Raymond Benson - Doubleshot

None of them were really there, of course. But to Domingo Espada, it was all real. The empty stands projected the same amount of noise and excitement as if they had been packed full of spectators.

Agustin and two other men stood inside the 1.2-meter-high barrera, the fence that enclosed the working area of the ring, near the burladero, the “trick” shields built slightly out in front of the openings in the fence. Bullfighters stood behind these to escape the charging beast. Agustin approached Espada and handed him the brightly colored capote, the cape that was red on one side and yellow on the other—traditionally used in the first two acts of a bullfight.

Once Espada was ready, Agustin gave the signal to the man at the puerta del toril, the door out of which the bull would charge. It swung open, and for a moment there was silence. Espada waited patiently, the excitement and anticipation just as powerful as it had been in the old days.

Then the object of the corrida came out into the ring. He stumbled on two legs and appeared to be lost. Carlos, badly bruised from beatings, was wearing a dirty white shirt and black pants. In his hands was a pair of bull’s horns, the kind used in training bullfighting beginners. Another person would “act” as the bull, charging the student so that he could practice with his cape.

Agustin announced loudly, as if he were projecting his voice so that the people in the very top seats could hear him, “Carlos Rodriguez, you have been found guilty of the crime of betraying your employer. Therefore, you must fight for your life in the bullring against the supreme matador, Espada! ”

Carlos looked at Espada standing there in all his glory. The cape twirled with a flourish. Espada called to him as if he were a bull.

“ El toro! Come!”

When Carlos realized what was about to happen to him, he turned to run back through the open doors, but they slammed shut in his face. He turned to face Espada, his eyes wide with fear. He backed up against the wooden doors, dropped the bull’s horns on the ground, then fell to his knees.

“Please, Señor Espada, have mercy!” Carlos cried. “I beg you! I’m sorry!”

Espada ignored the man’s pleas and simply waved the cape.

“Come!”

After a minute, Espada saw that Carlos wasn’t going to “play.” He nodded to Agustin, who picked up a picador’s lance, and walked toward the helpless man. As Carlos cowered on his knees, kissing the dirt, Agustin brutally thrust the lance into the man’s back and withdrew it. The sharp point had been shortened so that it would not mortally wound the man, but merely cause him pain.

Carlos yelped in pain, then rolled over. Agustin spoke to him calmly, telling him that his fate would be far worse if he didn’t get up and fight.

“Who knows,” Agustin said. “If you show great courage and spirit, the matador may grant you an indulto .” This meant that the bull’s life would be spared. “Now get up and charge!”

Carlos finally realized that he had no other choice. He got up, gave a frightening war cry, and ran at Espada. The matador performed a neat verónica with the cape, sidestepping the man. But, unlike a bull, the human could not be fooled. He swung at Espada with his fists, ready to jump on his opponent and beat him to a pulp if he had to. Espada, though, was prepared for the attack. Using the cape to protect himself, he managed to keep the bleeding, angry man from connecting his punches.

The “fight” went on like this for several minutes. Carlos was obviously becoming tired as his lunges at Espada grew less inspired. Not one of his blows had connected. Espada eventually walked away from the man, who collapsed in the middle of the ring, out of breath. Blood soaked his clothes.

Espada took two banderillas, short spikes used in the second act of a bullfight to further weaken and enrage a bull, and calmly walked back toward his victim.

Carlos saw what Espada had in his hands and knew that he could do only one thing. He pulled himself to his feet and started to run away, toward the edge of the ring. But before he could make it behind a shield, one of Agustin’s assistants pulled a switch located behind the fence.

All of the shields in the ring mechanically moved in a few feet until they were flush against the fence, blocking off any possible escape for the prisoner. All of the regular doors were shut tight.

The prisoner gathered every last bit of strength that he could muster, then charged at Espada, screaming.

Espada deftly thrust the two spikes neatly into Carlos’s back as he sidestepped the charging prisoner. The man screamed and fell to the dirt. The spikes hung grotesquely out of his back. He reached around and managed to pull one out.

Espada walked away from him, approached Agustin, and took the estoque and muleta, the sword and smaller red cape used in the final act of a bullfight. He approached the cowering, wounded man.

“ El toro! Come!”

He waved the cape, the deadly sword positioned behind it.

Carlos picked up the spike he had pulled out of his back and held it like a spear. He slowly got up and faced the matador. Then, cursing, he charged, the spike out in front ready to plunge into Espada’s chest.

Like a dancer, the matador executed a smooth pase de trinchera, a low pass performed with the right hand. Carlos missed Espada entirely, falling to the dirt again.

Espada moved around to the man’s front, then held the sword at arm’s length.

Carlos, further enraged and desperate for the ordeal to be over, got to his feet and charged at Espada with the spike one last time.

The sword pierced Carlos’s chest and went cleanly through his heart.

Domingo Espada had at least one more ear to add to his collection.

SIX

LIVE GIRLS, ETC.

LODGED BETWEEN THE BUSY THEATER DISTRICT TO THE SOUTH AND THE shops of Oxford Circus to the north, Soho was unusually quiet for a late weekday afternoon. The commuters had left and the theater crowds had not yet arrived. The streets were only moderately crowded with tourists and curiosity-seekers who were gawking at the sex shops, the “modeling studios,” and the “Live Girls!” dives that pervaded the area. While it tended to come alive at night, in daylight Soho was undeniably seedy.

James Bond found the Adult News shop on Berwick Street and stood across the road to observe the building for a few minutes. Men of various types went in and out—mostly white middle-class businessmen in suits and ties—and Bond saw nothing unusual. It was a small, ground-floor establishment with a neon sign proclaiming that the shop sold “XXX Videos, Magazines, Books.”

Bond perked up when a middle-aged woman in a business suit emerged from the shop and began to walk north toward Oxford Circus. He did a double take, for he could swear he knew her. Tall, rather severe. Not the type one would expect to see in an adult bookshop. Who was she? Damn! The headaches had clouded his normally photographic memory. Bond rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the figure had disappeared into the crowd.

He crossed the street going north in an attempt to catch sight of her again, but she was gone. She had slipped into a side street or got into a taxi. Had his eyes been playing tricks on him again?

Bond walked back to his position across from the bookshop and decided to make his move. He crossed the street and entered through the strings of beads hanging in the doorway. The shop was devoid of customers at the moment, and there was a large, obese man with greasy, stringy hair sitting behind the counter and watching a portable television. Bond pretended to browse at the skin magazines for a moment, then approached the counter.