Charlie Martz and Other Stories: The Unpublished Stories

by Elmore Leonard

  “It makes a difference, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean?”

  “I mean you grow up faster when you’re on your own. Sometimes too fast.”

  “Oh.” Megan watched his gaze go to the bull enclosure and she asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that a Jersey isn’t a Miura or a La Punta or any name of bull bred for the arena, and that makes a difference too.”

  “You could cape him once or twice,” the girl said, “and if he doesn’t respond, call it off.”

  “Just like that.”

  Abruptly she asked, “Why did you quit bullfighting?”

  “I told you,” he said, still not looking at her.

  “You said you got tired of it. Which isn’t true.”

  “No, but it took only a few words to tell.” He turned to her as he spoke. “The truth takes more words. You want to count them and see?”

  She stared at him, not answering, and he said, “At Juárez on January seventh, a bull named Isidro who weighed twelve hundred pounds and favored his right horn and who refused to charge unless it was on his ground put three inches of this same right horn into my hip, which in turn put me into a hospital for seven weeks.”

  He repudiated her look of sudden sympathy and understanding by going on relentlessly. “Listen, my hip healed in seven weeks, but something else didn’t heal, the fear I had of the bull that afternoon. You understand that? In one afternoon my nerve vanished. In one afternoon I went from matador to migrant worker, from killer of bulls to picker of tomatoes. Because I was afraid, not because I got gored. You tell that to this Sherm and see what he says.”

  “Perhaps you’d better tell him.”

  “No, I’m through talking.”

  “Then you’re going to do it?”

  “I don’t see that I have a choice,” Eladio said.

  Less than a quarter of an hour later he was standing in the bull ring of the farm near Blisston, Michigan. In his right hand he held a square of red blanket that had been cut to the approximate size of a muleta. The blanket reached to the ground in folds, though it was spread open by means of a short stick rolled into the end of the blanket that he held.

  “Now we’ll see how good you are,” Sherman David said. He stood at the fence with a highball in his hand, his arms resting on the iron rail, which passed him belt high. His head was pressed lightly against the top rail.

  A man in his mid-fifties, wearing a Black Watch–plaid sport coat and also holding a highball, stood next to David. His other guests, a man and two women, were farther along the fence. All were holding drinks. Megan stood behind them, but she moved to the fence as David called across the enclosure, “Send him out!”

  The door of the Quonset rose with the grinding sound of metal rollers and in its place was a dim, empty square. But only for a moment. The bull came out cautiously, dull brown at first, then rust-colored as it moved into the bright sunlight. Seeing Eladio, the bull stopped. Its head rose, then lowered slowly and the animal moved forward again.

  Eladio stood with his feet slightly apart, the blanket muleta limp in his right hand. Then, abruptly, he switched the blanket to his left hand. The instant he did so the bull’s head jerked, following the movement.

  Now you see it, Eladio thought in Spanish, speaking to the bull. This thing in my hand. See if you can take it. See if you can tear it away with your black-tipped devil’s horns.

  Sherman David yelled, “Come on, get started!”

  Megan glanced at him irritably and as she looked back at Eladio, the bull charged. Its horns dipped low as it rushed the limp square of blanket, then hooked up as the blanket was withdrawn.

  The bull reared, following the blanket high, its forelegs extended stiffly, and as it came down, twisting, throwing its head, Eladio pivoted on one foot and moved back a few yards before planting his feet again. He stood with his head cocked, his left hand extended and holding the blanket.

  Megan drew in her breath as the bull charged again, as it rushed with its head lowered at Eladio. He did not move his feet—only his head, following the charge of the bull, and his arm as it drew the blanket up and away in a pase natural. The abrupt maneuver again fixed the bull in the air with its forelegs extended and off the ground.

  Suddenly the bull turned. Its head went down, and as it began its third charge, Eladio pivoted, passing the blanket across his body to the right, and his back was to the rage-inflamed animal as it grazed past him, hooking at the rising blanket. He had taken the bull with a pase de pecho and now, having turned, he stood facing the people lined along the fence. He glanced at the bull circling to the left near the far corner, then looked up hearing David.

  “Do something fancy. You handle that thing like it was a blanket.” Both David and the man next to him laughed. Eladio saw them raise their glasses, then he heard the bull and he looked in that direction.

  The bull came straight on with its head down and horns pointing. Eladio extended the blanket, made his knees and body stiff and now looked again at Sherman David. He held David’s gaze, not moving his eyes, and only when the pounding sound was on top of him did he sweep back the blanket muleta and the bull brushed him, half turning him as it rushed past.

  He heard David say to the man next to him, “Maybe the cape’s too small. He can’t seem to do much with it.”

  Eladio stared at him before unrolling the stick from the blanket and letting it fall. He held the blanket in his left hand, his right side exposed to the bull, but now the blanket, unopened, hung in folds close in front of him, and again his eyes went to Sherman David.

  He stood this way, his body arched stiffly and his feet almost together as the pounding sound of the enraged beast returned and grew louder and was near him and was with him. He was still seeing Sherman David, now across the bull’s back, now with the smell and heat of it, then half stumbling against the rushing flank as the blanket was torn from his hand.

  The bull circled toward the Quonset, hooking at the blanket caught on its right horn. But Eladio did not look at the bull again. He walked to the fence, went through the rails, and came up next to Sherman David.

  “Now my money,” Eladio said.

  “For that?” David sipped his highball. “You got to put on a show to get paid.”

  Eladio stared at him as he raised the highball again, saw his eyes over the rim of the glass, and then his face, half smiling, as the glass came down.

  “I told you to do something fancy. Hell, all you did was hold it at your side.” Again David almost smiled. “I can see why you didn’t last. No showmanship.” He glanced at the man in the sport coat. “Right, Mr. Thornhill?”

  Mr. Thornhill did smile. “Well, I don’t know anything about the sport, but what he did looked rather basic.”

  “Basic!” Megan came from behind David. “Sherm, those were naturals. He did them without looking at the bull. Don’t you realize that?”

  David winked at Mr. Thornhill. “Megan’s a reader.”

  “Sherm, you’ve never in your life seen a man that close to death. He actually played with it!”

  “Sure, honey.” David grinned at her. He turned, extended his arms to herd his guests toward the station wagon.

  Megan’s eyes went to Eladio. He was looking past her, his chest rising and falling with the deepness of his breathing. “You had that bull,” she said. “Do you realize that? You had that bull from the moment it came out.”

  “I don’t know.” Eladio lowered his gaze tiredly. “It was the moment.”

  “Of course it was the moment. Every time you walk into an arena it will be the moment. You don’t look into the future!” She said then, more calmly, “There was only one thing wrong. You fought the wrong bull.”

  His eyes moved to hers, but he said nothing.

  “Do you know what I mean? . . . Answer me!”

  “I’m not sure of anything.”

  From the car David called, “You coming?”

  Megan
ignored him. “That one. That’s the one you have to face. You do well with a bull—you’re sure of that now. But you’re mixed up with these Luis Fortunas and Sherman Davids. They make you feel that everything’s against you. Too much for one man to fight. They make you lose confidence in yourself, and because of it you think you have a fear of the bulls.

  “Fortuna cheated you and gave you unpredictable bulls. But one almost killed you because you felt defeated, because you were thinking of Fortuna instead of the bull. Sherm gave you a bull: but you took this one.”

  Eladio looked at her intently. “Why? Why this one?”

  “Because I was watching. It’s true, isn’t it? I was for you and you could feel it. Through the fence and across the fence you could feel it.”

  “But you’re engaged to him. You’re not on my side—”

  “It’s not a question of sides. If you had felt alone in that pen your lack of confidence might have killed you. That’s the point.”

  “Megan!” David called from the car.

  Eladio said, “How do you know all this?”

  “What difference does it make. It’s true. You’re a man,” she said earnestly. “More man than he’ll ever be. But you have to convince yourself of it.”

  “Just like that.”

  She nodded emphatically. “Yes, just like that. And since there’s only one way to do it, there’s no problem, is there?”

  He watched her walk to the station wagon and get in. He watched the car U-turn and drive off through the trees and already it was in his mind what to do.

  But don’t think about it, he thought. If you think about it it will become a problem and you’ll make excuses for yourself. Which is what you’ve been doing since Juárez.

  Take Sherman David; take him just as he had taken the bull. Fight him? Perhaps. If it came to that. But at least stand up to him. That was what the girl meant. Whatever followed would be something else. Another matter.

  And then what?

  Then go back to Juárez and buy Luis Fortuna a drink and tell him you feel sorry for him. He smiled openly and almost laughed out loud.

  IN THE CENTER OF the patio, a round table was set with silverware, glasses, and lighted candles. Sherman David and the sport-coated Mr. Thornhill stood here. To the right of the candlelighted table were Megan, standing, and the other guests, two of them seated near the right-angled brick wall of the patio.

  This scene was before Eladio as he approached the house. More than an hour had passed and the sun had set beyond the far trees, though there was still light in the sky. Eladio, wearing a shirt with a tie and carrying his coat and suitcase, was almost to the rock garden that rimmed the patio before Sherman David saw him.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “My money,” said Eladio.

  “Get out of here.”

  “I charge one hundred dollars for exhibitions.”

  “That’s fine. Now get off my property.”

  “Not before you pay me,” Eladio said. He put his suitcase down, folded his coat over it, and stepped to the flagstone patio. He started around the table, watching Sherman David through the soft candlelight.

  David half-turned to the serving table. He put his glass down, reached toward the tray holding the ham, and when he turned back to Eladio a carving knife was in his right hand.

  David’s wrist moved and the knife blade made small circles in the air. “All right, you want your money. Let’s see you get it.”

  Mr. Thornhill, standing a few feet from David, put his glass down carefully. “Sherm, I don’t think you’re in any condition to be playing with a carving knife.”

  David glanced at him. “Just stay out of it.” He saw Thornhill’s face tighten and he looked at Eladio again. “This guy’s my business. He’s like all the rest of them. They come up here thinking they’re doing you a big favor. They mess up your place, let their kids run wild, and you’re supposed to pay for it.” He stared at Eladio. “Is that the way you guys figure it?”

  Eladio said nothing.

  “I charge one hundred dollars for exhibitions,” David said, imitating Eladio’s slight accent. “Boy, that kills me. Real big talker till you call his bluff. Then he shuts up. Come on, I’m talking your language now.”

  His hand rose and again the blade flashed in small circles. “You guys are famous for the knife routine. Let’s see you do something about it. Come on, put up or shut up.”

  Eladio stood motionless, feeling his empty hands and the awkwardness of the silence. He said nothing because his mind told him nothing to say. He saw Megan pick up two forks, holding one in each hand.

  “A man who has placed banderillas in a bull,” she said mildly, “could hardly be bothered by a carving knife.” She looked from Eladio to David. “Sherm, the way it’s done—you wait for the bull with just the barbed sticks in your hand. You’ve no cape to distract the bull; and when it charges, you go up over the horns and place the sticks in its back.”

  David stared at her. He was about to speak, but his gaze shifted as he saw Eladio pick up two forks from the table and start toward him, raising them, one in each hand, as he came.

  “Or you can go after the bull and not wait for it to charge,” Eladio said. He raised the forks higher as David lowered his shoulders and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet.

  “Come on,” David said. “I’ll play it your way.”

  “Sherm!” It was Thornhill’s voice. “You drunken idiot! Put that knife down!”

  Eladio’s eyes went to Thornhill. He saw his face pale and drawn with anger, but at the same moment, knowing suddenly that he was off guard, sensing David’s lunge even before it came, he pivoted instinctively, sucking in his stomach, and brought the forks down.

  David slammed against the table, sprawled over it with his outstretched arms smashing glasses, sending the candlesticks off the table, and in the sudden dimness he felt the forks press against his shoulder blades.

  “You place them about here,” Eladio said. “It weakens the neck muscles, so the bull will come for the final act with his head down.” He tightened the forks against David’s back. “Do you want a final act, Mr. David?”

  “I think Mr. David’s had enough,” Megan said. “Pay him, Sherm, and consider yourself lucky.”

  “No,” Eladio said. “Now that I think about it, it would be improper to ask the bull to pay. He has given enough of himself already.”

  David pushed himself up from the table, his eyes on Megan. “You talked yourself out of a good deal. I hope you know it.”

  “That’s exactly what it would be,” the girl said. “Not a marriage, a deal. After seeing you in action, Sherm, I can’t help but be honest with myself. And if I were to explain it or try to say it any other way, I’m afraid it would sound corny.”

  “Or it would be over his head,” Mr. Thornhill said. “Megan, we’ll give you a lift to Detroit whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.” She looked at Eladio. “You’re leaving now, aren’t you?”

  “I have a ride, thanks.” He said then, “Perhaps you’ll be coming to Mexico again sometime. Do you think?”

  Megan smiled. “To the plaza de toros?”

  Eladio nodded. “I’ll dedicate a bull to you. I feel I owe you one.”

  She watched him pick up his coat and suitcase. As he walked off into the darkness, she was half sure she would see him again. She was completely sure she would hear of him again.

  Rebel on the Run

  1960

  THERE WERE UNION SUPPLY wagons passing the house, part of General Sooy Smith’s forces, moving through the mist and the chill and the February mud, moving back through Okolona.

  Olin Worrel watched them from the front porch. He had knocked on the door and now stood gazing out at the road, at the slowly moving line of gray canvas. They’ve got all the time in the world, he was thinking. Seven thousand Yankees. They can back off for a while and let Bedford Forrest worry himself sick. Then come back any time they want.


  A company of cavalry came up on the wagons, thinning single file to pass along the tree-lined shoulder of the road. Olin Worrel recognized them by the lieutenant in the lead—part of McCrilli’s Brigade—and he waved to them, dropping his arm abruptly and turning away as the last rider filed past the house.

  He was about to knock on the door again, but he saw the knob turn. He pulled off his hat and with a quick, self-conscious gesture, smoothed his mustache, brushing it out from the corners of his mouth with thumb and second finger, then dropped his hand as the door opened and said quietly, “Virginia, I wondered if there was anything I could do.”

  “I don’t believe so, Olin. Thank you.”

  She was dressed in black, a young woman who looked at Worrel calmly and without curiosity. Her features, small and well defined, were accentuated by the pale, drawn appearance of her skin. Her hair, dark and parted in the middle, was combed back into a tight, flat-shaped knot.

  Worrel looked beyond her into the hall. “Is there someone with you?”

  “The ladies from Okolona were here.”

  “I thought I heard somebody.”

  “They were here this morning.”

  Worrel stood tall to look past her, thrusting out his chin and stretching his neck. He’s older than thirty-eight, the girl thought absently, her eyes on the face that was close to hers and looking beyond her. Worrel’s head came down and she lowered her eyes.

  “You should have somebody with you,” Worrel said. “I mean all the time, not just for a visit.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Virginia, I wish there was something I could say.”

  She was thinking: Don’t try to say anything. Just leave. But she felt the silence lengthening and she said, “Finding words of sympathy is never easy. You don’t have to say anything, Olin; I know how you feel. Everyone has been very kind.”

  “You still ought to have somebody.”

  “Olin, if you don’t mind.” Her hand moved up the edge of the door. “I’d like to rest now. I’ve been up since five o’clock.”

  Worrel moved closer, taking her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not making it any easier, am I?”