Tank-Town Matador

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The room where he changed had the stink of failure, the tired smell of poverty and defeat. He could hear the growling roar from the crowd in the bull ring. Paco Solis smiled without humor as he fingered the dusty blackness, the stained embroidery of his montero, the traditional hat of the torero. He stood, lean, hard, the healed horn wound, the cornada he had received in the Mexico City bull ring, a deep dimple in the smooth shoulder flesh.

So many years, so many heartbreaks — and so many dreams. He pulled on the stiffly embroidered jacket. Juaquim Montez, who would place banderillas for him, strolled in, said, “Ah, nearly ready. What is the matter, Paquito? Are you affronted to perform for these country clowns, this muy ranchero collection of aficionados?”

“You have much mouth, my friend.”

Juaquim picked up the discarded letter from Juanito. He read a few lines before Paco Solis snatched it away.

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