Chueco must have come up with some bullshit story to save his ass. I’m sure the Feds didn’t believe a word of it. But luckily I didn’t figure in whatever story he cooked up. Since they couldn’t touch him, they had to take his word for it. So they let me go.
That was the end of the story, and the end of the whole Hollywood life of crime we’d dreamed up. We’d spent a month and a half scraping the cash together for that first half-kilo, robbing stereos downtown and selling them on to Rubén for a fraction of what they were worth so that way he’d buy the whole lot.
The first half-kilo was to get the operation up and running. We’d worked out the figures. We’d cut it up, sell it on and use the profit to buy a whole kilo, then two keys, then four and so on. We had it all worked out. Our initial investment would snowball. No one could stop it. But stop it they did. Before it even got started. And the snowball melted and trickled through our fingers.
While Chueco was banged up, I did some investigating. I wanted to find out who’d dropped us in it. Someone told me El Jetita had passed information to the police, and I believed it. He wasn’t about to let two kids with half a key fuck up his business. Back then, he had the monopoly on selling weed. Same as he does now, but now he’s also got a monopoly on coke, crack, paco, acid, pills … everything. Well, nearly everything – Rubén deals with the stolen cars and the gambling. Nobody handles the whores. They’re run by pimps from outside the barrio. Any working girls in the barrio are part-timers, freelance.
It wouldn’t surprise me to find out El Jetita and Rubén are partners. They’re pretty tight these days. And it wouldn’t surprise me if they’re trying to make a move on the whores in the area. It’s the only part of the business they don’t already control.
But the fact remains, El Jetita grassed us up. The normal thing for him to have done in that situation was threaten us. Shit, by the code of the barrio, he could have capped us if he wanted. Because in the barrio there’s no such thing as competition or a free market. Everyone round here knows that. But the backstabbing fucker had no right to do what he did do: turn us in to the Feds. Didn’t matter how polite the filth were being after the whole Walter case, they were still the filth.
I don’t know if the rumours got back to Chueco. I guess so. I never told him. Why try to pin the blame on someone when we were fucked anyway? But watching El Jetita playing nice with Chueco now, I can’t forget he was the one who grassed us up.
‘You do know who you’re dealing with?’ I say without warning.
He must have been following my train of thought because he answers with another question.
‘What? You think I’m sitting here sucking my thumb?’
‘Just saying …’
‘Yeah, I know what you’re saying. Why d’you think I asked you along?’
‘You tell me …’ I push him, but he just ignores it. He finishes his wine and watches Rubén and El Jetita wheedling Fat Farías. They’ve got him eating out of their hands. I’m guessing one of them is gently threatening and the other one’s offering protection. Same old, same old. Good cop, bad cop, just like the Feds.
Chueco finally comes closer to the table, covers his mouth with his hand and confides. ‘Because the first chance we get, we’ll turn him in to the filth,’ he whispers. ‘Because we’re going to stab him in the back, and hit him where it hurts – in his wallet. You don’t want payback for what he did to us?’
Truth is, I don’t. I got off lightly. But I’m not about to tell Chueco that. He’ll think I’m shit-scared, and it’s not that. I just don’t want any more grief. These guys are vicious bastards. You play them on their home ground, you lose. Better to give them a wide berth. El Jetita’s got his own code. He’s got the scars to prove it. The guy’s a fucking time bomb, there’s a bullet out there with his name on it and any day now he’s going to find it. I’d just rather he went looking for it on his own.
‘You’re playing with fire, you know that?’
‘We’re playing, loco. A debt’s a debt.’
Chueco leans back in his seat, narrows his eyes and stares at me. He’s waiting for an answer that’s not coming, and he knows why. What am I going to say? He’s one step ahead of me.
‘So what’s the story, then?’
‘How do I know? El Jetita’s going to come over for a little chat with us. Whatever he says, just say yes. Afterwards we’ll work out the details and put one over on him.’
THE CONTRACT
EL NEGRO SOSA IS WARMING a plate in the kitchen. He splits opens three wraps and cuts nine lines of coke with a swipe card. Rubén’s tearing sheets of paper from a pad and handing them round to everyone. Everyone’s here, but the numbers don’t add up. There are seven of us. The seventh is Fabían, a tall, skinny guy with bags under his eyes who looks slow and stupid. I’ve no idea where he showed up from. I think he came with Rubén, but I’m guessing he’s not his bodyguard.
‘Come on, Farías, don’t be afraid,’ El Jetita calls. ‘The first line’s for you, socio.’
Fat Farías pushes his way through the strip curtain and steps into the circle where El Jetita is presiding with the mirror in his hand.
What’s with the ritual? I wonder. And what the fuck are we doing here? Chueco, sitting facing me, inadvertently answers with a gesture.
‘Thanks. I’ll save it for later,’ he says, taking a cigarette from Fabían. He twirls the negro like a pencil, gives me a wink and slips it in his jacket pocket. We’ve got them in our pocket. That’s what he thinks. Or at least what he wants me to think.
This whole performance is part of the negotiations. This is how El Jetita seals his deals. And the reason we’re here is because there are two parties to this contract. Fat Farías is one, and we’re the other. I don’t know what the deal is, but I can imagine. If we’re going to join El Jetita’s army, we have to prove we’re hardcore.
Rubén hands Farías a sheet of paper and the fat fucker stares at it, confused, for a couple of seconds, then glances at El Jetita and the penny drops. Using his good hand and the bandaged hand he still has in a sling, he rolls the paper into a straw. El Jetita holds the mirror with the lines of merca on it right under Fat Farías’s chin. Farías puts the paper straw to his nose and snorts.
‘So, viejo, what d’you think?’ asks El Jetita, clapping him on the back.
‘Good … fucking good,’ Farías says in a nasal whine massaging his nostrils between his fat fingers.
El Jetita does a couple of lines.
‘This is good shit. It’s not cut,’ he says, passing the mirror.
El Negro Sosa is next. He licks his lips. He’s nervous. He snorts a line, squeezes his eyes shut, throws his head back and rolls it from side to side like he’s trying to crack his neck, then passes the merca on without a word. Chueco is next, he’s been gagging for his turn ever since this whole circus started, flailing his arms, pinching his nose.
Chueco grabs the mirror in one hand, holds his straw to his nostril but never makes it as far as the coke because a hand snatches the paper straw away and crumples it. The mirror falls and smashes on the floor.
‘What the fu—? Gordo, what the fuck are you doing?!’ El Jetita roars.
‘Chueco, you little shit!’ roars Fat Farías. ‘You motherfucker, I’m going to fucking kill you!’
With his one good hand, Farías has Chueco helpless. He’s twisted Chueco’s arm behind his back, up between his shoulder blades, and he looks like he’s about to break his wrist. Maybe his whole arm. Chueco’s on his knees now, scrabbling to reach round and claw Fat Farías’s face with his free hand, but he can’t reach. He tries to get up, but Farías twists his arm harder, forcing his face to the ground.
‘You snivelling fucking rat! I’m going to fuck you up, you and that other hijo de puta,’ Fat Farías roars and tries to kick me in the balls. I dodge him and try to make a run for it, but I feel a hand on the scruff of my neck dragging me back.
‘Play nice, kid,’ El Negro Sosa whispers in my ear.
I try to break loose but he squeezes harder. He’s breaking my fucking neck.
‘Play nice, che,’ he growls again.
Chueco is writhing on the ground cursing and howling in pain. Fat Farías is still bellowing threats while El Jetita wades into the chaos and tries to restore order.
‘Gordo, stop! Stop a minute. Let the kid go!’
‘Like fuck I’ll let him go, I’m going to kill the little fucker – this one and the other one.’
‘Stop, Gordo, let him go! Calm down.’ El Jetita grabs Fat Farías’s shoulder.
‘These are the fucking kids who robbed me!’ Farías carries on screaming. ‘I’m gonna kill this fucker.’ He twists Chueco’s arm viciously, making him howl even louder.
‘Chill, Farías,’ Rubén intervenes. ‘If you want, we’ll waste the pair of them, but right now just chill out.’
I see the flash of a gun. Turns out Fabián’s not slow or stupid. He’s the one who’s pulled the strap. I feel a chill run down my spine. And it’s obvious I’m limp with fear because El Negro Sosa’s hand is suddenly limp too. Farías realises what’s going on and gets to his feet, giving one last kick as he does so. Chueco doesn’t stop howling until El Jetita drags him up by the hair.
Through the strip curtain I can see Yanina’s eyes. I guess she was serving at the bar and came to see what all the screaming was about. From the scene in front of her, and from the terrified glance I shoot her, she must realise things have turned ugly.
‘Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on here?’ asks El Jetita.
‘Don’t you get it? These little fuckers are the ones who ripped me off!’ says Fat Farías.
‘You think I’d get my hands dirty robbing you, you stingy bastard?’ Chueco tries to laugh it off. ‘Who d’you think you are, fucking Rockefeller?’
And things go his way, because El Jetita laughs, and so does El Negro Sosa. Rubén is still stone-faced. Either Chueco is more cool-headed than I thought, or he’s more shit-scared than I am and it’s the panic that’s making him cunning. I know lots of people who go loopy when they’re scared.
‘How do you know it was them?’ asks El Jetita.
‘Cos of the watch.’
‘This watch here?’ El Jetita is trying to sound reasonable. ‘Is this your watch, Farías?’
‘Fifteen years I’ve had that watch – you think I don’t recognise it? There’s a small crack in the glass near the bottom.’
Chueco looks at the Citizen like he’s checking the time, then goes for broke. It’s all or nothing. He’s paler than the pages of Rubén’s notebook.
‘Are you saying this is your watch, Farías?’ he says angrily. ‘This is my fucking watch. I nicked it off a couple of kids yesterday, so it’s mine. What the hell’s got into you, Farías? You nearly broke my arm, you fuckwit.’
Chueco’s a genius when it comes to bullshitting. All we need now is for them to buy it. Fat Farías clearly doesn’t believe a word.
‘Hijo de puta, I’m going to fuck you up …’
El Jetita isn’t buying it either, but he plays along. He winks at Rubén who’s still stony-faced, and reassumes his role as a grown-up refereeing a kids’ game.
‘Let me see that watch. Where did you get it? Tell me, or I’ll end you –’
‘I told you, it’s mine. I robbed it off a couple of kids yesterday –’
‘What kids? Charly’s gang?’ says El Jetita, gently hinting at where Chueco needs to go with this.
‘They were taking the piss –’ Chueco says, testing the water.
‘You’re the one taking the piss … I told you to run them out of the barrio, not rob the little fuckers.’
It’s like El Jetita has superpowers, like his orders get carried out even before he gives them. Putting pressure on Charly’s kids is one of the things he asked us to do a few minutes ago, but now he’s taking it for granted that that’s what we were doing yesterday. Things are starting to become clearer. I take a breath.
‘Give him back the watch, Chueco,’ El Jetita says, all paternal.
‘It’s fucking mine, if they stole it from him, too fucking bad –’
‘Give it back, che!’ El Jetita roars, smacking him round the head.
It’s all an act, but they’re good, really good – even I’m starting to believe this shit. Chueco takes off the Citizen and hands it to Farías like he’s only doing it because he has to. El Jetita slaps Fat Farías on the back and explains the moral of the story.
‘You see, Farías, what did I tell you? Charly’s fucking with both of us. He’s stealing customers from me, and he robbed your place. The guy’s trying to set himself up on our turf, and if we don’t stop him, he’ll bury us.’
El Jetita is the one who’s trying to set up operations here in the bar and I’m betting it’s so he can use the place as a base for his dealing. Charly is the local dealer in Zavaleta. He’s been expanding his operation lately. And it’s true that his delivery boys have no respect for boundaries. Shit, even I’ve bought weed from them a couple of times. The prices are better than El Jetita’s. But from there it’s a pretty big stretch to think Charly is trying muscle in on his turf. There’s no way he could do it. He’d have to take down General Jetita and all his top brass first, then co-opt all his middle-ranking officers. The list would be too long. And it wouldn’t be like shooting ducks at a fair.
‘So what about these two?’ Fat Farías can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘Whose side d’you think they’re on, viejo? Because I’m telling you, I still think they’re the fuckers who robbed me –’
‘You dissing me, Gordo?’ Chueco jumps up. ‘Because I’ll break your –’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ El Jetita cuts him dead and goes back to being the peacemaker. ‘You’re wrong, Gordo. The boys are working with me. You think I don’t know who I’ve on my team? Chill. You’ve got your watch back, so stop busting my balls. Now, let’s strike camp.’
All the time El Jetita’s been banging on, Rubén has been staring at us stone-faced from behind Fat Farías. The others can’t see him, but we can. He gives us a wink and runs his finger across his throat.
When the big boss is done talking, we all troop out of the kitchen. Rubén and El Negro Sosa sit at the bar. The skinny runt Fabían heads off. El Jetita stops in the doorway chatting to Fat Farías.
‘Let’s bounce,’ whispers Chueco.
And we’re about to leave when El Jetita calls us. He takes a couple of steps towards us with a fuck-off smile tattooed on his face. He’s acting all friendly again.
‘Kids,’ he says in a low voice, ‘what can you do with them? You give them a simple little job and they land you in the shit.’
Chueco opens his hands, palms up, raises his eyebrows, like it’s nothing to do with him. I stand there, deadpan. I don’t know what little job he’s talking about
‘You little fucktard.’ He starts poking his finger hard into Chueco’s chest. ‘What, am I speaking Chinese or something? I told you straight up to shake down Farías and make sure you weren’t seen and you show up here wearing his watch, rubbing his face in it? What is it, you got shit for brains or have you been sniffing something?’
Chueco clicks his tongue. He shakes his head. He’s pale. Everything’s starting to fall into place for me. The fifty he was flashing in the bar before we did over Fat Farías wasn’t snide like he said it was. It was front money. And fuck knows how much he got for doing the job. The worst thing is, I went along with it and I didn’t have a fucking clue. And I didn’t get a peso out of it. So that’s how it is, Chueco, you lowlife hijo de puta. You play me for a fool and you don’t even tell me what’s going down – you even make me think I’m the one who gave you the idea to fuck Farías over. Have to hand it to you, you played me good … until now. Because from now on, you can go fuck yourself.
‘A complete balls-up,’ El Jetita says like he can read my mind, ‘and now Gordo is on to you … Dumb fucking kids …’ he swears under his breath, his jaw clenched so F
at Farías can’t overhear.
He stares at us, sparks a cigarette and makes like he’s thinking.
‘OK, kids,’ El Jetita says, the fake smile plastered over his face. The bastard knows how to make someone brick it. ‘Let me tell you how this is going to go. I’m going to let this one slide, but I’ve got you by the balls now, so you’d better do exactly what I tell you, because the first sign of any shit I’m going to rip them off. You get me?’
He turns before we’ve got a chance to say anything, and heads over to Fat Farías.
We walk three blocks in silence. Me thinking about my shit, Chueco thinking about his. Suddenly, I decide I’m sick of his crap, so I start spoiling for a fight – but I play dumb. I make like I haven’t worked out what’s going on.
‘So, you going to turn the tables on that fat fucker?’
‘Shut the fuck up, Gringo.’
‘Cos it looked to me like he was the one doing the turning … and he turned you out good.’
‘Shut your hole!’
‘OK. It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll be your second in command, OK? You lead the way and I’ll follow … you piece of fucking shit!’
HAND IN THE FIRE
‘SO TELL ME, gunslinger,’ I taunt Chueco, ‘why didn’t you pull the gat when Fat Farías was bitch-slapping you?’
It’s rare for Chueco to be the one to back down. Usually, however fucked up the situation, he acts first and deals with the consequences later. Luckily this time it was the other way round. If anyone had known he was strapped, the whole thing could have turned into a shitstorm and there’d have been a bunch of collateral damage. And when you’ve got people firing at random like that, there’s nothing you can do, the bad guys always win.
Seven Ways to Kill a Cat Page 6
