TORO! TORO! TORO!, page 7




Wherever it had been posted—on the sides of buildings, against barroom walls, in multiples over the curving exteriors of outdoor public urinals—crowds gathered to stare. Even the illiterate were attracted by the picture: a waiting matador and his magenta-and-yellow cape mere dabs of color dwarfed by the looming gray monster. Some of the onlookers gaped in silence. Others, especially those gathered in taverns and bodegas, waved their arms and raised their voices.
By noon, most of the reserved seats in the shade were sold out and the lines in front of the general-admission ticket windows stretched for blocks. It was the biggest thing to hit the city since the Inquisition provided free public entertainment in the Plaza Mayor.
Across the street from the rear of the woman’s prison the novillero, el Chicote, leaned against a lamppost, keeping his weight off his bad leg. He stared compassionately at the somber brick walls and barred windows. It was less than a week since he too had been a prisoner and the distinction between inside and outside was one he was able to appreciate.
Shortly after midday, a black, bolt-studded iron door swung open and a dark-haired girl wearing a pleated red skirt stepped blinking into the sunlight. She was handed a small parcel by a guard standing inside and the solid door swung closed. Chicote limped in pursuit, catching the girl before she reached the corner. “They always bring you in through the front door and let you out at the back,” he said. “I know, I’ve been inside myself.”
The girl regarded him coldly. “Are you proud of that?” she asked. “It requires no great talent to go to jail.”
The novillero bowed and extended his hand. “My name is Carlos Carretera. I want to thank you for saving my life.” The girl ignored his outstretched hand. Her gaze was as expressionless as a traffic light. “In the ring, I’m called ‘el Chicote’,” Carlos continued. “That big bull, Camión, nearly finished me on Sunday. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be a dead man today.”
“Your life means nothing to me. What I did was for myself only. Now, if you will excuse me, señor—”
“Wait! You don’t understand. No one else had the courage to make the quite with that bull. I don’t care what your motives were, you saved my life and I’m grateful. I want you to accept my sincere gratitude.”
“All right, I accept it. If that satisfies you, may I go?”
“First, tell me your name. All I know is that they call you ‘la Fabalita.’”
“Fabalita is good enough.”
“Fine, bueno, let it be Fabalita then. Listen, I know the slop you’re fed in the carcel; why don’t you let me take you to a good restaurant for a proper meal?”
La Fabalita scrutinized his threadbare suit. “And how will you settle your account—by having me scrub the floor?”
“No, I have money. My manager gave me a quarter of a lottery ticket that was a winner. Look.” Carlos pulled a handful of crumpled pesetas from his pocket. “See, there’s enough here for a suckling pig.”
“Cochinillo,” the girl whispered fondly.
“Why not? I have money, you saved my life; isn’t that reason enough for a feast?”
The white mouse sat up on his hindquarters in the aromatic nest of cedar shavings and drank a single drop of water from the inverted bottle attached to the side of the cage. Whiskers trembling, the albino rejoined one of his innumerable cousins for a last run on the wheel as Doña Carlota Madrigal reached in and seized him by the tail with a gloved hand.
Señora Madrigal carried the dangling rodent at arm’s length. She wore her gardening gloves not for protection—the docile, quivering creatures never struggled or bit—but because she couldn’t stand to touch the naked tails. Mice were disgusting animals; no matter if their white fur was as sterile as the laboratories for which they were bred, the señora suspected them of harboring fleas and mites.
Along the far wall of the room where Carlota Madrigal raised her desert plants and cacti a series of glass cases housed her son’s collection of lizards and snakes native to arid regions. The largest of these contained a half-dozen sand-colored sidewinder rattlesnakes. The señora marched straight up to this case, opened the screened cover and dropped in the mouse.
Bending down, she stared through the glass at the miniature desert environment inside. The sidewinders undulated through the sand, weaving their sinuous track between the night-blooming cereus. The blunt horns standing over their hooded yellow eyes gave these snakes a diabolical look. The eyes of the mouse were pink pinheads, innocent of everything, including intelligence, and the tiny warm-blooded mammal sat very still as the cold presence of the serpent slid past.
“Read any good news lately, Pepe?” grunted Andrew McHaggis, dusting a spot on the park bench next to the empresario. The elderly Scotsman opened a small paper bag full of breadcrumbs and soon had a flock of pigeons bobbing at his feet.
Don Pepe continued to turn pages, scanning headlines and muttering to himself. “Not a word… not a single word… nothing, nada… not even in the back pages.” He crumpled the newspaper in his lap. “Mac, I’ve been over the morning edition three times and there’s nothing. Yesterday they had nearly a page, photographs and everything; today, zero.”
“Relax, Pepe, what you don’t see can’t hurt you.”
“I suppose you’re trying to tell me that you had no luck either.”
“Well, I haven’t found the bull, but I managed to uncover one or two interesting things.” McHaggis scattered a final handful of crumbs over the heads of the murmuring birds. “First I checked with my sources at police headquarters, and as far as anyone there knows, the animal is still alive. They delivered it to the contractor at the stockyards, but today’s cattle invoice showed no record of its being slaughtered. I checked the corrals but there were only steers, no fighting bulls.”
“But that’s impossible, a bull can’t just disappear from the stockyards.”
McHaggis dusted the crumbs from his hands and lit his briar pipe. “The contractor wouldn’t tell me anything, but I loosened the tongue of one of the yardmen with a few shots of brandy and he said that a woman driving a white convertible and pulling a horse trailer came the night before and that he and two others loaded the bull onto the trailer and she took it away. Normally I wouldn’t have believed him, a fighting bull in a horse trailer sounds absurd. But it matches something I learned from the cops; the papers claimed Machismo subdued a wild bull, but according to all I’ve heard, the animal was as gentle as a newborn babe. What did you dope it with, Pepe?”
“Never mind that now.” Don Pepe huffed to his feet. “What about Paco Machismo? Perhaps he bought the bull?”
“I thought of that, too, but if he did, he’s not keeping it at his finca. I sent someone out to check this morning.”
“You do good work, Mac. Come, let me buy you a drink. When you find that bull it’ll be worth a whole bottle.”
Mercy Malone used the tack-room entrance when visiting the stables of the exclusive Francisco Cortina Riding Academy; that way she avoided the jodhpur set gathered for a stirrup cup in the foyer. All the grooms and trainers were in love with her. They knew she was Paco Machismo’s girl and competed with each other to see who could do her the most favors. El Camión’s stall was kept well scrubbed and clean straw always covered the floor.
Mercy waved to the boys hosing a lathered mount down after a ride. The stable boys grinned awkwardly and blew her kisses. A pity there wasn’t a cute one in the lot. Considering her mood today, Mercy would gladly have screwed anyone in the barn, if only to get even with Paco for being such a prick about letting her keep the bull out at his finca. “Isn’t it enough that I keep you around?” the man had said. “Must I house your livestock as well?” The arrogant bastard!
El Camión stood placidly in his stall. Mercy leaned against the fragrant alfalfa-filled manger and admired his massive sleekness. The fighting bull’s weight was all forward; his shoulders bunched with muscle. A humped, brawny crest rose behind his neck and tapered down to the middle of his back. His hindquarters were as graceful and delicate as a pony’s.
Mercy rubbed her hands against his pelt, kneading the fluid muscles with her slender fingers. “The Japs massage their beef, I’ve read,” she said to the bull. “How do you like this treatment? You’ve got your own private geisha girl now.”
El Camión stared blankly ahead, his head lowered as Mercy rubbed and massaged him from one end to the other. The Irish girl sang as she labored over the bull’s flanks. The big animal’s hide was smooth and warm; the tuft of hair at the end of his tail as fine as any silk on earth. And when Mercy saw the heavy, hanging scrotum she sucked in her breath. She cupped the weighty balls in both her hands, marveling at their size and softness. Mercy longed to see him erect but the mighty member remained sheathed in spite of the girl’s ardent stroking. “Ah me,” she sighed. “Of all the bulls in the world, I had to find a queer.”
“I want to thank you gentlemen for granting me this interview.” Lucky Sam Wo spoke impeccable Oxford English as he paced the Moroccan rug in the hotel suite of Toro Productions. “I appreciate how busy you must be.”
“Time is money,” Abe Wasserman said, lighting a ten-dollar Havana cigar.
“Then, by all means, let us proceed without further delay. Have you a television?”
“Inna corner.” Marty Farb pointed with his thumb like a hitchiker.
“I have a short presentation.” Lucky Sam carried his briefcase-sized video tape-recorder over and plugged it into the TV set. “It runs under ten minutes. I knew the moment I saw your poster that you gentlemen were innovators, men with imagination. Well, I’ll let the tape speak for itself.” Lucky Sam placed a cassette in the machine and adjusted the picture and sound. On the screen, slightly out of focus, his mechanical bull pawed the workshop floor.
“What’s a bull doing in a warehouse?” Marty Farb demanded.
“Shhh! Listen,” Abe Wasserman said. “You might learn something.”
The image on the screen showed an early trial run before the taxidermist’s upholstery job. All of the robot’s cogs and pistons were visible as it charged across an open field. Lucky Sam’s narration stressed his theory of the deathless bullfight and its potential with American audiences. In a demonstration of strength, the mechanical animal was shown overturning a Volkswagen microbus. The brief tape ended with a shot of the robot wandering undetected through a browsing herd of three-year-old fighting bulls.
“Quite a contraption you got there,” Abe Wasserman said as the screen went blank.
“It can be operated either by remote control or on automatic,” the Chinese inventor explained. “This makes transportation no problem. You drive it like a car.”
“Very impressive,” Marty Farb grunted. “Only one question: What’s all this got to do with us?”
“Ah, yes, of course, I was hoping we could make a deal. I propose to offer the use of my creation for your program, free of charge, as a preliminary spectacle before the main event.”
“What’s in this deal for you, professor, if you don’t want any money?” Abe Wasserman asked.
“I am interested in the publicity. Most bullfight promoters are too tradition-bound to take a chance. You would give me the opportunity to demonstrate my machine to the public; in return, I would give you a free… curtain raiser, I believe it’s called.”
“I tell you what, prof,” Abe said. “I don’t usually do business on the spur of the moment like this, but I’ll take you up on your offer on one condition: you got to supply your own matador. I know all about those traditions you mentioned. Finding a bullfighter to take on our rhino was like pulling teeth. You come up with a toreador willing to fight a robot and I’ll even pay for the extra posters; now how’s that for a deal?”
Paco Machismo disliked the zoo. It was hot and noisy. Phalanxes of uniformed schoolchildren trooped everywhere, herded by sharp-voiced nuns. The smells, unlike the sweetness of the barnyard, were an acrid blend of musk and urine. The sight of so many caged animals made him unhappy.
Paco stood for a while outside the tiger’s cage, anonymous behind his dark glasses, a helium-filled balloon thrust upon him by a balloon-selling extortionist clutched in one hand. The big cat was fat and healthy. His coat gleamed in the sunlight. He paced relentlessly back and forth the length of the narrow cell, razor claws useless within his padded feet. The sympathy Paco Machismo felt for the tiger was modified by disgust. “Better to starve in freedom than grow fat in a cage,” he thought, continuing on through the crowd. This was his first trip to the zoo and he was lost. Fear of recognition prevented him from asking directions, but at last, over by the elefantes, he found what he was looking for.
The rhinoceros compound was a small island of packed sand enclosed by a dry moat. Two of the surly plated beasts stood swaying from foot to foot beside a pile of hay. Numbers of small birds hopped along their backs, picking ticks from the thick, cracked skin. One even ventured within a rhino’s ear and the huge, shuffling creature merely blinked at the intrusion. Paco Machismo leaned against a surrounding iron fence and tossed a bagful of peanuts into the enclosure. As the uneven-toed mammals lumbered forward to investigate, el número uno focused his Polaroid camera, intent on their every move.
All that remained of the roast suckling pig was his apple-clenching grin. The rest of the animal, from snout to curling tail, was reduced to a disorganized pile of bones. Every morsel of pig, including the singed tips of his pointed ears, had been devoured. Esmeralda sucked her greasy fingers and smiled contentedly. “Sabroso,” she sighed.
Carlos Carretera picked his teeth and sipped a glass of Valdepeñas. “Not bad; I am pleased that you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was delicious.”
“Bueno.” El Chicote clapped his hands for the waiter and ordered coffee. Bending like a conspirator over the pig bones he whispered, “Listen, I have a proposition to make you.”
Esmeralda’s smile changed ever so slightly from a string of pearls to a strand of barbed wire. “Naturally,” she said, “first the dinner, then the proposition; that’s the usual procedure, is it not?”
“No, no, you misunderstand me,” el Chicote stammered. “I mean no disrespect, Fabalita. My proposition concerns your passion for the corrida. You must truly love the art of bullfighting to take the risks you did last Sunday.”
“I could be the greatest matador in the world if only I had the chance!”
“That’s it; I want to give you that chance. How would you like to have the experience of working with a bull in an actual corrida?”
“Dígame, what must I do?”
“Listen. I have a wound in my leg that runs from my crotch almost to my knee. I can barely walk. Yet my manager has me booked for a fight this very Sunday. I am unable to hobble through a paseo, so how can I hope to handle a bull? But, if I break the contract my career is finished.”
Esmeralda stirred her coffee. “What has all this to do with me?” she asked. “I’m not your manager.”
“No, but you are almost my size; I’m quite short, I admit it. My suit of lights would fit you with no problem. With your hair tied up no one could tell the difference.”
“Are you suggesting that I take your place in the arena?”
“Exactamente, Fabalita.” Carlos took her hands in his like a suitor. “Will you do it? It goes without saying that my share of the purse will be yours.”
Esmeralda’s smile eased, costume jewelry once again. “It is only fair,” she said, “but even if there was no money I would still say yes.”
“Bless you, bless you,” Carlos mumbled, kissing the girl’s hands. “You have saved my life.”
“I will do your reputation no great harm either,” Esmeralda said.
Not many blocks from where Carlos and Esmeralda sat with candlelight shining on their greasy faces, Lucky Sam Wo and Don Pepe joined forces over several bottles of Rana de Arbol beer at the empresario’s favorite nameless bar. Lucky Sam was buying. He clapped his old friend on the back. “Cheer up, Pepe,” he said. “McHaggis knows his job. I trust his information. If the cops haven’t got the bull we have nothing to fear. As long as the animal is here in the city and I keep the batteries charged in the radio transmitter there will be no trouble; el toro will remain gentle as a milk cow. And if the woman who bought him has taken him away to the country, out of transmission range, why, he will act as bulls act everywhere and what could be more normal than that? No one will suspect a thing. Believe me, amigo, we’re in the clear.”
“If you say so, Sammy, I won’t argue with you.” Don Pepe belched and rubbed his stomach. Beer didn’t agree with him. “But still, I’ll keep the boys on the lookout. If something turns up, I want to be the first to hear about it.”
“Always keep control of the situation, Pepe, that way you make no mistakes.”
“I’m in your debt, Sam.”
“Yes, in point of fact you are,” the Chinaman said. “I did you a big favor, building all that gear and planting the stimuceiver in the bull’s brain. There was a certain amount of risk involved, too, as well as expenses. If things didn’t work out, it wasn’t my fault. But what are friends for, eh, Pepe? And if I helped you maybe you can help me now.”
“Anything, Sam, just name it.”
Lucky Sam inhaled a pinch of Otterburn snuff. “I made a deal today to run my mechanical bull in the Plaza de Toros. There’s no money involved, but I couldn’t buy the publicity at any price. All I need now is the right torero.”
“Ah, that will be muy difícil. You know how it is with matadors—too much pride. They will turn up their noses at your machine and call it a tin can, a windup toy.”
“That is why I come to you, Pepe. What about your boy Chicote?”
“You want Carlos? After seeing him in the ring?”
“I know he’s no good,” Sam Wo said. “That’s not important. I can program the bull to make him look good. What I care about is getting my invention before the public. When people see the robot in action and are unable to tell it from the real thing they will accept it, just as they now accept padded horses. And when the ring managers discover that they can buy one of my machines and use it over and over, Sunday after Sunday, for years on end, it won’t take them long to figure out how much money they will save. But I need your bullfight expertise and, to be honest, your connections. I’ll make you my partner, Pepe; we can retire to the Canaries and lie on the beach for the rest of our days.”
By noon, most of the reserved seats in the shade were sold out and the lines in front of the general-admission ticket windows stretched for blocks. It was the biggest thing to hit the city since the Inquisition provided free public entertainment in the Plaza Mayor.
Across the street from the rear of the woman’s prison the novillero, el Chicote, leaned against a lamppost, keeping his weight off his bad leg. He stared compassionately at the somber brick walls and barred windows. It was less than a week since he too had been a prisoner and the distinction between inside and outside was one he was able to appreciate.
Shortly after midday, a black, bolt-studded iron door swung open and a dark-haired girl wearing a pleated red skirt stepped blinking into the sunlight. She was handed a small parcel by a guard standing inside and the solid door swung closed. Chicote limped in pursuit, catching the girl before she reached the corner. “They always bring you in through the front door and let you out at the back,” he said. “I know, I’ve been inside myself.”
The girl regarded him coldly. “Are you proud of that?” she asked. “It requires no great talent to go to jail.”
The novillero bowed and extended his hand. “My name is Carlos Carretera. I want to thank you for saving my life.” The girl ignored his outstretched hand. Her gaze was as expressionless as a traffic light. “In the ring, I’m called ‘el Chicote’,” Carlos continued. “That big bull, Camión, nearly finished me on Sunday. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be a dead man today.”
“Your life means nothing to me. What I did was for myself only. Now, if you will excuse me, señor—”
“Wait! You don’t understand. No one else had the courage to make the quite with that bull. I don’t care what your motives were, you saved my life and I’m grateful. I want you to accept my sincere gratitude.”
“All right, I accept it. If that satisfies you, may I go?”
“First, tell me your name. All I know is that they call you ‘la Fabalita.’”
“Fabalita is good enough.”
“Fine, bueno, let it be Fabalita then. Listen, I know the slop you’re fed in the carcel; why don’t you let me take you to a good restaurant for a proper meal?”
La Fabalita scrutinized his threadbare suit. “And how will you settle your account—by having me scrub the floor?”
“No, I have money. My manager gave me a quarter of a lottery ticket that was a winner. Look.” Carlos pulled a handful of crumpled pesetas from his pocket. “See, there’s enough here for a suckling pig.”
“Cochinillo,” the girl whispered fondly.
“Why not? I have money, you saved my life; isn’t that reason enough for a feast?”
The white mouse sat up on his hindquarters in the aromatic nest of cedar shavings and drank a single drop of water from the inverted bottle attached to the side of the cage. Whiskers trembling, the albino rejoined one of his innumerable cousins for a last run on the wheel as Doña Carlota Madrigal reached in and seized him by the tail with a gloved hand.
Señora Madrigal carried the dangling rodent at arm’s length. She wore her gardening gloves not for protection—the docile, quivering creatures never struggled or bit—but because she couldn’t stand to touch the naked tails. Mice were disgusting animals; no matter if their white fur was as sterile as the laboratories for which they were bred, the señora suspected them of harboring fleas and mites.
Along the far wall of the room where Carlota Madrigal raised her desert plants and cacti a series of glass cases housed her son’s collection of lizards and snakes native to arid regions. The largest of these contained a half-dozen sand-colored sidewinder rattlesnakes. The señora marched straight up to this case, opened the screened cover and dropped in the mouse.
Bending down, she stared through the glass at the miniature desert environment inside. The sidewinders undulated through the sand, weaving their sinuous track between the night-blooming cereus. The blunt horns standing over their hooded yellow eyes gave these snakes a diabolical look. The eyes of the mouse were pink pinheads, innocent of everything, including intelligence, and the tiny warm-blooded mammal sat very still as the cold presence of the serpent slid past.
“Read any good news lately, Pepe?” grunted Andrew McHaggis, dusting a spot on the park bench next to the empresario. The elderly Scotsman opened a small paper bag full of breadcrumbs and soon had a flock of pigeons bobbing at his feet.
Don Pepe continued to turn pages, scanning headlines and muttering to himself. “Not a word… not a single word… nothing, nada… not even in the back pages.” He crumpled the newspaper in his lap. “Mac, I’ve been over the morning edition three times and there’s nothing. Yesterday they had nearly a page, photographs and everything; today, zero.”
“Relax, Pepe, what you don’t see can’t hurt you.”
“I suppose you’re trying to tell me that you had no luck either.”
“Well, I haven’t found the bull, but I managed to uncover one or two interesting things.” McHaggis scattered a final handful of crumbs over the heads of the murmuring birds. “First I checked with my sources at police headquarters, and as far as anyone there knows, the animal is still alive. They delivered it to the contractor at the stockyards, but today’s cattle invoice showed no record of its being slaughtered. I checked the corrals but there were only steers, no fighting bulls.”
“But that’s impossible, a bull can’t just disappear from the stockyards.”
McHaggis dusted the crumbs from his hands and lit his briar pipe. “The contractor wouldn’t tell me anything, but I loosened the tongue of one of the yardmen with a few shots of brandy and he said that a woman driving a white convertible and pulling a horse trailer came the night before and that he and two others loaded the bull onto the trailer and she took it away. Normally I wouldn’t have believed him, a fighting bull in a horse trailer sounds absurd. But it matches something I learned from the cops; the papers claimed Machismo subdued a wild bull, but according to all I’ve heard, the animal was as gentle as a newborn babe. What did you dope it with, Pepe?”
“Never mind that now.” Don Pepe huffed to his feet. “What about Paco Machismo? Perhaps he bought the bull?”
“I thought of that, too, but if he did, he’s not keeping it at his finca. I sent someone out to check this morning.”
“You do good work, Mac. Come, let me buy you a drink. When you find that bull it’ll be worth a whole bottle.”
Mercy Malone used the tack-room entrance when visiting the stables of the exclusive Francisco Cortina Riding Academy; that way she avoided the jodhpur set gathered for a stirrup cup in the foyer. All the grooms and trainers were in love with her. They knew she was Paco Machismo’s girl and competed with each other to see who could do her the most favors. El Camión’s stall was kept well scrubbed and clean straw always covered the floor.
Mercy waved to the boys hosing a lathered mount down after a ride. The stable boys grinned awkwardly and blew her kisses. A pity there wasn’t a cute one in the lot. Considering her mood today, Mercy would gladly have screwed anyone in the barn, if only to get even with Paco for being such a prick about letting her keep the bull out at his finca. “Isn’t it enough that I keep you around?” the man had said. “Must I house your livestock as well?” The arrogant bastard!
El Camión stood placidly in his stall. Mercy leaned against the fragrant alfalfa-filled manger and admired his massive sleekness. The fighting bull’s weight was all forward; his shoulders bunched with muscle. A humped, brawny crest rose behind his neck and tapered down to the middle of his back. His hindquarters were as graceful and delicate as a pony’s.
Mercy rubbed her hands against his pelt, kneading the fluid muscles with her slender fingers. “The Japs massage their beef, I’ve read,” she said to the bull. “How do you like this treatment? You’ve got your own private geisha girl now.”
El Camión stared blankly ahead, his head lowered as Mercy rubbed and massaged him from one end to the other. The Irish girl sang as she labored over the bull’s flanks. The big animal’s hide was smooth and warm; the tuft of hair at the end of his tail as fine as any silk on earth. And when Mercy saw the heavy, hanging scrotum she sucked in her breath. She cupped the weighty balls in both her hands, marveling at their size and softness. Mercy longed to see him erect but the mighty member remained sheathed in spite of the girl’s ardent stroking. “Ah me,” she sighed. “Of all the bulls in the world, I had to find a queer.”
“I want to thank you gentlemen for granting me this interview.” Lucky Sam Wo spoke impeccable Oxford English as he paced the Moroccan rug in the hotel suite of Toro Productions. “I appreciate how busy you must be.”
“Time is money,” Abe Wasserman said, lighting a ten-dollar Havana cigar.
“Then, by all means, let us proceed without further delay. Have you a television?”
“Inna corner.” Marty Farb pointed with his thumb like a hitchiker.
“I have a short presentation.” Lucky Sam carried his briefcase-sized video tape-recorder over and plugged it into the TV set. “It runs under ten minutes. I knew the moment I saw your poster that you gentlemen were innovators, men with imagination. Well, I’ll let the tape speak for itself.” Lucky Sam placed a cassette in the machine and adjusted the picture and sound. On the screen, slightly out of focus, his mechanical bull pawed the workshop floor.
“What’s a bull doing in a warehouse?” Marty Farb demanded.
“Shhh! Listen,” Abe Wasserman said. “You might learn something.”
The image on the screen showed an early trial run before the taxidermist’s upholstery job. All of the robot’s cogs and pistons were visible as it charged across an open field. Lucky Sam’s narration stressed his theory of the deathless bullfight and its potential with American audiences. In a demonstration of strength, the mechanical animal was shown overturning a Volkswagen microbus. The brief tape ended with a shot of the robot wandering undetected through a browsing herd of three-year-old fighting bulls.
“Quite a contraption you got there,” Abe Wasserman said as the screen went blank.
“It can be operated either by remote control or on automatic,” the Chinese inventor explained. “This makes transportation no problem. You drive it like a car.”
“Very impressive,” Marty Farb grunted. “Only one question: What’s all this got to do with us?”
“Ah, yes, of course, I was hoping we could make a deal. I propose to offer the use of my creation for your program, free of charge, as a preliminary spectacle before the main event.”
“What’s in this deal for you, professor, if you don’t want any money?” Abe Wasserman asked.
“I am interested in the publicity. Most bullfight promoters are too tradition-bound to take a chance. You would give me the opportunity to demonstrate my machine to the public; in return, I would give you a free… curtain raiser, I believe it’s called.”
“I tell you what, prof,” Abe said. “I don’t usually do business on the spur of the moment like this, but I’ll take you up on your offer on one condition: you got to supply your own matador. I know all about those traditions you mentioned. Finding a bullfighter to take on our rhino was like pulling teeth. You come up with a toreador willing to fight a robot and I’ll even pay for the extra posters; now how’s that for a deal?”
Paco Machismo disliked the zoo. It was hot and noisy. Phalanxes of uniformed schoolchildren trooped everywhere, herded by sharp-voiced nuns. The smells, unlike the sweetness of the barnyard, were an acrid blend of musk and urine. The sight of so many caged animals made him unhappy.
Paco stood for a while outside the tiger’s cage, anonymous behind his dark glasses, a helium-filled balloon thrust upon him by a balloon-selling extortionist clutched in one hand. The big cat was fat and healthy. His coat gleamed in the sunlight. He paced relentlessly back and forth the length of the narrow cell, razor claws useless within his padded feet. The sympathy Paco Machismo felt for the tiger was modified by disgust. “Better to starve in freedom than grow fat in a cage,” he thought, continuing on through the crowd. This was his first trip to the zoo and he was lost. Fear of recognition prevented him from asking directions, but at last, over by the elefantes, he found what he was looking for.
The rhinoceros compound was a small island of packed sand enclosed by a dry moat. Two of the surly plated beasts stood swaying from foot to foot beside a pile of hay. Numbers of small birds hopped along their backs, picking ticks from the thick, cracked skin. One even ventured within a rhino’s ear and the huge, shuffling creature merely blinked at the intrusion. Paco Machismo leaned against a surrounding iron fence and tossed a bagful of peanuts into the enclosure. As the uneven-toed mammals lumbered forward to investigate, el número uno focused his Polaroid camera, intent on their every move.
All that remained of the roast suckling pig was his apple-clenching grin. The rest of the animal, from snout to curling tail, was reduced to a disorganized pile of bones. Every morsel of pig, including the singed tips of his pointed ears, had been devoured. Esmeralda sucked her greasy fingers and smiled contentedly. “Sabroso,” she sighed.
Carlos Carretera picked his teeth and sipped a glass of Valdepeñas. “Not bad; I am pleased that you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was delicious.”
“Bueno.” El Chicote clapped his hands for the waiter and ordered coffee. Bending like a conspirator over the pig bones he whispered, “Listen, I have a proposition to make you.”
Esmeralda’s smile changed ever so slightly from a string of pearls to a strand of barbed wire. “Naturally,” she said, “first the dinner, then the proposition; that’s the usual procedure, is it not?”
“No, no, you misunderstand me,” el Chicote stammered. “I mean no disrespect, Fabalita. My proposition concerns your passion for the corrida. You must truly love the art of bullfighting to take the risks you did last Sunday.”
“I could be the greatest matador in the world if only I had the chance!”
“That’s it; I want to give you that chance. How would you like to have the experience of working with a bull in an actual corrida?”
“Dígame, what must I do?”
“Listen. I have a wound in my leg that runs from my crotch almost to my knee. I can barely walk. Yet my manager has me booked for a fight this very Sunday. I am unable to hobble through a paseo, so how can I hope to handle a bull? But, if I break the contract my career is finished.”
Esmeralda stirred her coffee. “What has all this to do with me?” she asked. “I’m not your manager.”
“No, but you are almost my size; I’m quite short, I admit it. My suit of lights would fit you with no problem. With your hair tied up no one could tell the difference.”
“Are you suggesting that I take your place in the arena?”
“Exactamente, Fabalita.” Carlos took her hands in his like a suitor. “Will you do it? It goes without saying that my share of the purse will be yours.”
Esmeralda’s smile eased, costume jewelry once again. “It is only fair,” she said, “but even if there was no money I would still say yes.”
“Bless you, bless you,” Carlos mumbled, kissing the girl’s hands. “You have saved my life.”
“I will do your reputation no great harm either,” Esmeralda said.
Not many blocks from where Carlos and Esmeralda sat with candlelight shining on their greasy faces, Lucky Sam Wo and Don Pepe joined forces over several bottles of Rana de Arbol beer at the empresario’s favorite nameless bar. Lucky Sam was buying. He clapped his old friend on the back. “Cheer up, Pepe,” he said. “McHaggis knows his job. I trust his information. If the cops haven’t got the bull we have nothing to fear. As long as the animal is here in the city and I keep the batteries charged in the radio transmitter there will be no trouble; el toro will remain gentle as a milk cow. And if the woman who bought him has taken him away to the country, out of transmission range, why, he will act as bulls act everywhere and what could be more normal than that? No one will suspect a thing. Believe me, amigo, we’re in the clear.”
“If you say so, Sammy, I won’t argue with you.” Don Pepe belched and rubbed his stomach. Beer didn’t agree with him. “But still, I’ll keep the boys on the lookout. If something turns up, I want to be the first to hear about it.”
“Always keep control of the situation, Pepe, that way you make no mistakes.”
“I’m in your debt, Sam.”
“Yes, in point of fact you are,” the Chinaman said. “I did you a big favor, building all that gear and planting the stimuceiver in the bull’s brain. There was a certain amount of risk involved, too, as well as expenses. If things didn’t work out, it wasn’t my fault. But what are friends for, eh, Pepe? And if I helped you maybe you can help me now.”
“Anything, Sam, just name it.”
Lucky Sam inhaled a pinch of Otterburn snuff. “I made a deal today to run my mechanical bull in the Plaza de Toros. There’s no money involved, but I couldn’t buy the publicity at any price. All I need now is the right torero.”
“Ah, that will be muy difícil. You know how it is with matadors—too much pride. They will turn up their noses at your machine and call it a tin can, a windup toy.”
“That is why I come to you, Pepe. What about your boy Chicote?”
“You want Carlos? After seeing him in the ring?”
“I know he’s no good,” Sam Wo said. “That’s not important. I can program the bull to make him look good. What I care about is getting my invention before the public. When people see the robot in action and are unable to tell it from the real thing they will accept it, just as they now accept padded horses. And when the ring managers discover that they can buy one of my machines and use it over and over, Sunday after Sunday, for years on end, it won’t take them long to figure out how much money they will save. But I need your bullfight expertise and, to be honest, your connections. I’ll make you my partner, Pepe; we can retire to the Canaries and lie on the beach for the rest of our days.”