The Matador's Crown

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The Matador's Crown Page 11

by Alex Archer


  Nice, but not old, she decided.

  She had no idea matadors made so much money they could afford such rare relics, but then again, Manuel had said everything he owned had been gifts to him. The man certainly had generous friends.

  Searching for the bathroom, she strolled past an open door and peeked inside. It wasn’t the room she was looking for, but the low lighting glowing off the walls tempted her to walk inside the simple, small windowless room.

  The plaster walls were illuminated by a stretch of halogen lights tracking across the ceiling. Nothing decorated the walls, except for trowel swishes in the plaster beneath the muted ocher paint. A simple damask-

  padded bench fashioned from dark-stained wood sat against one wall.

  The wall opposite the door hosted a shrine of sorts, or possibly an altar. A dark wood table rose before a cushioned prie-dieu. On the altar, a few candles and an incense burner sat on a white cloth edged with elaborate white tatting.

  The most fascinating votive crowns hung over the altar. Two of them, suspended from delicate gold chain link. Visigothic in origin, from the seventh or eighth century, if her guess was correct. They had once been fashioned by kings as gifts to cathedrals. Particularly valuable and rare.

  She had only seen one, in the Madrid museum years ago—part of the treasure of Guarrazar—and didn’t believe there were many others out there. Not in museums, anyway. Many had been lost over the centuries, and probably hung in the homes of the wealthy, and perhaps…one suddenly intriguing matador.

  She stood on tiptoe to inspect the larger of the two. The crownlike circle of pounded gold was dotted with rubies and sapphires. Another gold circlet was suspended above the first on elaborate gold chains, to give it the votive appearance. The double crown was rare, as the single was most common. The Visigoth kings once sat beneath them on their thrones—they hadn’t actually worn them as crowns. Letters around the base sometimes spelled out a king’s signature. And one of these crowns did have letters. It read in Latin “Given by Alaric.”

  “A Visigoth king?” The name sounded familiar. If he’d ruled in medieval times she would have known for sure.

  How El Bravo had come to possess two votive crowns baffled her. More generous friends?

  “They should be in a museum,” she whispered and lifted a finger, but then stopped. It felt sacrilegious to touch it. “No, they can’t be authentic.” They had to be copies or fakes.

  “Did you touch them?” Manuel asked from the doorway.

  Unaware he’d been watching her, Annja slid her hand around behind her waist and shook her head. “No.”

  How long had he been standing there? And she, a guest in his home, had been caught snooping. Even with the dirt still streaking her leg, it was obvious she hadn’t been looking for the bathroom.

  “They’re beautiful,” she offered.

  “This is my private sanctuary. I never allow people inside.”

  “I’m sorry. The door was open, and I was looking—”

  “Come out of here now. Please.” He’d lost the teasing charm he’d shown her in the practice ring.

  Annja knew most matadors kept prayer altars. They never stepped into the ring without honoring the ritual of asking for blessings.

  “Forgive me, please,” she said as he closed the door with a hard click of the lock behind her. “I was drawn to the votive crowns. The only one I’ve ever seen was in the Madrid museum.”

  “And now you have seen two more.”

  “They aren’t authentic, are they?”

  “The washroom is next door.” He gestured ahead without meeting her eyes.

  And then he shoved her shoulder against the wall, and his dark eyes found hers. Heartbeat racing, Annja felt like the bull standing before the torero that intended her death. “Tell me truthfully. Did you touch anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t like it when people touch my things. Especially my sacred things.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was going to, but I didn’t. I swear it.”

  His fingers squeezed her shoulder close to her neck, pinching the artery painfully, but then he let up and, with a bow, gestured she walk ahead of him.

  She made quick work in the bathroom, washing off the red dust on her bare leg and splashing water on her face. Staring at her reflection, she wondered what the matador was involved in.

  She’d feel him out during supper, but she’d be wary. Manuel Bravo could prove more deadly out of the ring.

  * * *

  GARIN HAD ARRIVED while she was washing up, and Annja joined him and Manuel in the sitting room outside the dining area. Both men puffed on cigars, and when offered, Annja accepted a Cuban Churchill. A few puffs opened up to rich notes of caramel and hickory, and relaxed her—and helped to assimilate her into the men’s club. That club was often impenetrable, and she didn’t count sexy blondes who hung on a man’s arm and pretended to inhale as having infiltrated it. To be in the club, not quite a member, you had to stand alongside them and engage in the same conversation and not give a damn about your shoes, hair or dress—but still be able to look good.

  Manuel sneered at her. He actually sneered. His demeanor had grown decidedly cold as he poured a finger of brandy into a tumbler for himself and leaned against the mahogany bar. Still thinking about the votive crowns, she felt sure.

  As was she. If authentic, they had not been obtained legally.

  “So, Manuel tells me he gave you a few lessons on fighting a bull?” Garin asked. He wore a cream linen suit again today. Hemingway, look out. “If there’s a woman out there who can stand against a bull, it is Annja Creed,” he added over his shoulder to the scowling matador.

  “She was a bit skittish,” Manuel said. “But she has potential. Of course, women should not be allowed to fight professionally.”

  Annja was aware of a few professional female matadors. Most were forced out of the profession because of lack of interest in their fights. Blame it on Spanish machismo and the idea that a woman’s job was in the kitchen and cradling a niño in her arm while she checked the oven.

  “Why is it nothing frightens you, Señorita Creed?” Manuel’s question pulled her from the nightmare image of a woman in an apron standing over a smoking, burned meat loaf. “First you chase a sniper, and next you stand before a bull with no training in the cape whatsoever.”

  “You had said the bull was just a yearling. And I did have you right beside me. I was afraid. You said fear was necessary in the ring.”

  Garin began to shake his head, but Manuel joined them, cigar smoking in the fingers that clutched the brandy glass. “It is. A torero who enters the ring without fear and a cocky attitude will take the horn or fight poorly, it is guaranteed.”

  “Does the bull feel fear?” she asked. Cigar smoke curled around them, wafting the delicious scent above their heads. “Can you see that?”

  “Only the cowardly ones do. A brave bull charges without pause. Fights to the finish with honor.”

  “Exactly how does a bull display honor?”

  Manuel smirked and touched her at the back of her neck. Tap, tap, with the blunt end of one of his fingers. “If I were to prick you here with the banderilla. And here.” Another tap wrapped chills around her spine. “And again. Could you stand and, focused only on the cape, continue to charge?”

  “It would be difficult. Painful. Plus, I’d be bleeding out.”

  “And yet, the bull does so. The bull challenges me to step up my game. To face death alongside it.”

  “You do love death,” Garin commented.

  Manuel grinned. “It is necessary, no?”

  “No,” Garin said. “Well, yes, for your profession it is. But for me, I don’t favor death or even the idea of it.”

  His glance to Annja brought images of Joan’s broken battle sword to mind. He’d been convinced of his immortality before the pieces of the sword had been collected. But now that the sword was whole? Who knew? A man who had experienced such a long life was
n’t willing to concede it to mortality.

  “What of you, Annja?” Manuel narrowed his dark gaze on her, the smoke curling about his head taking the appearance of diabolical coils. “Do you fear death?”

  “Not at all. It is a natural thing we must all eventually succumb to.” She returned Garin’s glance. “But I admit I hope my death isn’t painful.”

  “Ah, but that is the only way to die,” Manuel stated. “No glory without the pain, eh? I should show you the wound on my abdomen I took from a horn last year. They carried me out to the infirmary, stitched me up without anesthesia, and less than half an hour later, I was back in the ring to finish off the bull. Ah!” He gave a grand sweep of his hand.

  Machismo at its finest.

  The cigar smoke was beginning to make her woozy by the time the cook announced dinner, and Annja heard Garin’s audible sigh. She caught his sorry shake of his head, as if to say “don’t bait the maestro,” but ignored it.

  The men walked ahead of her, making it apparent she hadn’t breached the men’s club, after all. Stubbing out the cigar on a silver tray, she followed them into the dining room.

  The elaborate meal consisted of five courses and two wine vintages. She’d learned something about wine, but would never consider herself a connoisseur. By the time dessert was brought out Annja had begun to wonder where both men put it all. Especially the matador, whose costume showed every ounce of excess body fat. He had none.

  “This must be fuel for your next fight,” she pondered as she set aside the tempting vanilla custard and instead reached for the glass of pansy-garnished water.

  “Not at all,” Manuel said, “I fuel up on protein in the morning and have a light lunch before heading off to the fight. It may not appear as though I work that long in the ring, but the nervous energy alone requires a hearty meal.”

  “And all the sweat,” Garin commented. “The suit of lights you wear must be a bitch in the sun.”

  “It is not the most comfortable attire. And the jacket doesn’t allow for ease of movement. But tradition demands the heavy costume. I appreciate the elaborate embroidery on the jacket when it deflects a wayward horn. Now the shoes, they are a bit feminine, I must admit.” The two laughed heartily.

  While the men discussed the merits of bespoke leather shoes, Annja let her eyes roam over the wall behind Manuel. It was plastered with tickets to bullfights and posters advertising them, most of them, she noted from the names listed, fights El Bravo had appeared in. But others were older, dating back decades. Perhaps fights he’d watched when he was younger or even fights his relatives had appeared in.

  When Manuel noticed her interest, he turned to stretch an arm along the wall. “My history.”

  “It’s fascinating.” Folding the cloth napkin on the table, she got up to examine them more closely.

  “What is a novillerado?” she asked, bending to read the details on a ticket.

  “Novice fights,” Manuel explained. “The bulls’ horns are blunted and they are often used many times in the rings, which would never be allowed in an official corrida. Once a bull has been in the ring it’s no good for future fights because it begins to learn defensive tactics or to be fearful. The novillerado offers opportunity for aspiring bullfighters to appear before the public and hone their skills with a more docile animal. They are often some of the most interesting fights you will see.”

  “Are there many injuries?”

  “Not so many as you would suspect.” Manuel joined her, and she felt as though his anger over having found her in his sanctuary had finally subsided. “This was my first.” He pointed out a yellowed poster, which featured four fighters’ names, his in the smallest font and on the bottom of the list.

  “That must have been exciting. Are your parents alive? Do they attend your fights?”

  “My mother is ailing, but she comes out once a month, along with her girlfriends in their fancy shawls and bata de colas, the flamenco dancer’s dress.” To illustrate he performed a quick stomp of his feet, a flamenco dance move. “I always dedicate my kills to her. My father is traveling with my brother right now.

  Renaldo is rising in the ranks as matador. It won’t be long before he surpasses me. He’s already started to pic his own bulls. Soon enough, he’ll have mastered the kill. But for now he’s still leery. Tends to jump too high, for fear of the horns. He’ll come around.”

  Annja ran her gaze down the many Spanish names on the posters, and one in particular jumped out at her. “César Soto?”

  She glanced at Garin, who crossed his arms and frowned at her. What was that about? He was very pouty this evening. Had the butler made him check his gun at the door?

  “Isn’t he the chief inspector of the Cádiz police?”

  “You’ve met him?” Manuel nodded. “The man was once an aspiring torero. About the same time I started. He was no good. Had no leg strength and was always stumbling before the bull could even reach the cape. No bravado.” The last comment was made in a tone of disgust.

  “He’s very keen on his job,” she replied. “And I noticed he has a limp.”

  “Which is why he is not a torero today.”

  “He was the one I spoke to after chasing the woman who attempted to shoot you and…” He didn’t need to know about the murder at the dig site.

  “César Soto is on the case? Well, then, I’m sure the matter has already been solved.”

  The comment was meant as a means to dismiss the conversation. Annja could feel the tension stiffen Manuel’s lanky frame beside her. He didn’t like talking about César Soto. But apparently he knew him well enough to judge his former fighting skills.

  They looked about the same age, late twenties or early thirties. Was it possible they held an animosity toward each other? Perhaps César, the failed matador, couldn’t care less who had taken a shot at his former rival? Or had reason to see someone did?

  “The sun is setting,” Garin interrupted. “Let’s take our brandy out on the veranda.”

  And without another glance from either of them, the men wandered out, leaving Annja searching for Soto’s name on the other posters. She didn’t find it. The two were tied together in a manner she couldn’t quite piece together. But she would.

  12

  The computer screen flashed through three different profiles, each an employee of the Cádiz PNP. César Soto paused on the one he deemed most likely to be the double-crossing thief who was looting artifacts from the Puerto Real site. Had the suspect also murdered the guitarist?

  Soto wasn’t betting the farm on that one. He had his suspicions. Hell, he had a very clear idea of the culprit. And that was without taking fingerprints from the scene or standing in watch while forensics had done their work.

  He wanted to nab the dirty cop. He oversaw this division and wouldn’t tolerate such a blatant flick of the finger at his command.

  It was a good thing he’d sent Annja Creed out of the city. He didn’t need her interference or a leak to the media regarding the possibility of a dirty cop. She’d gotten too close to the truth, and he had the distinct impression she was too smart to let things go.

  He picked up the sketch of the sniper’s face Creed had made adjustments to after the sketch artist had finished.

  “How are you involved?” he asked. “Don’t make me come after you, Ava.”

  * * *

  ANNJA TOOK A CAB back toward the old city, but got let off a few blocks from the Hotel Blanca. The streets were alive with tourists and she wasn’t in the mood to return to her room. At the aroma of spiced, savory meat and the sweetness of plantains, her mouth watered. Despite the five-course meal she’d packed away earlier.

  It had been a while since she’d smoked Cuban with Bart McGilley back in Brooklyn. Bart worked for the NYPD and occasionally served as her contact, providing information only he could access in the police database. But first and foremost, he was a friend. She decided she’d call him the moment she returned to the States and set up a boxing date at Eddie’s
gym. The strains of a flamenco guitar lured her through an inconspicuous black door and into the Gato Negra’s cool darkness, and that was without a secret password. Annja found a table at the back of the curved room in close confines with the tightly placed, small circular tables that seated one or two patrons nursing shots of wine or whiskey. The walls looked carved from stone, but it was just an effect on molded plaster, and the graffiti along the bottom hid a few chips out of it.

  Alone beneath a single spotlight on the dark, narrow stage, the dancer began slowly, marking the compas with her footsteps, confident and stolid. She stretched up an arm, twisting her wrist in a graceful, compelling movement that demanded everyone watch as she interpreted the music.

  Mixed with influences from Spain and the Moors, flamenco music had begun with the Romani Gypsies who expressed their fears, their heartaches and hardships through music. Flamenco had originally been focused on the singer and the dance. The guitarist was a later addition and was generally viewed by aficionados only as accompaniment. But now guitar soloists had made quite a name for themselves worldwide, though often the music was considerably altered beyond the influence of flamenco puro.

  The dancer was familiar because Annja had made a few touch-ups to her sketch earlier that day. Funny how her expression possessed more murderous intent while dancing than it had when she’d faced Annja down in the alleyway in a battle of strength. Fiercely intent in her movements, Ava Vital pushed out anger through her precise steps, weaving raw emotion into the fast rhythm of the dance.

  The audience clapped palmas and an old man seated at the table next to Annja stomped his feet, performing a few fancy footwork moves himself. Annja almost wished she had some Spanish heritage herself because the mood and energy proved darkly alluring.

 

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