settles in. An elderly woman with chubby cheeks and a red-bristled broom follows anyone who enters, hunting for dirt. Two men carrying a white leather couch ponder the perfect VIP-room placement. A trio of chefs artfully prepare plates of sushi and fresh fruit.
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