Raymond Benson: Doubleshot

When the horse was safely back on his hooves, Domingo Espada applauded from the other side of the bullring.

“Bravo,” he called. “You got him to do it!”

Margareta Piel reached around and stroked the horse’s neck. “I knew you could do it, my darling.” She pulled the reins and the horse trotted back to the bullring entrance, where Espada was standing.

“You have your new star,” she said. “I think he’s ready for an audience.”

“I think you’re right,” Espada said. He opened the large wooden door that led to the pasillo, the area beneath the seats that encircled the bullring. He then turned and watched with interest as Margareta, who had been riding sidesaddle, slid to the soft ground. Her tight-fitting pants with a slit at the bottom, worn by female equestrians, were especially flattering of her firm, rounded buttocks and muscular legs. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she had a body that most men would die for. Ironically, this was often the case. He had heard stories that claimed she could be a cruel mistress in bed, although he had never had the pleasure of finding out. Domingo Espada knew better than to make love to the Mantis Religiosa.

Margareta flicked her wide-brimmed hat, which sailed neatly, like a discus, onto the fence post. She then undid the bun, shook her head, and let her long, straight hair fall around her shoulders.

“Has our guest arrived?” she asked.

“Not yet. I expect him soon. We should get back to the house.”

“Let me take care of Sandro,” she said, leading the horse toward the second set of doors beneath the stands, to the stable in the expansive building that was part of Espada’s estate. Besides having room for a dozen horses, the annex, as it was called, also had facilities to stage a modern bullfight. There was the regulation-size bullfighter’s practice ring, which, oddly, Espada had covered with a roof after he had retired from professional bullfighting, a bullpen, facilities for bullfighters and their teams, including a chapel and infirmary, and, in a more remote section, a slaughterhouse.

Not far from the annex was a smaller house that was referred to as the “compound.” It was off-limits to anyone except Margareta and a few other select employees, and trusted guests.

They left the annex and walked out into the bright Andalucían sun. Domingo Espada’s estate was ten miles north of Marbella, the Costa del Sol’s smartest, most expensive resort. Espada had built the property in the hills just beyond Conch Mountain, which overlooked the city and faced the Mediterranean. The rich and famous all came to Marbella for holidays. Wealthy organized crime moved in as well. A “Spanish Miami Beach” of sorts, Marbella became the crossroads for smuggling in the Mediterranean area. Far too many drug and arms dealers had been caught in Marbella, simply because they couldn’t resist the urge to flash their money.

Domingo Espada had never needed to do that, for everyone in Spain knew who he was. He could probably get a free meal in any restaurant he walked into. Everyone knew the face of the bullfighter who had simply gone by the name “Espada” in the bullring. His portrait was usually featured on the walls of tapas bars and restaurants along with the photographs of Spain’s other legendary matadors. He, too, was a national hero. But in Marbella they affectionately called him El Padrino, paying tribute to the efforts he had made to boost the area’s economy. With the fortune he had earned as a matador for twenty years, Espada had invested wisely in several ventures, including tourism (in the form of casinos, hotels, and clubs) and had helped bring Marbella back from the decline in popularity it had suffered in the 1980s. He also owned and managed three bull-breeding ranches, acted as manager of several successful matadors, and had considerable influence in the world of bullfighting. The fact that he was often linked to organized crime did not lessen Domingo Espada’s popularity.

Although he had aged considerably since his bullfighting days, Domingo Espada still cut a commanding figure. At exactly six feet, he exuded an authority and self-confidence that demanded attention. At sixty-two, he remained devilishly handsome, with dark wavy hair, now streaked with gray, and a bushy mustache that covered a sullen mouth. His chin was adorned with a short, pointed salt-and-pepper beard. Women virtually swooned when he stared at them with his piercing brown eyes that seemed to be both hot and cold at the same time. The twenty-two-year-old scar that extended from the outside edge of his left eyebrow to just over the cheekbone also served to give him a sinister, Mephistophelean appearance.

His boots made crunching sounds on the tiny gravel as Espada and Margareta walked up the path to the magnificent ranch house he had built on the property. It overlooked a small artificial lake stocked with fish. Typically Spanish in its design, the house took additional elements from some of the more modern structures in Marbella, such as the palace built by the financier and arms broker Adnan Khashoggi. The main building consisted of a single level, but a unique guard tower rose four stories high so that sentries could spot approaching vehicles from miles away. The entire estate was over six hundred hectares in size, was surrounded by a high stone wall, and was protected by state-of-the-art security equipment.

The grounds contained an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a tennis court, a garage for several vehicles, and a putting green. Beyond the annex and the compound was an enclosed field, where dozens of Bos Taurus Ibericus roamed free. The beautiful black bulls, the special lineage that were bred for one purpose—to die in a corrida —lived a luxurious life eating the best food and mating with the best cows until the fateful day when they were chosen to meet their destiny. Sometimes Espada enjoyed walking in the field amongst the animals, admiring their power and pride. The bulls usually left him alone unless he came too close to the calves or made sudden moves. From birth, they attacked instinctively when they felt cornered or threatened, but in an open field they turned and walked away.

Espada and Margareta stepped onto the open patio, where a young female servant met them and asked what they wanted to drink. Espada looked at her and snapped harshly, “Where is Maria?”

The girl jumped at his bark and shyly said, “I don’t know, sir. They asked me to fill in for her today.”

“Is she ill?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Very well.” He asked for a bottle of Barbadillo Solear, a sherrylike wine made in Sanlucar de Barrameda. The girl gave a subservient bow and went inside.

Agustin, Espada’s loyal mozo de espadas, the title of a matador’s dresser and keeper of the swords, now Espada’s most trusted righthand man, came out of the house to deliver a message.

“Where is Maria?” Espada asked him.

“She is gone, Domingo,” Agustin said with a stern face. “She has escaped.”

“Escaped?” Espada nearly choked with surprise. He looked at Margareta. She stared at Agustin and asked, “How could that be possible?”

“When we sent for her this afternoon, we learned that she had left with a man. One of the other girls told me.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t know him.”

“Where is … who was guarding them? Where is Carlos?”

“Carlos was on guard all day. Would you like to speak with him?”

“Yes! Go and fetch him.” Espada was trembling.

“Yes, sir,” Agustin said. “By the way, your visitor has arrived,” he said. “They’re parking his car. Shall I bring him outside, sir?”

“Keep him waiting until after I talk to Carlos.”

Agustin nodded and went inside.