Chapter One

 

Manolo Garza sat alone in his hotel room, staring at the green and gold suit of lights he would be wearing the next day as he made his way into the bullring. He could have been appearing in any other Mexican city this upcoming Sunday, rather than Nogales. This was just a dusty border town across the Arizona line with a bullring seating only 5,000. It was ideal to meet his needs. That was all.

The suit of lights. It was called that because in the sunlight the reflection of the lame' spangles seemed to vibrate with a life all their own, glistening in an explosion of color.

The bulls had been good to him. He was growing rich, becoming famous and no longer the young dreamer of days gone by, though most people would have considered being twenty one a life that was beginning, not nearing an end. Yes, the bulls had been good to him, except for one.

"Gaditano."

He said the name aloud and his eyes started to glow with hatred. This was the only bull he ever despised. In the ring, he didn't like to kill the animals that much, but it was the way of things. In this one solitary case, however, he relished the chance.

That was what brought him to Nogales, where he had rented the ring himself and would act as lone matador, facing all four bulls without an alternate next to him. That way he and Gaditano would be assured of a meeting.

"Gaditano."

The name meant "someone from the province of Cadiz in Spain", which was taken from the title of a song in English and it was fitting. Gaditano had slammed the hell out of him on the Eliseo Manzano ranch down in Hermosillo and nearly knocked him all the way to Spain. He had not forgotten the incident.

"Gaditano."

Matadors were supposed to live for their art and not revenge, but this was different. The entire set of circumstances that had brought man and beast to this point was uncanny. The cost had been so high, but he planned it all. The long day of revenge was finally near at hand and he already paid much for the privilege.

"Gaditano."

The bull was four years old now. Three years had passed and he had asked Eliseo Manzano himself to save that animal for him. Again, the circumstances were unprecedented.

Gaditano had nearly cost him his life when this creature from hell was just a calf. Afterward, the beast had indirectly cost him his marriage, his mind and his compassion. Where other bullfighters longed for the cheers and the glory, he had spent three years waiting. He lived to kill only one bull.

They had met on the ranch at the tienta, the time when young bulls were tested for bravery. Even then, Gaditano had been exceptional. He didn't have much in the line of horns then, but what he had was used most effectually.

Garza was wearing nothing but a bathrobe as he pondered his shattered life in the empty room. He looked down at his right leg and saw the slight scar that was still there. He remembered the incident in its entirety and the hatred swelled once more. The bigger scar was hidden by the robe, where he had been hooked in the intestines. He had knocked at death's door, but been denied entrance.

"Lucinda."

It was not the name of another bull, but his own wife coming to him. He'd lost her too. Like everyone else, she had grown tired of what had been branded madness. It wasn't just the abstract love sessions, which grew increasingly violent, but the fixations she failed to understand. He did not hate her like he hated Gaditano, though he would forever hold a grudge over her leaving him. He had tried to comfort himself and say that she wasn't really needed. He'd found plenty of replacements in the underground clubs, the whore houses and the bars. There were others eager to serve his tastes, which were decidedly different from the norm. That was the least of his problems.

Rising, he looked out the hotel window into the moonlit night. Below, the streets were silent, which surprised him. Nogales should have been louder. There should have been drunks shouting and horns blasting. It was too quiet for him. A bad shadow? An omen of ill fortune was hanging in the air.

 

"I'm sick of everything and I'm not putting up with it any more. I'm leaving you, Manolo. May you be happy in the warped life you've chosen, but you'll be doing it without me! If you ever get over this weird shit you keep wanting to do to me and get over this drive to kill one lone, solitary fucking bull, then you give me a call, but at the rate you're going I doubt you'll live long enough."

Lucinda's words of some months before. How true they were would be questionable. He, of course, doubted every accusation she had made and then some.

"I'll be back. I'll be back. You save that bull for me."

These were his own words now and he remembered exactly when he had uttered them. He could still feel the terror as he held what he was certain were his intestines within with his own hand and the hot blood oozing out beneath the towel that had been thrown over his lower body as the truck rushed him to a Hermosillo hospital. It was a miracle he had survived.

Closing his eyes, he thought of the goring, which hadn't happened in a bullring before thousands of people. It had been an event on a ranch with a select few watching. He was just an oncoming figure then. He was nowhere near his potential when he and Gaditano met. Thanks to the same, he almost never reached a potential at all.

Manolo rose and standing in the midst of his silent quarters, he held an imaginary cape in one hand and the sword in the other. He took aim at the bed, envisioning it to turn black on him. He now confronted Gaditano for what would be the last time. The steel would spell death to his loathsome enemy.

"You've taken everything from me," he hissed. "Tomorrow I will take back."

In his mind, he saw himself in the shining uniform of green and gold, as he drove the metal home between the animal's shoulder blades. Turning, he watched his opponent stumble like a drunken thing, then collapse on the sand. At long last, the ordeal was over.

"The long day of revenge is at hand."

Up to this point, he hadn't bothered to think of what would happen afterward. For all he knew, there wouldn't even be such a thing. The unthinkable could happen, after all of his planning. He could be the one to die instead. Gaditano could finish what he started.

"The long day of revenge," he muttered again, evidently stuck on the phrase. He liked the sound of it.

"Lucinda..."

He called the name of his estranged wife. Maybe when this ordeal was over, there would be hope for the two of them. After all, he had spent three years building up to this moment. What would happen afterward would take care of itself.

His gaze shifted toward the green and gold costume. Other bullfighters from the past had felt green to be a color bringing bad luck. El Gallo, for example was even on record downgrading contemporary matadors from the 1940s, after he had personally retired, for daring to violate tradition and wear green when all sensible people knew green suits of light brought disaster. Manolete had been gravely gored in a green and gold costume. Afterward, he wanted nothing to do with the uniform and passed it on to his friend, Parrita, who was likewise gored the first time he donned it. Parrita then donated the suit to a museum and both men went on with their lives. At least Parrita did. Manolete was killed in 1947, but it was while wearing pale pink and not green. So much for colors being responsible for bad tidings.

Green was lucky for him. He had worn this suit three times before. Twice in Tijuana, he had left on the shoulders of the crowd with his triumphs secure. The same had occurred when he came to Mexico City as an uncertainty and left a star.

"Green is good," he said in a low voice. "Green is good."

Tomorrow he hoped the green costume would bring him luck again. He had arranged it so Gaditano would be the first of the four bulls he faced. If he managed to kill the despised demon spawn then everything else from that point would be easy. If not, then what would anything matter?

"Is it true you have arranged this bullfight just so you could fight and kill one bull?"

He heard the voice in his head. An Arizona Republic reporter had come from Phoenix to cover the event and was stunned by the brevity of his response.

"Yes."

He had always disliked reporters, but especially the American ones from across the line. They could, by origin, never understand the bullfight. To them it was brutality. If they, however, felt what he had felt from Gaditano, any humanitarian feelings for the animals would be vanquished. He was sure of that.

"You're probably hoping I get killed tomorrow," Manolo grumbled as he thought of the reporter again. "Well, not if I can help it."

The green costume and its golden spangles seemed to be beckoning to him.

"Soon," he mouthed. "Soon."

It was then he heard a knock at the door.

The matador sighed when he heard this unwanted intrusion. Was it some fan? Was it that Republic reporter coming back to bother him again? Was it the rancher, Eliseo Manzano, who had come up from Hermosillo when he brought Gaditano and the other three bulls? Who was it?

"Give me a minute."

He unlocked the door, opened it and was stunned to be confronted by the face he least expected of all to see.

"You?"

Lucinda was there, staring at him with a blank expression that reflected neither the love of the past nor the hate of the present. Like Gaditano the bull, she was drained of emotion.

"Let's get the ritual over with. You didn't think I'd let you down after all the time you've built up for this weekend, did you?"

Lucinda was there alright, live and in person.

"You?"

He started to reach out for her, but she pushed him back. There was no greeting, no embrace and certainly no lip locked kissing. For all practical purposes, their relationship was still over. Gaditano may not have killed him, but he had killed them off as a couple.

"Look, this is for you and not me, Manolo."

Lucinda never got into the spankings, either as foreplay, punishment or a gesture to bring good fortune. There were others out there who relished discipline. There were private clubs in the interior and in more cosmopolitan border towns that specialized in such things if one knew where to look. Across the border in Tucson and Phoenix, there were papers designed for adults where classifieds were available catering to these needs. Even Nogales had a place where peculiar whims could be indulged upon for a price.

Tonight, however, and maybe for the last time, he would not have to patronize any of these.