Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  He fires a couple more shots, misses, keeps firing until the chamber’s empty. He takes a box of bullets from his jacket pocket and reloads. He goes on shooting, not bothering to pass it to me any more, until he finally hits the can.

  ‘Who would have thought little Gringo could handle himself with a gat …?’ he says like he’s talking to someone else.

  There’s not a trace of the gangster face he had on a while ago. Now he’s looking at me strangely. Seriously. Part defiant, part devious as he stuffs the gun back in his belt. God knows what’s going through his head.

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a bit of kit like this one? Then you can be my sidekick,’ he suggests. ‘I’ve already got a couple of bits of business lined up. You want in, fine, if not, don’t come whining to me when I’m rich and fat.’

  ‘So what’s this “business”, Chueco?’

  ‘Come by El Gordo’s later and I’ll fill you in.’

  ‘Farías’s place? Are you off your head?’

  ‘What’s the matter? Chicken?’ he taunts me. Here we go again.

  ‘Fuck you, you fucking jerk! You go ahead. You do your shady little deals and you’ll wind up with your arse facing north.’

  I storm off, giving him the finger as I leave. I feel calm, but I know me. I know sooner or later I’ll swing by the bar.

  MAGGOT OF A DOUBT

  ‘YOU’LL NEVER GUESS who I ran into in Buenos Aires yesterday …’ I say to Mamina, as she sips the sweet mate I’ve just brewed for her.

  I wait for her to ask who, but nothing. She doesn’t even look at me.

  ‘Someone who was asking after you, abuela. Don’t you want to know who it was?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Toni!’

  Mamina doesn’t react. Or she does, but in her own way. She stares out the window. For what feels like a century. She empties the rest of the sachet of sugar into her mate and adds some more hot water. She takes a sip, then looks at me. I’ve seen this look before, cold as hoar frost, but I don’t understand it. I’ve never been able to understand it. And I certainly don’t now. I open my eyes wide, raise my eyebrows, feeling a wave of panic grip me. I’m waiting for her to explain. Mamina knows that. She’s not stupid. She calmly finishes her mate and then says abruptly, ‘Toni is dead.’

  ‘What do you mean, dead?’ I explode. ‘I just said I saw him, that he said to say hi … What are you talking about?’

  Mamina answers, her voice low. Almost inaudible. She always hates it when people raise their voices. When they do, she starts whispering. I used to think it was funny when I was a kid. I’d do it deliberately to wind her up. The softer she spoke, the louder I shouted. Never worked. Mamina always won. Didn’t matter how violent the argument, we always ended up whispering.

  ‘He’s dead to me. He doesn’t exist … And I don’t want to discuss it any further.’

  ‘What’s up, Mamina? What did he do?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Obviously not, since I’m asking you …’ I retort, but I’m careful not to raise my voice above her whisper.

  ‘Good, that’s good. It’s better if you don’t know …’

  I clear away the mate. There’s no point carrying on. When Mamina decides a subject is closed, there’s no arguing. It’s closed, full stop, end of story.

  I go back and sit at the kitchen table. I rack my brains but I can’t remember anything. I was only a kid. I would have been – what? – ten, maybe, when Toni disappeared. Not even. Whatever shit he got himself mixed up in must have been serious. Really fucking serious, if Mamina still hasn’t forgiven him. She’s not the kind to hold a grudge.

  All this just makes me suspicious, tarnishes the image I’ve had of Toni. Makes me see him differently. Like he’s a traitor, a son of a bitch. Toni said he couldn’t come back to the barrio because he had ‘unfinished business’. I’m guessing this unfinished business is the same thing Mamina refuses to talk about. I used to think Toni disappeared because the Feds were looking for him, but that’s bullshit. Nobody leaves the barrio just because the cops are after them. Nobody gives a shit about the police round here; the only law is the law of the barrio, and most kids are careful to abide by it. Anyone who doesn’t would do well to fuck off before they get sent to a barrio six feet under. That must be what happened with Toni, but I can’t think what shit he could have got himself mixed up in that meant having to vanish without trace. And is whatever it is the same shit that Mamina can’t forgive him for?

  I can’t seem to square the two. For Toni to disappear like that means a vendetta, a mejicaneada, score-settling for some scam that went wrong – but all those things are about honour, about the code of the barrio. And Mamina’s not the kind to turn her back on one of her own for something like that. She has her own personal code, and it’s very different. So, what then? She can’t forgive him for abandoning her, leaving her in the lurch and not showing his face for years? I can’t believe that either. It’s not like her. It’s a luxury she can’t afford. The luxury of a middle-class mother more interested in her own pain than the fate of her ungrateful child.

  Too many questions. I hate people asking me questions. I hate it even more when it’s me doing the asking and I don’t have any answers. I lie on my bed and try to take my mind off things by reading the whale book, but I can’t focus. I keep turning it all over and over in my mind. I keep turning the book over and over, until the money and the scrap of paper with Toni’s address fall out. I count the money again, and read the note again: they’re my ticket out of here, but now I’m not sure I want to leave. At least not until I find out what the fuck went down between Toni and Mamina.

  The sun’s sinking. There’s not much light left. It’s too early to head over to Farías’s bar, but I’ve nowhere else to go. I’m drowning here.

  ‘I’m heading out, Mamina,’ I tell her. ‘I won’t be back for dinner.’

  She answers with a wave, flicking the back of her hand without even looking at me.

  Instead of taking the alley up towards the station, I wander along one of the dirt tracks leading off it. The one that runs past the house of Oliviera, the Portuguese guy. This way, I have to take the bridge across the train tracks. It’s the long way round. I’m killing time.

  It’s pretty quiet for a Saturday. There’s almost no sound from the row of shacks. I can hear muffled music from one of them, a burst of laughter from another, but nothing else. The buildings round here aren’t so much bricks and mortar as corrugated iron and bits of timber. In the evening light, they look derelict.

  Two little kids are throwing stones at a mangy, pitiful dog. The dog shambles away – hasn’t got the energy to run. Not that he needs to, given the kids’ aim. They couldn’t hit a cow at ten feet. They’re only snotty-nosed little tykes with no shoes.

  At the end of the lane, just before the tracks, I turn and, after about thirty metres, find myself in front of Ernestina’s place. Without even thinking, I’ve come to fetch Quique. I’ve obviously got used to having the kid around. When he’s not, I kind of miss him.

  I cup my hands like an ocarina, put my lips to my thumbs and whistle, the call of a non-existent bird. Quique knows it. He’s been trying to get the hang of it for months but either he’s got his hands clasped wrong, or he’s not blowing at the right angle. He keeps asking me to tell him how to do it, but I don’t know how to explain. So I show him again, but instead of watching, he closes his eyes and listens, like if he can just get the sound right, the rest will come by itself.

  I give another bird call and Sultán barks at me. He’s tied up round the back. Quique doesn’t show. He can’t not have heard me. I blow hard. I pop my head over the bamboo fence. No one about. The door is padlocked. His kid sister’s doll is lying in the yard, wearing the fur from the cat that me and Chueco ate the other day. I laugh because the pelt looks like it was made-to-measure. It’s turned right side out now – with the fur on the outside – and wearing it, the doll looks like some crazy old woman with a
shock of hair and a mink coat showing off her legs.

  I push the chain-link gate, go into the yard and pick up the doll, laughing to myself. The old woman turns out to be a bit skanky. And she stinks. The arms of her fur coat have claws on the end ready to scratch someone’s eyes out. The cat obviously bared its claws before it died and they stayed like that, stiff and razor-sharp. I stare at one of the claws and it’s moving. It’s nearly night, so I can’t really see properly. I hold the doll up to my face, gagging on the putrid stench, and I see the claw isn’t a claw. It’s wriggling like it’s waving to me. It’s a maggot, a two-day-old fly larva. I’ve seen enough flyblown animals that I don’t need to strip the doll to know its teeming with maggots. That’s one sight I’d rather spare myself. I open my hands and the plastic body bounces on the ground. If the old woman were flesh and blood, they’d be eating her alive.

  OLD DEBTS

  FAT FARÍAS LOOKS LIKE a sultan. He’s got a white turban of bandages round his head, he’s wearing his shirt open and he’s got bruises all the way down to his man boobs. His left arm is bandaged too. He’s using some filthy, snotty handkerchief as a sling. He’s sitting at a table like a lord. Serious. Talking to Rubén.

  The bar is practically empty. The drunks in the barrio are loyal as cats. Farías only has to close up for one day and they’ve already found some other dive. It’ll be a while before they’re back. I see Chueco sitting in the far corner, staring into his glass. El Jetita is standing beside him, leaning down, hand on Chueco’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear, looking like an old friend, like a big brother giving his kid brother advice. What the fuck is going on here?

  ‘Hey, Gringo!’ Chueco calls over to me. ‘Over here! Pull up a chair!’

  I’m threading my way between the tables when I see her, standing behind the bar where her father should be, pouring a glass of red wine for some old guy. She puts the cork back in the bottle and looks up. She’s beautiful. She’s got her hair pinned up and she’s wearing a dark apron. The thin shoulder straps emphasise her long, bare, slender neck. I feel like covering her in kisses. But Yani’s staring at me like she doesn’t recognise me. Makes sense, I suppose. After all, in here I’m a customer and she’s staff. Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her working behind her old man’s bar before. I’ve seen her come in and ask him for money or chat to him, but I’ve never seen her serving.

  I’m staring so hard I walk slap bang into the back of a chair and nearly rupture my balls. I swear under my breath. Yani tries not to laugh, but she carries on wiping down the counter, she doesn’t look over. When she finally lifts her head, I shoot her a look of sheer agony that makes her laugh out loud. I love the way her cheeks dimple. Her laugh makes us partners in crime just like it did last night. When she finally stops giggling, I give her an enquiring look, jerk my chin, raise my eyebrows. She frowns, glancing quickly in three different directions – the table where Fat Farías is chatting with Rubén, the table at the back where Chueco and El Jetita are huddled, and the old man at the bar she’s just been serving. El Negro Sosa is propping up the bar. I hadn’t noticed him. That means the whole gang is here. There’s some shit going down, and if someone doesn’t tell me what the fuck is going on and soon, I’m gone. I’ll be out of here before the tango starts, because I know my luck: I always wind up with the ugly best friend. If I have to tango, I’d rather do it with Yani.

  Talking of ugly, El Negro Sosa is ugly as a hatful of arseholes: he’s dark with frizzy hair, a wide flat nose and eyes too far apart. He looks like a pig. He’s got lots of nicknames – Bighead, Fatso, Thirteen – but they all refer to the same thing. Truth is, the head on his shoulders is pretty normal, maybe even a bit small for his body. And there’s no fat on him. He’s hard and sinewy as a knotty wooden cudgel and just as quick to come down on someone. ‘Thirteen’ is the key. The inches he’s got swinging between his legs. The guy’s a fucking animal. Even the whores in the barrio are scared of him. He could split them in two. El Jetita calls him Sosa and treats him with respect. Sosa’s his deputy.

  I pass the General himself as he heads towards the bar. ‘What are you doing, pibe?’ he whispers. ‘Sit down, I’ll be right back.’ I stare at him, but he just carries on walking. These are the first words El Jetita has ever said to me. It’s not like I expected a formal introduction. At least now everyone knows everyone. But he better not try giving me orders. Who the fuck does he take me for? One of his toy soldiers?

  ‘Hey …’ Chueco greets me as I slump into the seat next to him. ‘Qué onda?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, I’m cool … you?’

  ‘Sweet. What are you drinking?’ he asks, waving Yani over.

  ‘Beer,’ I say good and loud so she can hear me.

  Halfway to our table, Yani turns and heads back to the bar.

  ‘Give me a cigarette.’ Chueco’s on the scrounge again.

  I give him one and spark one myself. Yani comes back with the beer. The glass is full to the brim, not a millimetre of foam. I give her a wink, but Chueco has to spoil it and says something gross. Yani curls her lips contemptuously, and turns on her heel.

  ‘Jesus Christ, get a load of the arse on that!’ Chueco says to me, staring at her as she walks away. I can hardly blame him: you can see her thong through her jeans.

  ‘So what’s going on, loco?’ I say, changing the subject.

  El Jetita sits down and starts chatting quietly to Fat Farías and Rubén. One of the few 40-watt bulbs in the bar hangs directly over the three heads. The shrunken pool of light barely extends beyond the table. It looks like a conspiracy. El Jetita is talking fiercely and waving his hands. Rubén manages to get a word in from time to time and Fat Farías just nods. I’m feeling jumpy.

  I look at Chueco and ask him again what’s going on.

  ‘We’re on a roll, that’s what’s going on, viejo,’ he says. ‘The lean times are behind us.’

  ‘What are you talking about, loco?’

  ‘I’m talking about business. The General there has offered us some work.’ He points his cigarette at El Jetita. ‘Both of us,’ he says as though he hadn’t made it clear already.

  I take a long slug of beer, necking half the glass so I don’t have to answer, and take a couple of drags on my cigarette.

  ‘I told him about your mad skills with a strap and he was really impressed, so you’re in.’

  He takes a last drag on his cigarette, stubs it in the ashtray and blows the smoke in my face with a triumphant smile.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he says arrogantly. ‘Anything for you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry …’ I play along. ‘Thanks, viejo! I’m really fucking grateful.’

  ‘What’s the fuck’s with you? Play your cards right, you might get your gat. You should be made up.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. I’m out of here. I don’t trust that fucker.’

  ‘You chicken, Gringo?’

  ‘Fuck you, Chueco, and fuck your mamá,’ I whisper through gritted teeth so as not to be overheard. ‘I’m not some punk bitch. I just don’t trust the guy. You retarded or just dumb?’

  ‘You can’t just dump me like this, Gringo.’

  ‘What? Like I owe you something?’ I cut him dead.

  Chueco arches one eyebrow likes he’s the lead actor in some soap. And it’s true, I do owe him. I owe him for keeping his mouth shut. And I’ve been paying him back for years now. There’s no way to keep score with this shit, but recently I’m thinking that maybe I’ve paid my debt. I can’t be expected to put up with Chueco’s crap for ever just because once upon a time he kept shtum. Sooner or later, the debt’s got to be paid. Chueco’s taking advantage. And it’s not like it was a big deal.

  It’s ancient history. When we were kids, we wanted to pull off something big, but the plan completely backfired. We’d bought half a key of weed to sell on to the kids in the barrio, but we didn’t even get two blocks before the Feds busted us. We were taken down the station. I got released the nex
t day. Chueco spent three months on remand. He was the one carrying. They wanted to charge him with intent to supply, but because he was a minor – we were fourteen or fifteen at the time – they couldn’t make it stick, so in the end he got community service. They made him work for free in the nuthouse up in Zavaleta. Twelve months. From what he told me, he had to do pretty much everything, clean the toilets, hand out pills, sometimes even help hold down some psycho who freaked out. But he made a fair bit of cash selling weed up at the nuthouse.

  I suppose he did save me, by keeping his mouth shut. The Feds had me press my fingers on the ink-pad and play the paper piano, then they let me go. Simple as. We were in it together, but the cops assumed he was the dealer. They thought I was trying to buy some weed off him. And since Chueco didn’t say much in his statement, nobody corrected the mistake.

  ‘What do you take me for?’ he said afterwards when I asked him why he hadn’t grassed me up. ‘How could I drop you in it? We’re socios, aren’t we?’

  But the whole thing hardly made him a superhero. Back then, the Feds were in shit. A couple of months earlier, they’d given some kid a beat down just outside the barrio. They’d picked him up in a raid coming out of a concert and he was found the next day in a ditch beaten to fuck. The other rockers picked up in the raid told the judge the kid had freaked out and the Feds had worked him over good. Walter, the kid’s name was. It was in all the papers.

  For a while after that the Federales treated us with kid gloves. Whenever they stopped us in the street they were almost polite. And that’s how it was when Chueco and I got picked up. Every cop was playing good cop. I remember they even read us our rights and reeled off a bunch of legal bullshit, habeas corpus, preventative measures and fuck knows what else. Like they needed to issue a special invitation to drag us down the station.

  We were pretty lucky. They didn’t lay a finger on me, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t on Chueco either, so he can’t take much credit for keeping shtum. I’m guessing if they’d touched him, he’d have grassed me up like a shot. No cattle prods, no waterboarding, none of that shit. They didn’t even work us over old school.