Toros & Torsos (The Hector Lassiter Series)

by Craig McDonald

  Hector had been in Madrid just under a week. He still trying to get his bearings and, at the same time, growing increasingly eager to clear out. Hector had come to Spain because he was adrift. He had also come at the urging of Pauline Hemingway, who wanted her husband protected from his own increasingly reckless self and kept away from randy Martha to whatever extent Hector could arrange to do that.

  Two days in, Hector had determined the Hemingway marriage was doomed.

  But Hector was equally sure that any union with Martha would be just as star-crossed and probably infinitely more turbulent. It didn’t help that Martha was also the first of Ernest’s women who was younger than Hem, and by several years. She was independent, feisty and a writer with her own streak of talent and ambition.

  Martha embodied all of the things that Hem thought he wanted in a woman and that Hector knew Hem didn’t need.

  But you couldn’t talk to Hem about any of that...Hector knew that, too. And Hector considered himself in no convincing position to dole out advice. Hector’s own drinking was out of control. He smoked too much and stayed up too late.

  At 37, he had several crime novels and scads of short stories under his belt.

  But after Rachel, and after the surprising success of Wandering Eye, Hector had found it impossible to find his next novel...starting and stopping a dozen different books...sometimes a chapter in, and sometimes two-hundred or three-hundred pages along.

  To keep himself in the money, Hector had been whoring in Hollywood to increasing extent...writing screenplays or polishing dialogue for various crime and mystery movies by lesser writers. He’d bedded rising and promiscuous young starlets and begun scouting possible West Coast second homes.

  Dos winked. “Hem’s being just discreet enough with Martha that some could dispute that charge.”

  “Right.” Hector held a hand over his head. “I’m fucking up to here with Martha and her goddamn Bryn Mawr drone.”

  “Ditto,’” Dos said. “She clearly hates me. Well, I know you’re here for your own reasons, Hector...for Pauline, sure, but also just to keep yourself stimulated, I suppose. But this isn’t Key West, Hec. This isn’t Chicago back in Prohibition. Not Cleveland during the bootleg wars. This is the dress rehearsal for Hitler and the next big war and it’s treacherous as hell, Hec. You best step careful. Really, buddy, I don’t want to be asking around after two disappeared friends.”

  Hector held up his whisky, turning the glass in the low light. “I’ll be careful as cowardly mice, Dos — honest Injun. See you tonight, pal.”

  Dos left and Hector sat on the bed a time, drinking more whisky. His drunkeness hit him all at once...this stomach-churning sensation that the room was spinning.

  It was an unwelcome, too-familiar sensation...actually tiresome, to his surprise.

  Hector thought, I don’t want to do this anymore.

  He put a foot on the floor to impede the sensation of spinning. When that tactic soon failed him, Hector struggled up onto unsteady feet.

  He shrugged back on his leather aviator’s jacket. Hector looked at his unfinished drink, then opened the window and poured the expensive whisky into the dust.

  It was funny how something just turned off inside him. He thought, No more tears...no more beers.

  ***

  Chicote’s management had piled sandbags along the side of the restaurant facing the front — heavy bags stacked flush with Hector’s belt buckle.

  The waiter recognized Hector — a fringe benefit perhaps of hanging with Hem and Hector’s own penchant for over-tipping. The concierge led Hector to a table just inside the door, next to a partially barricaded window. A few, side-choosing “journalists” at adjacent tables eyed Hector, with intent, he thought.

  Hector ordered iced-tea and a bowl of gazpacho. The cold soup and colder drink came quickly, and Hector sat ladling scoops of the peppery, vinegary soup to his mouth...at first savoring the tangy stew and then finding himself adding more and more drops of Tabasco and stirring them in. He just couldn’t get it spicy enough to suit his tastes.

  As he ate, Hector thought about what Dos had said about the loose talk regarding Hector and the suspicion on the part of some others that he had come to Spain as a spy. That suspicion wasn’t to be taken lightly...Hector knew that. Several other American writers and college professors who presumably raised the hackles of the communists underwriting the loyalists were “disappearing” with accelerating ferocity, just like Dos’ missing friend.

  In the current charged climate, wagging tongues could kill.

  Hector sipped more of his iced-tea, feeling sobriety return in steady increments. Finished with his soup, he ordered a double espresso. That sent him lurching back toward hand-shaking sharpness.

  Wired, he sat up a bit straighter to see over the stacked sandbags on the other side of the window...people watching.

  I should find a woman, Hector told himself.

  That was the ticket — find some dark-haired, dark-eyed Spanish beauty with gypsy blood and lusty impulses.

  A woman who would claw his back in passion. Hector suddenly craved a lover who would draw blood...and he promised himself he would savor her assaults, sober and clear-eyed.

  Yes, that was what Hector needed — Hector needed a woman.

  Outside, a cab slowed for a light.

  A woman was in the back seat, her head turned away from Hector.

  Hector saw short, sharply cut chestnut-colored hair and a defined jawline...the long promising curve of a slender neck.

  The woman turned, looking incuriously at the façade of Chicote’s.

  Their eyes met. She stared back at him.

  Hector felt this chill and then a terrible tremor of recognition.

  He said aloud, “Rachel...”

  “Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.”— André Breton

  THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY

  15

  A knock at his door: Ernest was alone.

  “You’re early, Hem,” Hector said, closing and then locking the door behind his burly friend.

  “Yeah? Well, I’m at a loss for diversions.”

  “Martha’s afield, then?”

  Hem nodded, pushing past Hector. “That’s one way to put it.” He beelined for the bedside table and scooped up a glass. He held it up to the light, grimaced, and poured himself three fingers of Highland malt from the bottle whose stopper he’d thrown away earlier. He added in a little water from the pitcher on the nightstand. “Martha has ambitions,” Hem said. “I’ll credit her that.”

  “Miss Gellhorn is archly ambitious,” Hector said. “You should think hard about that.”

  Hem pointed at the bottle and one of the empty glasses. “You want?”

  “Nah. I’ve drunk my fill for now.”

  “What do you mean about me thinking about Martha and her ambition, Hector?”

  “She’s a writer, Hem. She’s got a lot of ambition, like you say. She’s young and passionate in every direction. The way we all are when we’re young. But she’s no haus frau, and, at the end of the day, you goddamn need a haus frau. You need a woman who’ll bend to your whims...share your hobbies...give you structure and room to write. Martha offers none of those qualities. Not a damned one.”

  Hem shrugged. “I didn’t fucking ask for that assessment. You think I don’t know you’re here, at least partly, because Pauline shamed you or begged you into coming? I know you’re here to keep an eye on me...to report back.”

  Hector smiled crookedly and slumped down on the foot of his bed. “Everyone thinks I’m a spy.”

  “It’s no joke. It’s being talked about, Lasso. Dos raised the issue the other night. He doesn’t believe it anymore than I do — these notions you’re here for the FBI. But others believe it well enough. You need to go home, Hec. Yesterday.”

  “I think so too. And I mean to do just
that, and soon. But something has come up. I need to look into something first.”

  Hem wasn’t hearing him — still focused on himself. “It’s been over between me and Pauline for a long time, Lasso.”

  Hector nodded softly. “Yeah. And near as I can tell, from the outside looking in, it was never really there, Hem. I was there in Paris and Spain in ’26 and ’27. I saw.”

  “And you took Hadley’s side,” Hem said. “I remember. Should have fucking listened to you. But goddamn Dos...he led to Gerald Murphy...Murphy led to Pauline. Those rich bastards egged me on. Fucking Dos. Fucking pilot fish.”

  Hector’s memory of all that was quite different from Hem’s. Hector said, “Either way, now you have the life you have. And listen to me now. The life you have in Key West is better, or at least more stable, than anything Martha offers you. You didn’t ask and you may tell me to fuck off for volunteering this, but my best advice to you, Hem, is that you throw yourself into this Civil War, here. Get all you need for a novel or a story and while you do that, you go right ahead on and fuck that tall blond out of your system. Fuck her and your own brains out. Then you get your ass back to Key West and your life there, Hem. Your problem, in so far as I can see it, is that you feel duty-bound to marry every woman you take to your bed. For you, love and sex are synonymous. Well, you need to disabuse yourself of that notion. Stop being a last-century man.”

  Hem poured himself another drink. “If any woman heard you say that, you’d never get a piece of ass again in this lifetime, Lasso.”

  Hector shook his head. “You’re using yourself as a yardstick for all women, everywhere. And there are the things we know and the things we say. Remember? Some things are too real to use or to state. I remember a night in Paris, in ’24, Hem. We were at Stein’s salon, three-sheets-to the wind. You said something and I thought it was maybe the most honest statement of longing that I’ve heard from another man. I still think so. You said for you, heaven would be an enormous bullring with your own private trout stream running alongside and two houses close by — one with your beloved wife and children, the other with your nine mistresses. You thought there would be a good church between the two so you could confess while moving between houses. I thought that was a raw and real expression of an honest man’s mind.”

  “Your mind maybe. Lasso, now who’s using himself as yardstick for all the rest?”

  “No good can come from this affair, Hem, not carried beyond this fucked-up country.”

  “You said something has come up...something that might delay your leaving here. What is it, Lasso?”

  Hector guessed they were done talking about Martha Gellhorn. He said, “I saw a woman today. I know it sounds crazy, and her hair was different. But I swear to Christ, Hem, I’m sure I saw Rachel Harper this afternoon.”

  Hem hesitated, his glass halfway to his mouth. He shook his head and sighed. He poured himself some more whiskey. He took a shot of his single malt. “Dark fucking waters, this,” he said, hoarse from the whisky.

  That got Hector’s attention.

  Hem said, “I didn’t bring it up because Madrid is crazy now — crowded and under fitful siege and the odds of you two crossing paths seemed at best remote. So of course you went and promptly fucking saw her. I know who you saw, but she’s not Rachel. It’s her sister, Hector. The woman is named Alva Taurino. She’s Rachel’s kid sister. I met her at a fundraiser a few weeks back. Smart lady...very serious. She’s a dead-ringer for —” Hem made a face. “Sorry, bad phrasing. What I mean is, she’s Rachel’s sister to the nines. Darker — I mean the hair. She wears it short, too. But she’s beautiful, just like Rachel was. A painter, too. Damned fine painter, if a little uninspired. I mean in terms of originality. But the execution is flawless.”

  Wringing his hands, Hector said, “Rachel mentioned this sister. Vaguely remember that name, Alva, too. Last name is a married name, I guess.”

  “Married to a college professor. Or she was. He went to arms for the Republic. He was killed last fall, or so she says.”

  “In combat?”

  “Presumed captured and shot by Franco’s bunch. Cocksuckers.”

  “She know about me? About me and Rachel?”

  Hem drank more whisky. “Yeah. I don’t think she’s bitter or blames you, really. That said, I mentioned you’d be coming to Spain.” He hesitated. “She didn’t ask for an audience or even an introduction.”

  “Who could blame her?” Hector pulled up a chair close to the bed and sat down across from Ernest. “Hem, can you reach her? Invite Alva to Casa Botín tonight. Tell her I’d very much appreciate meeting her. To perhaps talk about her sister. I’ll pay her way.”

  “You shouldn’t chase ghosts.”

  “I’m not doing that. I’m just...closing accounts. Maybe, meeting her, I can—”

  Hem quickly held up a hand. “Stop. Don’t you fucking ever finish a sentence that trite.”

  “Sorry. But for Christ’s sake, just get her there tonight.”

  “I can try, Hector. Can’t guarantee she’ll say yes, or if she does, that she won’t put one between your eyes or behind your ear when she sees you. I just can’t read this one. And I can’t predict her attitude toward you when you meet.”

  “My problem, Hem. Not your concern. I want this. You’re fully absolved of the consequences.”

  “I fucking wish it was ever that easy. But I’ll try to lure her there tonight.”

  “Thanks. You succeed, and I’ll owe you large.”

  “There’s a fucking true sentence. And I do this, Hec, then after, you go home, yes? You go back to Key West. Tell Pauline whatever you want when you get there. But you get out of here before you end up shot or arrested by the son-of-a-bitching Communists. My bench of good old friends is getting sorrily shallow, Hec. Partly through my own fault, sure, but partly through bad luck, too. And your luck, Lasso? From where I sit, she’s not running good these years.”

  “Agreed,” Hector said. “I’ll go home. But you also have to agree that you’ll think about what I’ve said about Martha and the future.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Hem said. “You know me, Lasso — I’m a thinking fool.”

  “An original is a creation motivated by desire. Any reproduction of an original is motivated by necessity. It is marvelous that we are the only species that creates gratuitous forms. To create is divine, to reproduce is human.”— Man Ray

  DOPPELGANGER

  16

  The hum of a hundred passionate, politically-charged conversations...clattering silverware and dirty dishes being gathered up to be bused back to the kitchen...corks being pulled.

  The haze of cigarette smoke and the thick smell of wine and garlic burned Hector’s eyes.

  At the back of the restaurant, their own backs to the kitchen, a couple of gypsy folk musicians were performing, trying to be heard over the crowd. The man played piano; his partner, a woman, played the mandolin. The woman wore a ragged shawl and a scarf. It looked as if her hair had been recklessly cut down to the scalp. She was singing “Ring of Bone.”

  Hector first spotted Hem, his usual boisterous public self...laughing and talking and then pausing to accept an offered bota bag from someone at an adjacent table — perhaps from a dissolute and idled young bullfighter.

  Hem held up the wineskin and shot some wine into his own mouth. Then, holding it higher, he squirted some more in the direction of Dos, who was clearly very drunk. Dos tried to dip his head to catch the wine in his mouth. Some went there, but most stained Dos’s white shirt, making him look like someone had shot Dos in the heart.

  Hem saw Hector, but stopped himself from calling out when Hector put his fingers to his lips as he approached the table. Hector stood behind a woman with a long, slender neck, proud shoulders and short-cut, dark brown hair. The woman said in a soft, clear, alto voice, “Of course the question remains, is it blood sport, or is it a form of art?”

  She said this last to a blond man who also had his back to Hector.


  The blond man said, “Of course it is a form of art, but built on a tragic model. The odds are all stacked against the bull and that precludes the possibility of any ‘sport,’ regardless of whether or not the occasional matador falls or spills his own blood. We have the layers of time-tested ritual and routine calculated to break down the bull...to bleed him...to weaken him. And then, at the last, to position him for the kill. But I’d liken it to a form of musical or theatrical art, rather than that of painting, or, as Hem tried to have it in his Death in the Afternoon, to writing. We have the three great movements: los tres tercios de la lidia — the so-called ‘thirds of combat.’ The first act is suerte de varas. This is when the bull first charges. Perhaps there will be the achuchón, when the bull actually bumps the man while passing by him, but it’s as close as most bulls come to ever truly striking their nemesis. Then there is act two, tercio de banderillas, or the placing of the banderillas — stabbed into the muscles of the bull’s neck — further breaking him down and forcing his head into the lowered position for the eventual kill. Act three is the actual death of the bull, tercio de muerte, itself divided into three smaller acts: the toast of the president, the use of the muleta or cloak, and then the final killing thrust of the sword, dropping the bull where it stands. It’s not about the combat, or the risk to the man — it’s an artistic ritual keyed to the death of the bull. It goes all the way back to Greece and the Minotaur.”

  Hector suddenly placed the blond man’s voice. The son of a bitch — Quentin Windly...the critic turned evident aficionado.

  It wasn’t the best way to make a first impression — particularly on Alva Taurino. But Hector couldn’t stay his tongue — a part of him still suspected that Quentin might have been the one killing all those women in the Keys two years before. The man who maybe murdered Rachel. Hector had gone looking for Quentin in the wake of the hurricane and Rachel’s death...eventually picked up rumors of the critic having drifted down into Mexico, but nothing strong enough to allow Hector to follow at the time.