Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  The merry-go-round in my head is still spinning out of control. Every little blind horse that flies off is one more unexplained loose end in this fucking tangle: why did Toni have to disappear in the first place? And why can’t he come back (because those two things have got to be related)? Why doesn’t Mamina trust him? Why is El Jetita so interested in Toni all of a sudden, and what the fuck is Chueco doing caught up in this mess … ?

  The little horses fly off and shatter blindly against a wall of steel.

  ‘Hey, there they are,’ says Chueco. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  Charly’s dealers are sitting along the side of the path drinking a beer. We rush over to them like we’re desperate to score.

  ‘Qué onda?’ says Chueco.

  ‘What you looking for?’ El Negrito Silva says, getting up.

  The other kid stays sitting. His name’s Medusa. We’ve known him our whole lives. But when you’re dealing, no one’s got a name, that’s the rules.

  ‘Depends what you’re selling.’

  ‘Whatever you’re jonesing for, loco,’ Medusa says, still not getting up. ‘We’ve got everything.’

  They’re just kids, can’t be older than Quique, but when it comes to dealing, they’re pros. They’ve been running deliveries in the barrio for a couple of months now. Charly’s using them as an advance party to expand his business. And if things go wrong … well, they’re cannon fodder. That much is clear.

  ‘Viagra?’ Chueco says, completely deadpan.

  Silva looks at me and the smile on his face vanishes.

  ‘Don’t piss me around, shithead.’

  ‘I’ll give you shithead, you little motherfucker,’ Chueco says, pulling out the strap. ‘Now be good little boys and empty your pockets.’

  Little Medusa jumps to his feet and reaches for his belt.

  ‘Look out!’ I shout, grabbing the kid’s wrist with both hands before he can pull his gun. With his free hand Medusa grabs the hair at the back of my neck.

  ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, you little shit?!’ Chueco says, shoving the gat into the kid’s ear, wedging his head between the gun and my shoulder. But Medusa keeps struggling. The seconds tick past. I’m buzzing on adrenalin. I’m shitting myself.

  ‘What are you doing, guys?’ Silva says, his voice calm. ‘You’re gonna get yourselves in serious shit.’

  ‘Shut your hole, Negrito, and show me your fucking hands,’ screams Chueco. ‘Don’t fucking move or I’ll end you, and I’ll cap your little friend too if he goes for that strap!’ Chueco is bricking it. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.

  I’m staring at the sky. Black. Medusa has my head jerked back, tugging at a fistful of my hair like he’s about to rip it out. My neck hurts like fuck. But the difference in our ages works in my favour. I’ve still got both hands gripping Medusa’s wrist to stop him pulling the gun holstered in his pants. I force his wrist down hard, pressing the barrel into his balls. If he keeps this up, he’s going to blow his chances of passing on the family name.

  ‘Let it go. Let it fucking go,’ I say, and the sound of my own voice scares me shitless. I sound calmer than El Negrito Silva. Must be fear. ‘Cap him, Chueco, don’t piss about, just do it …’ I say, at the same time praying that neither of them gets a shot off.

  I don’t know if Chueco thinks I’m serious, but I suddenly feel Medusa’s head slam harder against my shoulder. Chueco’s drilling a hole in his ear with the gat. Since everything with Medusa seems to go in one ear and out the other, I’m probably looking at a bullet in the shoulder. But maybe he is listening, because the threat seems to work. He goes limp. I wrestle the gun from him and step back. It’s an automatic.

  ‘Fucking kids …’ says Chueco, letting out all the air in his lungs. He’s pale. To calm himself, he gives Medusa a kick in the stomach. ‘And one for you too, you little hood,’ he says, kicking Silva in the back of the head. El Negrito gags, swears and swallows snot. Medusa is still doubled over on the ground, one hand on his belly and the other on his mutilated ear.

  ‘Now these two little shits are going to listen to me and listen good. First you’re going to make a nice little pile of everything in your pockets, right down to the last toffee, on this …’ As he talks, Chueco takes off his jacket and lays it at Medusa’s feet like a blanket. ‘Come on, do it!’ he says, and gives another slap to El Negrito Silva who’s still snivelling.

  When Medusa said they had everything, he wasn’t shitting. On to the jacket they toss wraps of coke, tabs of acid, lumps of hash in every shape and size, rocks of paco, a dozen blister packs of pills of various colours, and a lot of cash in small bills.

  ‘I said everything down to your last Rolo, or are you trying to piss me off?’ Chueco growls, seeing them stop.

  The kids keep pulling wraps out of their underpants, their shoes, from behind their ears … it’s like Mandrake the Magician.

  ‘Incredible … these kids are a walking pharmacy,’ Chueco says excitedly. The gleam is back in his eyes; I’m guessing fear sobered him up pretty quick. Fucking moron. He always had good reflexes, but the first time he decides to play the gunslinger, he shows up off his face. We’re lucky Medusa didn’t end us both before he had time to react.

  ‘Take a look at this …’ he says, taking Medusa’s gun from me.

  He’s like a kid with a new toy. A .22 Beretta.

  ‘Careful, Chueco, mind what you’re doing!’ I yell, snatching the .38 from him.

  He turns the automatic over, takes out the clip, slaps it in again and leaves it cocked.

  ‘Right. You know what’s going to happen now, kids?’ Chueco goes all paternal again. ‘I’m going to count to twenty and then I’m going to do a little target practice. I’m not much of a shot, but I figure I’ll still hit one of you. Whichever of you gets away should go tell your boss from El Jetita that his little game is over. From now on, any dealing in the barrio is our business. Clear? Any of Charly’s people who stroll through the park this side of the refinery won’t be strolling back to Zavaleta. And anyone who comes to try and pick up what’s left of them will wind up the same way. Are we clear?’ Chueco concludes his speech, still turning the Beretta over in his hands. He’s in his element. The two kids don’t say anything. ‘Right, now why don’t you little fuckers get running, I want to test this beauty. Have to hand it to you, it’s a nice piece … On your feet, get moving! One, two, three …!’

  The two boys take off at top speed down the alley leading to the plaza. Chueco keeps counting, shouting out the numbers. By the time he gets to twenty, the kids are nearly four blocks away. He’d have a job hitting either of them. They start to zigzag. They know all the moves. Chueco fires off a couple of rounds just for the hell of it. Just to make some noise.

  He bends down and starts counting the money.

  ‘There’s a fucking fortune here, Gringo.’ He makes three piles, pushes one towards me and says, ‘Here, you take this one, I’ll take the other, the rest we hand over to El Jetita like good little boys. What do you say? Same with the dope. Jesus, this is fucking beautiful. There’s everything here. Take whatever you want.’

  I wad up the pile of money and stuff it into my pocket, pick up a lump of hash.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, take something decent, gay-boy. Have you ever seen so much dope in one place .. ?’

  ‘It’s cool, I’m fine with this,’ I say, nodding to the .38.

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Gringo,’ he shouts.

  I don’t answer.

  ‘What, you think you can take my fucking gun just like that?’

  ‘What do you think, Chuequito?’ I say, stuffing it into the back of my jeans.

  Chueco stares at me with the Beretta in his hands.

  ‘What? You going to shoot me? Better make sure you aim well, because if you fuck up, I’ll end you.’

  I turn my back and walk away. He hasn’t got the balls. At least that’s what I’m hoping.

  ‘Gringo. Gringo! Come back, che! Don’t be such a
jerk! Gringoooo!’ he wails like a sheep having its throat slit.

  I don’t even turn. Let him bitch all he wants, the gun’s mine. I earned it fair and square for saving his fucking arse. Besides, I’m going to need it. I can see it coming … Let him keep his new toy. I’ve got off the merry-go-round. I’m not spinning any more.

  THE CHURNING RIVER

  THERE’S A LIGHT on at home. Mamina’s back. So is Quique. Through the strip curtain I see a steaming bowl on the table. A hand stirs, loads a spoon and disappears. It’s the kid. They’re talking in low voices. Mamina’s probably telling him how his little sister is doing. I don’t go in. I walk on up the lane, toying with the lump of hash. I haven’t got any skins but it doesn’t matter, I use the scrap of paper that’s got Cristina’s number on it. I keep the bit with the number but smoke part of her name and most of the directions for how to get to Toni’s gaff in the Delta. I know them by heart anyway.

  I take the last couple of tokes on the bridge over the stream. The water’s pretty high right now from all the rain today. The wind’s blowing from the east, and the sky is clear. A fat, lazy full moon lights up the water as it rushes. The muddy riverbed must be all churned up.

  I chuck a couple of stones, try to skim them on the water, but they just skip once and then sink. Used to be I could get them to skip six, seven times, all the way across the river. Used to be able to smoke a cigarette right down to the butt without the ash falling … Used to. Not now. Now I’ve got a .38 with six bullets in the cylinder. I counted them. I’ve got some cash in my pocket and more in the whale book back home, under my mattress. I’ve got a fucked-up feeling I might lose my balance and fall, and a kind of longing to go to hell.

  I swing by Fat Farías’s place, but I don’t go inside. Chueco’s probably gone back to his squat to crash. If not, he’ll be inside doing deals with El Jetita. The bar is rammed. I go round and sit in the little courtyard out back where Farías chucks the empty wine barrels and all the rubbish from the kitchen. There’s some people in the storage shed at the far end. I know because I can see light coming through the little holes in the corrugated iron. Besides, someone’s moved all the crates of beer and fizzy drinks outside. I go closer to the shack and put my ear to the wall. I hear gasps. They’re fucking in there.

  I slip behind the wall of beer crates and creep towards the kitchen door. I hear the hoarse voice of a famous sports commentator and people shouting. They’re showing the highlights from today’s matches. That’s why the place is rammed: Farías has got a TV in.

  The door opens unexpectedly. I take a step back and hold my breath. Between the crates, framed against the light, I see El Negro Sosa. He can’t see me. I’m standing in the shadows.

  ‘Pampita!’ he yells. ‘Time’s up!’

  He goes back inside, leaving the door half open. I can hear people talking in the kitchen pretty clearly.

  ‘You want me to put the mattress down in the middle of the corridor?’ a woman’s voice says, husky from gin and cigarettes. I recognise it. It’s La Riquelme.

  ‘Obviously – it’s not like there’s any fucking space anywhere else,’ El Negro Sosa says irritably. ‘Why, were you planning to make up a camp bed on top of the stove, vieja?’

  ‘OK, papi, no need to take that tone with me. I was just asking …’

  ‘Less of that papi shit. It’s Señor Sosa to you. You better learn some respect or I’ll beat it into you.’

  I can imagine him raising his hand. El Negro looks exactly like you’d expect a pimp to look. It’s like he was born to play the part.

  ‘When Pampita’s next john is done, make up the bed here. I have a client for you, got it?’ he explains to old Riquelme.

  Two whores in one tiny little room. The space might be tight, but they’ve clearly got business turning over quickly. El Negro obviously wants to use the kitchen too, but it’s really narrow and it’s the only way to get out the back.

  Right. I’ve heard enough to have a good idea of the cards he’s holding. I’m about to bounce. But just as I’m about to come out from behind the beer crates, the shed door opens. A tall dark-haired guy who looks like he’s from the barrio comes out and heads back through the kitchen. The light from the storage shed hits me right in the face. Pampita leans in the doorway, casting a shadow over me, but she can’t miss me. The john disappears and I whisper, ‘Pampita, Pampita, don’t grass me up …’

  Her hair is a mess and she’s wearing a short nightdress. It’s old and worn. You can see her dark nipples and the triangle of pubic hair through it. She’s got no fat on her – I’m guessing she’s doesn’t eat much – and her skin is tanned. All the right curves in all the right places. Those hijos de puta have got themselves a fine piece of merchandise.

  ‘Gringo,’ she starts, ‘what you doing here?’

  ‘Shh … nothing … make like you haven’t seen me. What you been up to?’

  ‘Me? Nothing … they don’t give me time to catch my breath …’ she says.

  And she stops. Like she doesn’t want to talk about it. I raise an eyebrow and she says reluctantly, ‘Been in here since gone noon. I’ve fucked so many guys I’ve lost count.’

  ‘What are you bitching about?’ I say. ‘You must be raking it in …’

  ‘No, El Negro handles the cash. Hasn’t even told me what my cut is.’

  ‘In that case, I wouldn’t hold your breath …’

  Pampita’s eyes well up and catch me off guard. My cynicism disappears faster than a cat about to take a bath. There’s an awkward silence and then I ask a question, it’s dumb but it’s genuine.

  ‘How did you end up getting involved in all this?’

  ‘Your friend Chueco, he’s the one who tricked me into coming here. Then, soon as I got here, El Negro started laying into me with his belt. In the end I got tired of being hit …’ There’s another silence then she confirms my suspicions. ‘And since then the bastard’s taken everything I’ve got.’ Pampita brings a hand up to her arse. She’s crying now. El Negro Sosa’s really fucked her over.

  ‘I’m not surprised Chueco’s involved,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you wait till no one’s looking and do a runner?’

  ‘What if they catch me?’ she says. She’s terrified.

  ‘You have to risk it … I don’t know what you were thinking coming here, you’re never going to make it.’

  I feel sorry for her, because she’s not stupid. She realises now that just setting foot in Fat Farías’s place was a bad move, but I haven’t got time to tell her just how bad, to convince her to get the fuck out of here. El Negro’s already on his way with the next client. I can hear him telling dirty jokes and the john laughing. I give Pampita a wink, put a finger to my lips for her to keep her mouth shut. She nods and makes a vague gesture, something between an appeal and an acceptance. I sprint across the courtyard and hide behind the half-open door. I don’t move a muscle until the conversation dies away as the client goes into the shack with Pampita and Sosa goes back into the kitchen.

  The road is covered with a thin slick of mud. Just enough to break your neck. I decide to take the potholed pavement instead. At least there’s some traction. The soles of my shoes stick to the few unbroken paving stones. All I have to do is dodge the puddles.

  The wind comes in fits and starts, but it’s not cold. The night is stifling, humid. The roars of drunks celebrating goals carry from the bar on the wind, fading as I get further away. No one around. Not many lights on. It’s late and tomorrow’s a work day. What’s left of the street light ends here where the tarmac stops. This is where the barrio really starts. A gaping hole in the darkness. The wolf’s mouth, as the cool porteños call it.

  Solitude, crickets, frogs. The soundtrack of fear. If only it would rain in a biblical way, a downpour that would rip the sky open and make the earth thunder. But the only thing thundering right now is my stomach. It wants food. It’s been gnawing on fear for hours now. I have to feed it something, even though I don’t feel hungry. I walk a couple m
ore blocks down the dirt path of the dark alley and turn down one of the cul-de-sacs by the station. From a distance I can see a light on in Zaid the Turk’s place. He’s always open. Don’t know when he sleeps. Must be the only way to keep the business going.

  The Turk set up a stall with what fight he had left in him after his mastiff had to be put down. There wasn’t a dog in the world like Albino, he said, and he gave up going to the dog fights. On one of the walls of the shop he’s still got a huge photo of the dog in mid-slaughter. It’s a blurry, out-of-focus shot, but it says it all. A white form spattered with red standing over a pile of blood and hair.

  The Turk spends all his spare time staring at that photo. And he’s got a lot of spare time, because he never closes. Sundays, public holidays, three in the morning, Zaid’s stall is always open, and he’s always standing there, motionless, on guard. Go figure what he sees in that fucking photo. Albino’s the one should be watching over him.

  And that’s how he is when I get to the stall. Silently grieving over his memories or the spectre of guilt. What the fuck do I know. Through the bars of the grill, he serves up what I ask for: five alfajor biscuits on special offer, a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Legui. We barely speak. He gives me a plastic bag with my change, and I take it without a word and put what I’ve bought in it. The Turk’s already sat back down on the bench behind the counter, eyes half closed, staring at the picture of the dog. I leave without saying thanks.

  I wander around aimlessly, swinging the plastic bag and stop again by the river. But this time I don’t go onto the bridge. I sit on a pile of rubble on the bank. The water’s still rising. It’s moving like an animal. Swirling and eddying. Washing away all the garbage.

  There’s only a sliver of moon visible now in the gaps between the clouds tumbling across the sky. Difficult to tell which is moving faster, the river or the storm.

  I peel the foil off the first alfajor and eat it half-heartedly. I wash down the rest with a couple of shots of Legui. What with the caramel and sugary quince jelly in the alfajor and the sweet liquor, it’s cloying and sickly sweet. But I still feel the same bitterness inside. I try not to think. I light one cigarette after another, chain-smoking until the bottle’s empty. I toss it in the river and it sinks like a stone. I picture it spinning down to the bottom. The riverbed must be more grotty than Pampita’s rickety old bed.