Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

Actually, I don’t really give a shit why Chueco bottled it – I’m only asking him to wind him up, force him to show his cards. But he doesn’t.

  ‘Because I left it at home, asshole,’ he says. ‘You think if I’d been strapped I would have let that greaseball get up in my face like that?’

  ‘You left it at the squat?’ I say, toying with the bottle of beer. It’s funny hearing him call the skanky crackhouse he’s bunks at home.

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I take a long swig, finish the bottle. ‘So you’re saying you used to have a gat.’

  ‘Are you bad-mouthing my crew, loco?’ He boils over suddenly like milk. ‘D’you ever hear me bad-mouth your whore mother?’

  He’s riled. I’m laughing so hard I’m starting to choke. I can feel beer bubbles up my nose …

  ‘It’s not like you could – you never knew her …’ I say, stifling a sneeze.

  ‘No, but I know all the johns who used to fuck her. Your mamá would do anyone with a pulse! She’d turn tricks for two pesos. She could suck a fire hydrant dry and leave it clean as a chicken bone. You know what they called her? Deep Throat …’

  ‘Keep talking, Chueco, and you’ll be shitting teeth.’

  He’s the one laughing now. I say nothing, reach into my trouser pocket to fish out my cigarettes. Chueco nearly jumps out of his skin. He thinks I’m about to shank him.

  ‘Chill, Chueco. It’s cool,’ I say, shaking out a cigarette. ‘I was only asking about the gun.’ I pick the empty beer bottle off the ground and hand it to him. ‘Here. Your round.’

  Chueco heads off to the kiosk fumbling for change in his pockets and I sit back down on the pavement.

  First time I challenge him on anything and the loco goes off on one. Chueco defends his tribe like they’re his own flesh and blood. Obviously in that rathole he lives in he’s found the family he never had. Well, if he’s prepared to put his hand in the fire for them, let him. I wouldn’t. The way things are these days, I wouldn’t leave a gun lying around anywhere, definitely not in a crackhouse like that. Too many people hanging around, coming and going, crashing overnight. There’s only five full-time residents, counting Chueco – old man Soria who spends all day on his soapbox preaching about shit; Willi, a tall skinny guy – total psycho – no one knows what he does but he’s always off his face on something; Pampita, a working girl from up north somewhere. She’s pretty fit and all the guys in the squat take advantage. They let her stay in exchange for the occasional free fuck. And then there’s El Chelo, a thug I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw him. He used to go out collecting cardboard for recycling but these days he seems to be involved in all the protest marches. That’s why he’s been lending his cart to Quique.

  Chueco comes back with the beer and sits down. He pops the cap with his teeth and hands it to me without even taking the first swig. He’s being polite. Personally, I’d rather he was a little less polite and a little more loyal. It’s not just about the shit he’s got me mixed up in, the stuff he didn’t tell me before we did over Fat Farías, what really pisses me off is that he’s been cutting deals with El Jetita.

  ‘Fancy going clubbing?’ he says, jerking the bottle I’ve just handed back towards Babilonia.

  On the opposite pavement, the queue for the club is getting longer. There’s a gang of girls mouthing off.

  ‘Go over and have a word with Julito,’ I say, ‘but I’m not paying more than five pesos.’

  Chueco turns and stares at me. He’s used to giving the orders, not taking them. I take the bottle from his hands and neck the beer.

  Chueco gets to his feet without a word, crosses the road and elbows his way along the queue. I see him chatting to Julito, the bouncer, for a couple of minutes, then he comes back.

  ‘He’ll do us a two-for-one,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not putting in more than five pesos.’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, Gringo. We go halves, it’s eight pesos each –’

  ‘No way,’ I cut him off. ‘I’d rather lick my own balls.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be licking them on your own then. Come on … Eight pesos and we get a couple of litres of beer. Cos I’m telling you, with all that sweet merchandise queuing, I’m going in.’

  ‘So go, loco. Go on your own. You need someone to hold your hand before you can talk to a chick? I wouldn’t do it if you were my kid brother, che –’

  ‘Jesus, you’ve got a mouth on you today. Just give me a cigarette, Gringo, and let’s drop this before things turn nasty,’ he says, threatening.

  ‘I’ve only got one.’

  Chueco knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t say a word.

  Just as well. It’s all shit. Better we go our separate ways at least for tonight because otherwise we’re going to come to blows.

  ‘Muchachos!’ Santi appears out of nowhere. ‘How’s things?’

  He couldn’t have timed it better. He’s just in time to defuse the situation. The sliver of air that separates Chueco and me is thick and sweaty. You could cut it with a knife.

  ‘Cool – what about you?’ I say to Santi, handing him the bottle of beer. ‘What you been up to?’

  He takes the bottle, takes a swig.

  ‘Same old, same old. Rabble-rousing and politicking with the kids. We’re about to pull a little stunt down by the bridge – you coming?’

  ‘Sure, loco. Who are you taking down today?’ I feed his ego.

  This is all it takes to set him off. Santi’s a loudmouth, he’s always bragging. But what’s worse, he’s got a lot to brag about. He’s a devious bastard and his stunts always come off.

  ‘Some arsehole thinks he’s a big-time dealer. He’s got this Fiat that he’s pimped out, but you should hear it when he guns the engine, it sounds like a scared fucking kitten. I figure the engine’s the same as when it came out of the factory – he hasn’t done any work on it. He hasn’t got a fucking clue.’

  Santi, on the other hand, has got a clue. He’s done a lot of work on his own car, a ’79 Chevy coupé. He put in a brand-new V-8 engine Rubén sold him. 16 valve. And he polished the piston rims to increase the compression and the power. The thing fucking drinks petrol, but when he floors the accelerator it roars like there’s a tiger under the bonnet. And it takes off like a dream.

  Chueco chips in and Santi launches into a detailed discussion about motor racing. There’s a race coming up, and he’s so sure he’s going to win he’s looking for someone who can bet big so he can take a cut.

  By now, I’ve stopped listening. I’m just focusing on finishing the beer which is still doing the rounds from hand to hand, and finding the right moment to push off.

  ‘Got any weed, Chueco?’ Santi asks, trying to make like he doesn’t care.

  ‘Only enough for a roach, but tell me how much you want and I’ll bring it down to you at the bridge later,’ Chueco says, brown-nosing.

  ‘I don’t know … just a crumb. I’m good for ten, yeah?’

  ‘If I get a twenty or a thirty, you still up for it?’ Chueco tries to persuade him.

  Random details from the last couple of days start falling into place again so fast it makes my head spin.

  ‘Sure, the kids will all chip in …’ says Santi.

  I go over to Chueco and whisper, ‘Since when did you start dealing, you fucking druggy? Who’s supplying the weed? El Jetita?’

  ‘Get the fuck out of here, loco’ he shouts. He shoves me in the chest and gives a fake laugh. ‘All the meat queuing up across the road and you want to go and pay that fucking crack whore! Take her!’

  ‘This kid …’ he says, gesturing to Santi, pretending I’ve just suggested a threesome with Riquelme, the vilest old whore in the barrio.

  Santi doesn’t say shit. He doesn’t laugh. He’s wary. No one likes it when people start whispering in front of them. Me, I don’t give a fuck what some car freak thinks of me. But what I do want is to sort things out with Chueco right here and now. I don’t know what he’s playing at. Little by l
ittle I’m getting to see the cards he’s holding and I don’t like what I see.

  I flash him a murderous stare, but Chueco isn’t even looking – he won’t dare. He’s chatting to Santi, any old bullshit, trying to pick up the conversation, making like nothing happened.

  I finish the beer, send the bottle spinning in the air and turn to go. If they want to keep drinking they can pay the deposit on the bottle. Turns out it’s a lucky throw, the bottle curves straight for Chueco’s head, but the bastard’s got good reflexes. I hear him swear, hear the dull slap of glass against his hand. I turn and see Chueco holding up the bottle triumphantly. I give him a wink. You might have caught that one, but there’s always next time …

  I walk half a block and then I see her. The last person on earth I want to run into. She’s with a couple of friends. I think I recognise one of them from the barrio. I’ve no idea who the other one is.

  ‘Hey, Yani, what you up to?’ I say.

  She looks stunning. Her crop top emphasises her tits and shows off her belly button. She’s wearing black stockings and a miniskirt that would be a belt if it was any shorter. She’s not a girl, she’s a sight. She doesn’t look anything like the Yani I saw in the bar a couple of hours ago.

  ‘Hey, how are things?’ she says. She’s trying to act natural, but it’s not working.

  I kiss her on the cheek. She introduces me to her friends and then waves for them to walk on. I’m saying whatever comes into my head and she goes along with the pretence until the others have moved away.

  ‘You fucking son of a bitch, Gringo! You did it – you and Chueco.’ The tears are threatening to make her mascara run. They’re teetering on her lashes.

  ‘I wasn’t there, swear to God,’ I say, squeezing her hand. With superhuman effort I manage to hold her gaze. I’ve always been a shit liar, but she’s too angry to notice.

  ‘But my old man said … So if you didn’t …? What’s going on between you and El Jetita? What’s the guy up to? It was you …’

  ‘Calm down, Yani. I swear to you I wasn’t there. As for Chueco, well, I wouldn’t put my hand in the fire for him. I don’t know what they’ve got your old man mixed up in, but whatever it is, it’s bad shit. I can’t tell you any more right now. Soon as I find out anything definite, you’ll be the first to know. Let’s talk later.’

  Yani stands, staring at me, mouth half open. I don’t give her time to respond. I kiss her on the cheek again.

  ‘Take care. And stay cool, it’s all going to be fine.’

  After a second I glance over my shoulder to see if she’s caught up with her friends or if she’s still standing where I left her. She’s with her friends. Good. What’s not so good was that thing I said about not putting my hand in the fire for Chueco. It just came out. But it’s not like I regret it. If it was disloyal, well, Chueco can just chalk it up for all the times he owes me.

  BLUFFING

  MAMINA’S VOICE WAKES me. She’s talking to someone, but it takes me a while to work out who it is because they’re crying. It’s Ernestina. I try and eavesdrop while I’m getting dressed but I can’t work out what they’re on about. The conversation drops to whispers and one or other of them sighing. It must be late, though I can’t work out what time it is. The sky is overcast.

  I come out of my room to find Quique sitting on a chair in the kitchen with a sports bag at his feet. It looks empty, but I’m betting there’s a change of clothes inside – probably the only change of clothes he’s got. He’s going to be staying here. Don’t need anyone to tell me to work that out.

  Ernestina is leaning in the doorway, sobbing silently. Her nose is red, her eyes puffy. She’s a mess. She looks whiter than a freshly sheared lamb and all crumpled up inside like a piece of paper. Mamina has her hands on her shoulders to hold her up.

  ‘Morning …’ I say.

  Mamina says good morning, but Ernestina doesn’t even react. Quique barely looks at me. Walking behind his chair to get to the hotplate, I tweak his ear.

  ‘Hey, viejo! What you up to?’

  ‘How’s it going?’ I say. ‘You had breakfast?’

  Quique nods, doesn’t say anything. There’s not much to offer him anyway. I put the kettle on the hotplate.

  ‘He’s staying here for a couple of days,’ Mamina confirms, ‘so I want you to keep an eye on the kid.’

  ‘No problem, abuela,’ I say.

  But she’s not listening. She’s stroking Ernestina’s shoulder, whispering to her, trying to comfort her.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Her daughter, the little one, she was taken to the children’s hospital yesterday,’ Mamina says, looking over her shoulder at me. This is all she needs to tell me.

  ‘Your kid sister?’ I say to Quique. ‘What’s her name again … ?’

  ‘Julieta.’

  ‘What happened.’

  ‘Dunno … Her eyes went all white and she was jerking around …’ As he tells me, Quique starts twitching his head and his body to show me what it was like.

  Convulsions, I think as lightning flares outside on the street, lighting up the kitchen like a flashbulb.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I ask loudly so Mamina will have to answer.

  And she does. A single word, as the roll of thunder finally comes. I don’t so much hear the word as guess it. Meningitis.

  I feel it like a blow to the back of my head. There’s another flash of lightning, but this one seems to burst behind my eyes, and the white snapshot it burns on to my brain is of the worm-ridden doll.

  The tiny kitchen window slams open and a gust of wind blows in. Cold and damp. I latch the window closed, listen to the random clatter of rain on the corrugated-iron shacks. Raindrops big as stones. I stare out, breathe evenly, the rain starts and stops, can’t seem to make up its mind. Doesn’t matter, summer’s over now.

  ‘Gringo, we’re going to go before it starts bucketing down,’ Mamina says. ‘I’m going with Ernestina to the hospital.’

  ‘That’s fine, abuela, I’ll take care of Quique.’

  ‘Where’s the umbrella?’ she asks, Ernestina clinging to her arm.

  ‘What umbrella?’

  ‘The big black one, m’hijo, what else would I mean …?’

  I don’t know what she’s talking about. It worries me to think about Mamina getting senile, but I can’t rule it out. She’s getting old.

  ‘I’ve never had an umbrella, Mamina. If it rains, I get wet …’ I say without malice.

  She stands, staring at me strangely, then finally says, ‘Never mind, forget it. We’re heading off …’

  Quique doesn’t say a word. Nor do I. I brew up a couple of mates and stare out at the rain. It’s falling hard now. Quique sighs, eyes fixed on the parallel streams gushing from the gutters around the eaves. I make him a sweet mate and he takes it. The wind whips at the ribbons of the strip curtain. It’s cold, but I don’t want to close the door. With only the milky light from the tiny kitchen window, we’d be standing in the dark. And there’s nothing more depressing than having to turn the lights on in the middle of the day.

  ‘Can we put the TV on?’ Quique asks, handing the empty mate cup back to me.

  ‘We haven’t got a TV, champ. Hadn’t you noticed?’

  He opens his eyes wide in surprise. He doesn’t believe me, but it’s the truth. I can’t be bothered explaining that Mamina pawned it at the first possible opportunity when she needed cash. That was a couple of years ago. She never redeemed the pledge. She said what with the rubbish on TV, we didn’t need it, that we’d been better off selling it. I guess she was right.

  ‘But we’ve got a radio,’ I say to cheer him up. ‘Want me to put it on?’

  ‘Naw … Leave it. There’s never any good tunes this time of day. It’s just random shit.’

  ‘Your call, viejo! But you’re pretty random yourself.’

  He doesn’t reply. We sit in silence for a bit. I make some more mate. Sweet for him, bitter for me. Quique gets up and goes to th
e door, still clutching the mate, pushes aside the strip curtain and stands staring out at the rain.

  ‘Hey, loco, that thing’s not a baby’s bottle.’

  He hands me back the mate and starts nosing round the place. I don’t know what he’s looking for. Hardly matters, there’s not much here he’d be interested in.

  ‘Got a pack of cards?’

  ‘On the mantelpiece next to the cockerel.’

  The glass figurine of a cockerel has been sitting on the mantelpiece covered in dust for a thousand years. Someone – I don’t remember who – brought it back from a holiday on the coast. It’s a bit tacky but at least it’s useful. Its tail feathers change colour with the weather. I’m not sure whether it’s the humidity or the pressure but the cockerel is never wrong. A blue tail means clear skies. Purple means changeable, so even if the sun is peeking over the horizon, I know it’ll be drizzling by the end of the day. Right now it’s pink.

  Quique reaches up and takes down the pack of cards. He gets the deck out of the box and checks it carefully. Looking for marked cards, I suppose. He doesn’t find any. He gives me a wink, sits down again and starts shuffling. He’s certainly not clumsy.

  ‘Cut,’ he says to me, slapping the pack down in the middle of the table.

  I cut.

  ‘What do you want to play?’ I ask. ‘Casita robada?’

  ‘That’s for little kids,’ he says.

  ‘We can’t play truco. With only two people it’s more boring than sucking a nail,’ I say as he deals the second card.

  Quique gives me a smile and keeps dealing. Five, six, seven cards. He puts the pack in the middle of the table and turns over the top card. This is the last thing I need. I hate chinchón. It’s a wanker’s game. I spent a whole fucking summer playing it while I was trying to get into La Negra Fabiana’s knickers. Chinchón was the only way I could think to spend time with her. She was obsessed with it. We spent whole afternoons playing never-ending games and I never got anywhere with her. Afterwards I’d jerk off furiously under the bridge by the river.

  ‘Bluff, Gringo. Don’t you know how to play Bluff?’ Quique says, seeing I’m confused.