Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 35 - Death in the Afternoon

'Look at him. I bet he wishes he'd accepted your sword the first time,' one of Castella's assistants simpered to his boss, a shit eating grin on his face. Wearing dark glasses, grey chinos and a crisp white shirt, the matador gave a self satisfied smirk as he watched his two prisoners.

'Yes. I'm sure he does.' He took his cape and waved it around over the fence. Chicero ran straight at him, and Javier jumped back as the bull's sharp horns went through the wire. He glared at Pepelito, who glanced at him and quickly turned away. The only thing worse than a scared bull was one that showed no reaction at all.

'What the fuck's your problem? Come on, toro. Venga, venga.' He waved the cape and Pepelito half heartedly walked towards him and then turned back towards his water.

'Don't you dare think you can ignore me. Show me some goddamn respect.' He picked up a stone from the ground and threw it at Pepelito; it bounced off his horn. The bull turned around, his sides heaving. Javier picked up another stone and hurled it at him. He waved his cape over the fence again, his Rolex watch glinting in the sunlight. This time Pepelito charged at the material with his head down, slamming into the wire and catching his knees on the fence. He grunted in shock.

'Wow, am I looking forward to killing you,' Javier snarled, grabbing Pepelito’s horn over the fence and tugging him around, forcing the animal to look at him. Javier smiled, his ego restored. The bull he’d been so slighted by once again saw him as a dangerous enemy.

Nobody disrespected him.

'That'll do for now,' he said, giving the two bulls a disdainful stare and turning on his heel. More were supposed to be coming later. He used his ring to host private corridas several times a year for wealthy aficionados - and 'business associates', who, like him, had gained their real wealth, prestige and power through those enterprises the authorities pretended to hate.

The police could try to lock him up. But Javier was never going to jail, not for this, not for anything. Sure the dead man was a policeman's uncle, but his guys on the inside would make sure it went away. Since a three month prison sentence when he was 19 for supplying controlled substances, he had learned his lesson and never again been stupid enough to get convicted of anything. As with the ring, he always had a cuadrilla on hand to do his work.

People loved him.

If they didn't, they loved his money.

He thanked his attendants and crossed his huge, striped, luscious lawn. The surrounding countryside in this part of Spain was brown, stricken by drought, and fell victim to ever increasing numbers of fires. Javier never paid attention to that; the state of the art sprinklers went 24/7 and the water in his infinity pool was replenished every day. His property here was like an oasis in the desert.

He'd managed to work himself up from nothing, he thought proudly, strolling through his gangster's paradise. A marble statue stood atop a large fountain on his lawn, and he gave it a loving glance. The statue was of Javier with a cape and sword, staring mystically into the distance.

Just inside the house, Javier brandished his cape at a vanquished opponent, a stuffed Miura bull he’d fought in Bogota. Staring ravishingly into a nearby mirror, he recalled the glorious day – Miuras, after all, were ‘the Bulls of Death.’ Taking place during his first visit since Aguilar was jailed, this corrida was especially memorable. Finally, he was the big boss, the man the cartels talked business with. Outrageously, Colombia had just banned bullfighting. He’d need other explanations for his all too frequent trips.

Javier stepped onto one of the soft red rugs covering his marble floor. He admired the intricately designed gold and silver decor, before gazing at himself through yet another mirror. A full size portrait of himself in his costume hung above the period piece fireplace. He walked upstairs through the hall of mirrors, his eyes lingering on his appearance in each one, making sure he looked as perfect as he told himself he was.