magenta-and-yellow cape.
“Why doesn’t El Bravo test the bull himself?” she asked.
“That’s his assistant’s job. El Bravo needs distance to take it all in. Looking for which horn the bull favors, and whether or not the beast charges straight and with its head down or high. This one is calm. A good bull.”
“How would you know a bad bull?”
“Those cartoons that feature the snorting bull that paws the ground with a hoof? That is a bad bull. Too cocky and fearful. Easily riled and nervous. The matador desires a calm, brave animal to put him to the ultimate test.”
“The bull being an herbivore,” she mused, “it’s surprising they charge a man at all.”
“Rhinoceroses are herbivores. I wouldn’t want to stand alone before one of those tanks.”
“Point made.” Annja noted the matador’s keen eye on the bull as it lowered its head to charge the cape. “Do they know what they’re getting before the bull comes to the ring?”
“Not usually. The bulls are selected before the fight in the sorteo . The matador never does the selection. He sends his second in command, who pays close attention to horn size, sharpness and shape. But it’s difficult to determine the animal’s mien in a small stockyard.” Garin finished off the beer. His attention swerved to her. “I assume you’re going to stick around and look into the murdered man’s life?”
“Like I said, I’ll leave that to the police. It’s curious, if you ask me, that someone would leave behind a piece such as the bronze bull at the scene. Even if the murderer had no idea the value of the object, he—”
“Or she,” Garin interjected.
“Or she, should have been able to take one look at it, known it was an artifact and pocketed it.”
“Perhaps their morals for stealing were stronger than for taking another man’s life?”
“That makes no sense.”
“Why? I’m not much for theft myself. Yet if faced with a situation where I had to defend my life by taking another’s life, I wouldn’t question the choice.”
“Are you suggesting whoever killed Diego did it in self-defense? A knife to the back is hardly a defensive wound.”
“No. Just showing you there are many ways to reason a man’s actions.”
“Explain to me, then, a man’s choice to watch another man murder an animal before a crowd?”
“Ah, but it’s not a defenseless animal. Name one other situation where an animal raised for slaughter is allowed the opportunity to defend its life?”
Annja opened her mouth to reply, but said nothing. He had a point. A vague, far-reaching point.
“Besides, the man isn’t safe from danger,” he added. “The matador faces danger for us all. He offers us that risk we are unwilling to take for the thrill of near death.”
“This coming from a man who I know takes risks daily.”
“Well.” Garin shrugged. “I’m speaking about the others.”
The common people was the unspoken part he left out. So like Garin, and not at all offensive when delivered with his charming smirk.
The matador had stepped out from behind the fenced barrier and swirled the magenta-and-yellow cape to attract the bull’s attention. The cape moves were called veronicas, named after the veil Veronica had used to wipe the sweat from Jesus as he marched to his doom.
“Left horn,” Garin muttered. “He’ll present the cape to that one because that’s the dominant one.”
The crowd cheered when the bull passed close to the matador, one deadly ebony horn brushing his hip. The matador didn’t step back, but instead leaned in toward the bull, bringing man and beast together as one. The bravery required to maintain that stance and not step aside was incredible, at once brutal and graceful. Annja nodded, impressed.
“As I’ve said, bullfighting is an art,” Garin said into her ear to be heard over the approving shouts of “Olé.”
And yet the word matador translated to killer. Annja took another sip of her beer, avoiding
“Why doesn’t El Bravo test the bull himself?” she asked.
“That’s his assistant’s job. El Bravo needs distance to take it all in. Looking for which horn the bull favors, and whether or not the beast charges straight and with its head down or high. This one is calm. A good bull.”
“How would you know a bad bull?”
“Those cartoons that feature the snorting bull that paws the ground with a hoof? That is a bad bull. Too cocky and fearful. Easily riled and nervous. The matador desires a calm, brave animal to put him to the ultimate test.”
“The bull being an herbivore,” she mused, “it’s surprising they charge a man at all.”
“Rhinoceroses are herbivores. I wouldn’t want to stand alone before one of those tanks.”
“Point made.” Annja noted the matador’s keen eye on the bull as it lowered its head to charge the cape. “Do they know what they’re getting before the bull comes to the ring?”
“Not usually. The bulls are selected before the fight in the sorteo . The matador never does the selection. He sends his second in command, who pays close attention to horn size, sharpness and shape. But it’s difficult to determine the animal’s mien in a small stockyard.” Garin finished off the beer. His attention swerved to her. “I assume you’re going to stick around and look into the murdered man’s life?”
“Like I said, I’ll leave that to the police. It’s curious, if you ask me, that someone would leave behind a piece such as the bronze bull at the scene. Even if the murderer had no idea the value of the object, he—”
“Or she,” Garin interjected.
“Or she, should have been able to take one look at it, known it was an artifact and pocketed it.”
“Perhaps their morals for stealing were stronger than for taking another man’s life?”
“That makes no sense.”
“Why? I’m not much for theft myself. Yet if faced with a situation where I had to defend my life by taking another’s life, I wouldn’t question the choice.”
“Are you suggesting whoever killed Diego did it in self-defense? A knife to the back is hardly a defensive wound.”
“No. Just showing you there are many ways to reason a man’s actions.”
“Explain to me, then, a man’s choice to watch another man murder an animal before a crowd?”
“Ah, but it’s not a defenseless animal. Name one other situation where an animal raised for slaughter is allowed the opportunity to defend its life?”
Annja opened her mouth to reply, but said nothing. He had a point. A vague, far-reaching point.
“Besides, the man isn’t safe from danger,” he added. “The matador faces danger for us all. He offers us that risk we are unwilling to take for the thrill of near death.”
“This coming from a man who I know takes risks daily.”
“Well.” Garin shrugged. “I’m speaking about the others.”
The common people was the unspoken part he left out. So like Garin, and not at all offensive when delivered with his charming smirk.
The matador had stepped out from behind the fenced barrier and swirled the magenta-and-yellow cape to attract the bull’s attention. The cape moves were called veronicas, named after the veil Veronica had used to wipe the sweat from Jesus as he marched to his doom.
“Left horn,” Garin muttered. “He’ll present the cape to that one because that’s the dominant one.”
The crowd cheered when the bull passed close to the matador, one deadly ebony horn brushing his hip. The matador didn’t step back, but instead leaned in toward the bull, bringing man and beast together as one. The bravery required to maintain that stance and not step aside was incredible, at once brutal and graceful. Annja nodded, impressed.
“As I’ve said, bullfighting is an art,” Garin said into her ear to be heard over the approving shouts of “Olé.”
And yet the word matador translated to killer. Annja took another sip of her beer, avoiding
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