Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  He’s about to tell me some more, but he can tell from my expression that I need him to be more specific. He starts bundling his stuff into his blanket and goes back to talking about jewellery. He talks about alpaca, tin, silver; plate and alloy wire – length in metres, diameter in millimetres – about semi-precious stones, paste jewellery, beads, glass. I’m completely confused, and I’m getting annoyed now.

  ‘Yeah, but how much to get started?’

  He starts calculating, pulling numbers out of the air.

  ‘Just a rough guess, Toni.’

  He gives me a figure. I do a quick calculation of what I’ve got left in my pocket after my spending spree, and figure I’ve got more than enough.

  ‘Then there’s the tools. To start off, you’ll need a couple of pairs of needle-nose pliers, nail clippers, a jeweller’s hammer. But don’t worry, I can front you for a while.’

  ‘OK, Toni, that’s enough to be going on with, viejo.’ With everything he’s told me, I’m already excited.

  We say nothing for a couple of minutes but when he’s finished packing up he says, ‘When you make up your mind, let me know. I’ve got this girl I work with who’ll do me a good price, she’ll even bankroll me.’

  ‘How do I find you?’

  ‘We’re out on an island in the Tigre Delta until next month.’ He takes a scrap of paper and a biro from his backpack and writes out the address. ‘It’s easy to find. You can’t miss it,’ he says looking at me and smiling. ‘But I’ll give you the girl’s phone number. Cristina, her name is; she always knows where to find us.’

  I slip the piece of paper into my book and say goodbye. Toni doesn’t say anything. He gives me a big hug and slopes off with the rest of the gang. After a couple of steps he turns and gives me a wink. And I stand there, alone in the park, sorting things out in my head.

  HEADING BACK

  THERE’S FIFTEEN MINUTES before the train leaves. It’s the last one back to the barrio. I check the time on the rusty panel in Buenos Aires station. A guard has just turned the handle that controls the three timetables: destinations, times, platforms. After mine, on the south branch line, there’s one train twenty minutes later heading south-west. After that, nothing.

  If I’d hung around a little longer, I’d have had to spend the night in the station. And I can’t say I much fancy the idea. There’s not even a clean bench you could stretch out on. Next to the ticket office a filthy tramp is setting up cardboard boxes to bed down for the night. Further along, a cripple with a begging sign is ranting and raving like some psycho. He’s necking a carton of panther piss and arguing with the ghosts clouding his vision. To complete the set, a dark-skinned guy with a pockmarked face is closing up the news-stand and kicking the metal shutter down.

  Up on the platforms there’s a gang of kids sniffing glue from Coke cans. Not much chance of a good night’s sleep with them around. When they’re stoned, they could easily set fire to you while you’re asleep – just for a laugh. I think I recognise one of them from the barrio. I think he hangs with Quique, but I’m not sure. They’re all the same, those kids. Doesn’t matter whether they’ve got mothers, fathers, brothers, their real family is on the street. Chueco was like that. So was I. But we’re grown up now and we’ve got things sussed. No one calls us sons of the street now, they call us sons of bitches.

  I dodge a couple of delinquents fucking around on the platform and spot a café that’s still open. I go in and sit at the counter. The guy’s already closing up. He’s just finished cleaning the coffee machine and started in on the grill. He picks out a piece of dried-up meat and puts it on a plate. Just as he’s about to throw away a burnt piece of sausage, I say, ‘Hey, if you’re going to toss it, give it to me, boss.’

  The guy turns and glares at me. He obviously doesn’t find the joke funny. I back down, I don’t want any grief.

  ‘Could I get a sausage sandwich, please boss, and a glass of wine?’

  ‘If you want it hot, you got no chance, kid, there’s no charcoal on the grill.’

  ‘No, as it comes is fine …’ I say.

  While he’s dealing with the food, I fumble for my money. A handful of coins to pay him. I slip the number Toni gave me and a couple of big bills into my book. I put the rest back into my pocket. The wine is even worse than the muck Fat Farías sells and the bread is stale. When you’re served rat poison there’s nothing you can do. I use the bread to sop up the chimichurri sauce which makes it just about edible. As I’m taking the second bite, I hear my train called over the loudspeaker. I knock back the wine, pay up and leave, still chewing.

  By the time I climb aboard the train, it’s already pulling out. I walk through the carriages towards the front of the train. I don’t really know why – it’s not like there’s no empty seats. There are only a couple of passengers in each carriage, stretched out so they can sleep. In the third carriage, I see her. She’s sitting in a window seat, her back to me. I recognise her straight off. Without thinking, I plonk myself down next to her.

  ‘Yani! Qué onda?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, startled. ‘How are things with you?’ She’s lying; she looks terrible. It’s hardly surprising.

  ‘How’s your old man?’ I ask. I sound like an arsehole, but I genuinely want to know.

  ‘You heard then? He’s OK. I’m just on my way back from the hospital. The doctors did X-rays and a brain scan, and it turns out there’s no serious damage, thank God. They gave him five stitches, put a dressing on the gash in his head. He’s got a broken rib, but it’s not serious. They’re letting him out tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s good. Are you going to pick him up?’

  ‘No. El Jetita is going to collect him in his car,’ she says.

  ‘El Jetita?’ I slip up.

  ‘Yeah. It’s really weird,’ she says, studying me carefully. ‘These days, he and my old man are inseparable as arsecrack and underpants. He even showed up at the hospital today …’

  I swallow hard, trying to think of a way out of this mess.

  ‘What about you? How are you bearing up?’

  ‘Fine …’

  ‘What’s with the face then? Were you worried?’

  ‘No, of course not. I knew he’d be fine. You know what my old man’s like. By the time I found him, he was washing the blood out of his hair, and was all for closing up the wound with superglue. Didn’t even want to see a doctor. It took me an age to get him to go to the first-aid clinic.’

  ‘So what is it then? What’s up with you?’

  She clicks her tongue, sighs, stares out the window. She’s pissed off or she’s scared, one of the two. But mostly, she’s cute. Her mouth tightens up like a purple flower. She half closes her eyes and the ends of her eyebrows curve upward. She looks like a cat on heat. All she needs is a pair of little pointy ears. She pushes back her long black hair and gives me a sidelong glance.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you, Gringo, but you can’t say a word to anyone, OK?’ She’s staring at me evenly now.

  I try to read her eyes, but they’re inscrutable. I nod and wait for her to say something.

  ‘I’m worried about what’s going on between El Jetita and my old man. I don’t know what deal they’ve got going, but whatever it is I don’t like it. El Jetita’s following me around all the time and coming on to me and papá doesn’t say anything …’

  ‘Because your Papá is a first-class cunt,’ I think, and the more I think about it the angrier I get. Fat Farías has always been the gamekeeper, keeping poachers away from his little girl, and now he’s prepared to serve her up on a plate to that fucking pervert. Either he’s getting something out of the deal – and it would have to be something big, otherwise it wouldn’t make sense – or else El Jetita’s got him by the balls and he’s got no choice but to turn a blind eye. But whatever the reason, the fat fucker is prepared to peddle his own daughter. I should have let Chueco kick him all the way into the next barrio.

  ‘Don’t let it get to you, Yani,’ I say, choking
back my anger. ‘You can count on me, anything you need …’

  She looks at me sceptically. I go on.

  ‘El Jetita’s a fucking psycho, playing the gangster. Someone needs to put a stop to it, that’s all.’

  ‘And you’re the one to stop it?’ she asks mischievously and smiles at me.

  ‘What, you think I’m chicken?’ I say like it’s a joke, but I’m deadly serious.

  Yani does her best to change the subject and I go along with it for the next couple of stops, but after that we sit in silence. Each deep in our thoughts.

  A conductor comes through the carriages closing the metal blinds. He nods for Yani to pull down the one next to her. He doesn’t bother to explain – not that he needs to, we know the deal – and goes on his way. We’re coming into prime stone-throwing territory – kids throwing rocks big enough to split the head of anyone dumb enough to have the windows open in summer, or smash the train window in winter. I’ve seen it happen. But it’s all quiet this trip. Nothing going bump in the night.

  Yani tries to pick up the conversation, asks what I’ve been up to. I lie a bit, and then tell her what I did with my day. She asks about the book, and I lie again, try to sound interesting. She talks about the books her teacher had her read for class last year. El Matadero, which was disgusting, and Amalia, which she loved. This year she’s doing her final exams.

  ‘Are you going to keep it up? The studying?’

  ‘Don’t know. What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’ I glare at her.

  She looks embarrassed and I regret the words straight away. I make like a mental defective, ask her to repeat the question and she laughs and we’re cool again.

  ‘I was only asking if you’re planning on finishing school, babes. They run a class at night school for adults to take their exams. You’re nineteen, right, you’re an adult? Three years and you could have a qualification.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe if I could get a cushy morning job I might go back to school.’

  The train is pulling in. The station is dark. I say the first thing that comes into my head, trying to sound mysterious and enigmatic to make her laugh. And she does. I love the way her cheeks dimple when she smiles. She’s so pretty. Just hearing her laugh turns me on. I imagine her laughing like that, stark naked. For me, in my bed.

  We stand there for a minute or two until the train pulls out. We’re about to say goodbye. I’m going across the tracks, she’ll be heading down the hill. I tell her again, seriously this time, that if she has any trouble with El Jetita she can count on me. She thanks me. She kisses me on the cheek like we’ve been friends our whole lives, and then she’s gone.

  INVESTMENTS

  THERE’S BEEN NO sign of Quique today which is weird, given that it’s Saturday. And Mamina hasn’t said a word to me. We had lunch in silence, some sort of stew with a few noodles, a couple of cabbage leaves and stray scraps of meat floating in it. I’m guessing it cost most of the money I gave her yesterday. But I don’t dare ask. I just eat. When Mamina isn’t talking it’s because she’s got nothing good to say. And since it’s not like she’s afraid to say what she thinks, it’s better not to provoke her. Right now she’s having a siesta.

  I’m reading the whale book in the little courtyard out the back. I didn’t go out this morning, didn’t feel like it. Don’t feel like it now but I’m tired of prowling round the house like an animal in a cage. A very small cage. I spend the afternoon drinking mate and listening to last night’s stock-car race at Turismo Carretera until I get bored.

  I’m reading to take my mind off things, but I still feel panicky. Ishmael, the guy telling the story, is a cook and whenever he gets panicky and feels like putting a bullet in his brain, he boards a ship and sets off somewhere. Doesn’t care where he’s headed, he says, but this time it looks like he’s got a good idea because he holes up overnight in this strange little inn and waits a day and a half for a boat that goes to an island from where the whaling ships set sail.

  The way he talks is kind of weird, but I know exactly how he’s feeling. Makes me feel I should do the same thing. Probably wouldn’t be that easy. I’ve never tried stowing aboard a cargo ship down at the port, but if I did, I’m sure I’d be chucked overboard. Or they’d take me for a thief and throw me in jail.

  I keep reading, but I can’t concentrate. I’m not getting anywhere. It’s the middle of the afternoon and the sun seems to be setting already. The stubby fig tree in the courtyard is starting to block the weak, orangey light. Every now and then the wind turns the page before I’m done reading it, and I have to turn back. The breeze is chilly. Autumn’s coming in.

  I feel someone watching me. I look up and I see Chueco looking over the courtyard wall.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, gay boy? Since when did you start reading books?’

  I don’t answer. I settle myself on the plastic crate, lean back against the wall, pretend to keep reading. Chueco throws a leg over the wall, jumps down and comes towards me. He stops about three feet away and stands there, legs apart, blocking the light.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re blowing the money I gave you on this shit, kid. Me, I invested my share of the take,’ he says, opening his denim jacket so I can see the fucker’s strapped.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ I reach out.

  As he tries to take the gun out of his belt, he gets the trigger guard caught in his T-shirt and starts swearing and tugging. For all his gangster posing, he obviously hasn’t a fucking clue. He holds it out to me, but instead of twirling it on his finger and offering me the butt, he points it at me.

  ‘Fuck sake, Chueco, what the hell are you doing?!’ I shout, flinching.

  I shouldn’t have shouted, I should have smashed his face in. It’s loaded. It’s a .38. It looks cool, a bit battered but recently blued. The original butt must have broken off at some point because it’s got a new pale wood butt held together with rivets with the heads sanded down, but it looks hard.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ I ask, handing the gun back.

  ‘What the fuck you care?’ he snaps.

  He laughs, puts on his best thug face and starts waving the thing around. Chueco is off his head. The fucker’s more dangerous than a monkey with a machete, I’m thinking, trying to stay out of the line of fire – which is hard since he’s spinning his arm like a windmill.

  ‘So, what, you figure you’ve got a career as a gangster?’ I say, but he’s not listening. He’s acting his part, all he needs is a film crew. He makes like he’s pulling the gun from an armpit holster and threatening some invisible guy. He pokes it into the guy’s kidneys, the barrel pressed right against his body, grabbing him by the throat with his left hand. He plays the scene out, pretends to fire, making bang, bang noises like a kid, firing all over the place, steadying the gun with his left hand. He fires up, fires down, spins round and goes on capping a bunch of ghosts. He finishes by stretching his arm out and trying to turn the gun on himself. When he’s finally tired of play-acting, he says, ‘If the señorita is done with her books and wants to try out my new work tool, I’ve got no problem with that.’

  I don’t think twice.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  We get to the patch of waste ground that used to be a football pitch and is now a rubbish tip and Chueco picks up a one-litre can. A bit dented but intact. He positions it on a clear patch of ground and backs off five metres. He aims, fires and misses. By a mile. It raises a spray of dirt about a foot and a half from the can.

  ‘Let’s see what the señorita can do,’ he says and passes me the gun.

  ‘Keep it up with that shit and I’ll split your head open,’ I say.

  ‘Bring it on, señorita …’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I say, taking aim.

  Chueco always did know how to wind me up. I don’t know how he manages it, but he always does. Weird, because when it’s some random fuckwit trying to wind me up, I don’t give a shit.

  Just as I’
m about to squeeze the trigger he nudges me to make me miss. And I miss, but not by much. I aim again, holding my breath.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he yells.

  I ignore him and concentrate. I remember what Toni used to tell me when I was a kid about how to fire a gun. He’d take me down to the patch of waste ground that used to be on the other side of the stream before they fenced it off to make a golf course and build a gated community. Toni always managed to bag a partridge, sometimes a hare. They say the place is teeming with animals these days. And it’s not hard to believe – even without going inside the gate it’s obvious the golf course is nothing but scrubland. But no one goes in there any more, and with all the security guards watching the perimeter they sure as fuck wouldn’t go strapped.

  It’s like riding a bike, you never forget, I tell myself, spreading my legs to distribute my weight, right foot forward like Toni taught me, tracing an invisible line between the eye, the sight and the target. It was easier with Toni’s shotgun, even if it did weigh a ton, because it was like a ruler – all you had to do was line it up, hold your breath and gently squeeze the trigger. If your aim was a bit off, the spread of shotgun pellets helped. Obviously if the partridge was on the wing, it was harder because then you had to trace a moving invisible line, but anything on the ground was easy. I got sick of shooting rats and weasels. I even managed to do pretty well with the .22 Toni used to have. The only difference was you had to stretch your arm out and use that as your ruler. Oh, and the recoil didn’t fuck your shoulder up. With the .22, the recoil was just a quick jolt, but Toni’s shotgun had a serious kickback to it. If you didn’t brace it properly, you’d end up with bruises on your shoulder.

  Chueco’s talking to me, but I’m not listening. I hold my breath and I fire. The can whips up into the air and falls back almost in the same place, now presenting the full moon of its base. I raise the .38 and fire again. The can shudders again.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, dickwad?’ Chueco says, snatching the gun from me. ‘D’you know how much bullets cost?’