Chapter One
Joaquim could hear them talking about him, about Renaldo, Leonid. Like he couldn’t understand them. He’d been in this country for fifteen years. He wasn’t stupid.
He wasn’t stupid, and he spoke English, and he wasn’t Mexican, either.
Assholes.
Sometimes he thought the others were lucky, to not know all the shit the Americanos were saying.
Joaquim rolled his shoulders, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited for the rest to show up for the meeting. Baltazar Silva came in first, his broad-shoulders and barrel chest easy to identify. The man flashed him a wide smile. “Bom dia, Joa. How are you?”
“Balta.” He nodded, smiled. “Good. I am very good. You?”
Every one of them stood, moving toward Balta.
“Good. Good.” Balta shook his hand, making his skin tingle. It was like the man was electric, somehow. He had a huge presence.
Of course, no one was Baltazar. No one. Balta had been the first one to come up, to break the barrier with the Anglos. All of them—well, most of them—wanted to be Balta.
Joa thought that maybe he just wanted to know Balta. He didn’t like the cameras so much.
Once all the handshaking was over, the last few riders had straggled in and the meeting could start. The meeting could always start once Balta was there. He was sort of the universal translator.
“We’re all here, huh?” Balta asked in Portuguese, glancing around. “Okay. Bom. So, the draw is not so good today. Ed Lamott could not come with his bulls, so many of them are from a stock company in North Carolina.”
Most of them groaned. That would mean less experienced bulls. That always meant more hang-ups, more wrecks, and more time for him and Balta, translating for the doctors. Balta went on, pulling out his list, explaining who had drawn what bull. There were only two animals on the list that he recognized. The rest were all new, including his bull, and Balta’s. That was going to be bad.
Leonid tugged his shirt sleeve. “Oi, it’s all of us, gets the new bulls,Sim?”
Joa nodded. “Sim. All of us.”
“The Americans, too?” Renaldo asked.
Balta grinned. “The Americans, too. We’re even, huh?”
“Not here.” Leonid rolled his eyes. “They talk, eh? Like we’remacacos.”
The man scratched his sides, hooting and bouncing, making them all laugh.
That got them a few dark looks, the few guys who could see them from the other side of the chutes growling. It was so strange, how mostly the other riders liked them one on one, but resented them as a group.
Balta, though? Everyone talked to Balta.
“It’s time.” The lights were about to go dark, and it was time to get in line and hear David Donaldson butcher Eduardo’s name.
They all moved to get in their places, Balta heading off to take his spot with the world champions. Not before he patted Joa on the butt, though.
The tingles lasted all the way through the national anthem.
Demon man.
Joa crossed himself.
Demon.
Demónio.
