Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight. But right now I’m not sure. I mean, I’d like you as my backup, but if you’re just going to tag along with your tail between your legs don’t bother.’

  ‘What the fuck do you take me for, Chueco? You looking for a smack in the mouth?’ It’s not a threat, it’s an invitation for him to say something, give me a good reason to smash his face. But he’s a crafty fucker, he knows me too well. He’s got what he wanted. So he just gives a soft laugh and says nothing. I clench my fists and walk out, my heart hammering in my temples.

  CODE VIOLATION

  IN THE SPLIT second between Fat Farías putting the key in the lock and turning it, and the crowbar hitting the back of his head, which slams against the metal door and pushes it open, a thousand different thoughts burn through my brain. I’m off my face on coke. Chueco’s fifty-peso bill might have been dud, but it was real enough to get us three grams of merca, and we’ve already snorted the lot.

  I think: what’ll happen if Farías recognises us? Chueco says we’ll be fine, but with him you never know. Not that I’d give a shit if we killed the fat bastard, but then I think about Yanina, Farías’s daughter. Supposedly she’s out dancing down at the local cumbia club like every Thursday – that’s why the job has to be tonight – but what if she’s inside watching TV? And even if she’s not, what if this shit goes bad? Farías might be a son of a bitch but he treats that kid like a princess. Yani’s mother died a couple of years ago and I don’t fancy leaving the kid an orphan. I say ‘kid’, but these days Yanina’s got one hell of a body on her. Far as I know, she hasn’t got any other relatives. If anything goes wrong and she’s left to look after the bar on her own, she’ll be eaten alive.

  I think: what if someone sees us? I jerk my head round, check no one’s watching before I whack Farías. Chueco’s never had a moral code. Now I don’t either. But in the barrio, there is a code everyone lives by: you don’t shit on your own doorstep. Any shit that goes down in the barrio is generally the work of some dumb fuck who accidentally wandered onto our turf. The code in the barrio makes sense. Least you know when you send your kid down the bakery, your neighbour’s not going to mug him, because if he does he won’t live long enough to brag about it. And it means you’re not going to jump that girl walking down an alley at night because you don’t want someone else fucking your wife or your sister or your daughter.

  I can’t see anyone, but you never know. In the darkness, there are thousands of restless eyes. All it takes is one person looking this way and we’re fucked. Well and truly fucked. Because we’d be better off getting beat down by the Feds than having the people round here remind us of the code.

  As Farías’s head slams into the metal door, time starts up again. And I stop thinking.

  ‘Come on, come on, move it …’ Chueco hisses, trying to push Farías’s body inside. When I whacked him, he keeled over in the doorway. I step over the body, grab his shoulders and haul him inside. Chueco closes the door. A dog is barking somewhere and I can barely hear Fat Farías’s hoarse moan. He’s half conscious. Chueco wraps his head in a burlap bag he got from fuck knows where. He always comes prepared. He takes off his belt and lashes Farías’s hands behind his back.

  I tiptoe down the corridor. The place is dark, deserted. I come to some sort of living room. The glow from the street lights streams through the half-closed venetian blinds. I turn a light on. A table, three chairs, a television balanced on a plastic beer crate, and everywhere you look, there’s rubbish.

  Chueco comes in and starts poking around. There’s nowhere much in here to hide any cash. After couple of minutes, we move on to the kitchen. The place is filthy: dirty dishes, cockroaches, burnt saucepans. There are no doors on the cupboards or the cabinets under the counter. We don’t need to touch them to see what’s inside – just as well since I’m figuring they haven’t been cleaned since Yani’s mother died. And probably not for a couple of years before that. The fridge is empty, maybe broken. Chueco checks it out, then starts opening the pots and jars on the shelves. Pasta, beans, mate, sugar …

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I hiss.

  ‘What’s it look like, dumbfuck? Misers always stash their cash in weird places. Don’t you know anything?’

  When Chueco starts making like he knows everything, I want to strangle the bastard, but I don’t say anything. Anyway, maybe he’s right. Probably best to check everywhere. I leave him to it and head into the next room. It’s Yanina’s room. I can tell from the photos pinned on the walls and the clothes strewn all over on the floor: a cotton blouse, a bra and a pair of Lycra shorts. I pick up the shorts, stretch them, and picturing her tight arse in them gives me a fucking hard-on. I check the wardrobe, turn the bed over, rummage through the drawers in the bedside table. I know there’s no way Farías’s money is in here, but since Chueco’s being thorough searching the kitchen, I figure it’s a good excuse for me to go through Yanina’s stuff.

  Her room is a tip too, but everything in it is impregnated with the smell of her. I like it. In a drawer in the dressing table, among the lipsticks, the make-up and the nail polish, I find a spliff and tuck it behind my ear. There’s a bunch of photos and papers in the other drawers and I’m reading them when Chueco starts shouting and distracts me.

  ‘What did I tell you?! That hijo de puta– come and see this – it’s fucking unbelievable.’ He sounds genuinely surprised. ‘It’s not even like Gordo works in a bank.’

  I find him in Fat Farías’s bedroom looking so amazed it’s like he’s dislocated his jaw.

  ‘It’s just like in the movies, Gringo. I can’t fucking believe it!’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ I hate it when he’s all mysterious, it makes me nervous. ‘Did you find the cash?’

  ‘Look,’ he says, pointing to the built-in wardrobe, the mesh screen door covered in fly shit.

  He rips it open, pushes Fat Farías’s clothes along the rail and suddenly I see what’s got him all worked up. At the back of the wardrobe there’s a safe – one of those old green safes with a little black dial where you put in the combination and all that shit. I glance over at Chueco, and when I see the look of misery on his face, all my tension is released and I burst out laughing.

  ‘What the fuck you giggling at, you moron? What are we supposed to do now?’

  I can’t say anything. I’m holding my sides, laughing so hard I feel like I’m about to dislocate something. As I wipe tears from my face, I hear a metallic twang I recognise. It’s the spring of his flick knife.

  ‘Only one thing for it, we’ll have to wake up our fat friend and persuade him to give us the combination,’ he says, running his thumb along the blade, and the almost affectionate tone of his voice scares the shit out of me.

  ‘Hold up, you mad fucker. Look at this thing.’ I rap on the safe with my knuckles. ‘Can’t you see it’s a piece of shit?’

  It sounds like a biscuit tin, which surprises even me. The door’s rusted along the bottom, at the top and around the lock itself, which has one of those big handles you get on bank vaults. It’s a Mickey Mouse safe. A toy for gullible misers. The sort of thing a kid would pull apart just to see how it works.

  Without a word, I retrace my steps, pick up the crowbar I whacked Farías with and head back into the bedroom. Chueco is pale. He opens his mouth but he doesn’t say anything. I signal for him to stand back. I give the handle a vicious clout and it comes loose from the rust-eaten door. I jiggle it until it comes off, blow into the hole, some flakes of rust flutter out, and I slip my fingers inside. Using a fingernail I release the catch and the safe opens. Simple as. Like I’ve been doing this shit my whole life.

  I don’t have time to wonder how I came up with this brainwave because Chueco has already got both hands in the safe and is pulling everything out: old documents, invoices, receipt books, porn mags, mortgage deeds, leaflets from wine merchants and meat suppliers from years back and, lastly, a shoebox tied with string.

&
nbsp; ‘Bingo …’ Chueco says, cutting the string with his flick knife.

  He takes off the lid and banknotes in every colour of the rainbow spill out – blue, brown, green, red, purple … They’ve all got lots of zeros and they all bear the face of El Libertador. We stand there, staring at them like idiots. I remember notes like this, and I’m sure Chueco does. A brown one used to buy you a bag of popcorn, for a blue one you could get a bottle of Coke. If you had a red one, you could have a blowout. Pesos ley, they were called back in the late 1970s. They haven’t been in circulation for nearly fifteen years.

  Hands shaking, Chueco tips out the contents of the box, and when he sees there’s no legal tender, he starts cursing and swearing, his voice quavering and shrill like he’s about to cry any minute.

  ‘Don’t fuck about,’ I warn him. ‘Someone’ll hear us.’

  This just makes it worse. He starts screaming and lashing out, kicking anything within reach.

  ‘Chueco, come on, we need to get out of here. It’s over.’

  He’s not listening. I grab him by the shoulders and push him towards the door. When he sees Fat Farías lying at the far end of the corridor, his rage boils up again. He gives him a savage running kick that lifts the fat bastard off the ground, for all his weight. Farías seems half dead. He barely whimpers now as Chueco lays into him.

  ‘Stop! Chueco, stop! Fucking animal!’ I shout and plant myself between his boot and Farías’s head.

  I bend down and check Farías over. There’s a roll of bills in his shirt pocket. It’s not much, but at least it’s real money.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s get the hell out of here.’

  ‘No, wait,’ Chueco says. ‘I’m confiscating this too.’ He rips off Fat Farías’s wristwatch – a Citizen that’s at least ten years old – and waves it under my nose. His eyes are shining now, and the moron is laughing.

  ‘Come on,’ I shout, ‘let’s do one.’

  A LITTLE CHAT

  ‘GRINGO!’

  ‘Huh …?’

  ‘Gringo! Gringooo!’

  Someone’s shaking my shoulder.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Gringo!’

  I open my eyes. It’s Quique.

  ‘What you doing here? Where’s Mamina?’

  ‘She’s outside having a chat with my old woman.’

  Unwillingly I crawl out of bed and start getting dressed. It’s hot. The window’s open. The sun’s already high and hammering down hard. Quique is yakking away but I’m not listening. My brain is a fog. I put on some slippers and head into the bathroom. The cold water brings me round a bit. I’m awake now.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ I ask.

  Quique looks at me pleadingly.

  ‘No school today. Teachers’ strike.’

  ‘You had breakfast?’ I say, wandering into the kitchen.

  Quique trots after me like a lapdog. He’s been following me around for days now – I’ve only just noticed.

  ‘You had breakfast?’ I ask again, putting the kettle on the hotplate.

  ‘Yeah …’ He doesn’t sound convinced.

  The water boils. I brew up some strong mate. Quique sits at the kitchen table watching me. I put the two mates on the table, look to see if there’s any bread but there isn’t, but I do find a packet of biscuits with three left. I chuck the kid two of them, wolf the other one and sit down. Quique blows on the steaming mate, carefully dunks the first biscuit and eats it slowly. He repeats the operation with the second biscuit. When he’s finished, he blows on the mate again and takes a sip. He squeezes his eyes shut and swears.

  ‘Fuck sake, I just burnt my balls. It’s fucking scalding.’

  ‘Just like it should be,’ I say.

  I like the little runt. He’s a good kid.

  He keeps on blowing and tries again. This time he pulls a face.

  ‘What’s up, viejo?’ I say.

  ‘Got any sugar?’

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ I say with a bow.

  Quique looks at me warily, but I’m not taking the piss – I forgot the sugar because I don’t take any. I get up and fetch a spoon and a couple of those little sachets I steal for Mamina from McDonald’s whenever I pass one. She likes her mate sweet. Really sweet.

  Quique toys with the sachet for a second or two, thanks me with a nod, then rips it open and tips in the sugar. He stirs it carefully, like it’s some explosive mixture. We drink in silence.

  When he’s done, he tosses down the spoon and gets up.

  ‘So? We going, or what?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Shit, loco, I told you already!’ He’s angry now.

  Nobody likes having to repeat stuff because someone couldn’t be bothered to listen. Not even kids. Especially not Quique. From the way he moves, his silences, even his expression, it’s like he’s a miniature adult. Like he’s been forced to grow up before his time.

  I pat him on the back. ‘So where was it we were going to go, champ?’ I ask again. Truth is I’ve got no idea. He probably told me while I was getting dressed but it didn’t register.

  ‘Down the dump, collecting cardboard. El Chelo lent me his cart. He’s not going down there today, something to do with the march, the teachers’ strike and all that shit.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I lie. ‘I’ve got stuff on.’

  He looks up at me with big round eyes, disappointed. Either he’s pissed at me, or he really needs the few centavos he’ll get for twenty kilos of paper. Both probably.

  ‘Hey … don’t take it like that, che. It’s no big deal. I mean, it’s not worth it, is it, slogging your guts out all day for a couple of pesos …?

  Quique sighs, stares into the distance. It’s like he’s not there. I stuff my hands in my pockets, feel the roll of bills in the right-hand one. I’ve got some cash. I peel off a five-peso note and hold it out.

  ‘Here, go buy yourself something … and make the most of your day off.’

  Quique stares, open-mouthed, suspicious.

  ‘Thanks, Gringo,’ he says and he’s off like a shot.

  ‘Hey, get something for your kid sister!’ I shout as he disappears through the strip curtain onto the street.

  I amble after him. Outside, Grandma is leaning on her broom chatting to Ernestina.

  ‘Hey, Mamina, how are you this morning?’

  Ernestina’s too busy shouting after Quique to register I’m there. But the kid’s already too far away to be able to hear.

  ‘Good, good, m’hijo,’ she says and gives me a wrinkly smile, her face screwed up like a raisin.

  Ernestina flashes me a poor excuse for a smile then goes back to talking to Mamina. Quique’s mother is not looking after herself these days. She’s aged a lot, she’s really pale and she’s lost a ton of weight. Her tits have gone south and it looks like her smile’s gone with them. You’d never know she used to be wild sexy Ernestina who turned the head of every man in the barrio.

  I light a cigarette. Seeing that I’m still staring at her, Ernestina says to me, ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ I say.

  Ernestina doesn’t answer, she goes back to telling Mamina the story, the two of them huddled together gossiping in low voices. I stand there eavesdropping.

  ‘… someone mugged Farías last night, nearly killed him. The paramedics had to rush him to hospital in an ambulance. Fractured his skull, they did, and broke a couple of ribs. A couple of lads, people are saying, delinquents, junkies. Did anyone see them? Possibly. It couldn’t be any of the boys from the barrio, it must be someone who came in from Zavaleta. It’s terrible. It’s not safe to walk the streets these days. Rubén says when he tracks them down, he’s going to shoot them where they stand. What about the daughter? She wasn’t in the house, thank God.’

  I listen intently, not saying anything, not reacting. I don’t know how I’m even supposed to react: surprise, anger, curiosity, indifference …? The whole thing sounds so unreal, it’s like it’s got nothing to
do with me. Honestly.

  I know I should be worried when Rubén’s name comes up, but it just rolls off me. Rubén runs the local scrapyard, but far as I know he doesn’t go around strapped. Even if he did, he’s hardly the sort of guy to make you shit your pants. But he’s a man of his word: if Rubén says he’ll do something, he does it. That’s why even the Feds round here respect him. He never fucks them over, except maybe in the dodgy business deals they’ve got going.

  What does worry me is the fact that Rubén’s tight with El Jetita. Now El Jetita really is one dangerous hijo de puta. He’s the local drugs lord, his crew handles all the weed and the merca in the barrio. If Rubén manages to convince El Jetita to sign up for this crusade to cap the guys who beat up Fat Farías, we’re screwed. No two ways.

  Thing is, I can’t work out why Rubén would give a flying fuck about Farías. Maybe he’s developed a taste for the rat poison he serves. Or maybe he’s trying to make himself look like an upstanding citizen so he can get in good with someone. But I doubt that. It’s too complicated for something Rubén would come up with. There’s only two possible reasons for Rubén to get mixed up in something like this: either something’s in it for him, or it’s sheer blind rage. Problem is, I can’t see what could possibly be in this for Rubén, but I can’t see why he’d be all fired up either. Finding out who whacked a lowlife like Fat Farías isn’t the sort of thing to get people round here worked up. Especially not Rubén.

  Obviously there’s the whole barrio ‘code of honour’ thing, but I don’t think it’s about that. There’s something here that doesn’t fit. Something stinks. Stinks like a dead cat …

  ‘I’m heading out, Mamina. You need anything …’ I say slyly as I slip a couple of big bills into the pocket of her apron, ‘apart from money?’

  ‘How about a kiss, my little Gringo?’ she says, sweet-talking me.

  I give her a kiss; even give her a quick hug. Something about the tone of her voice bugs me. It’s weird, but when she called me Gringo, it’s like she was talking to someone else. At least that’s how it sounded.