Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  ‘Don’t fucking shoot,’ Chueco yells. ‘It’s us!’

  Though my mouth desperately opens and closes, not a sound comes out. My heart stopped when the gun went off. My turn to play statues now. Inside, someone shouts something I can’t make out and the door is kicked open. Chueco scrambles over me, drops from the roof, using the force of his fall to wing into the kitchen. I turn myself round so as not to drop head first and follow him. A fat guy with a sawn-off Itaca slams the door shut as soon as I’m inside and leans his back against the wall. For protection. I stand there, staring at him, hypnotised by his huge grey moustache. It looks like a dead rat. The fat fucker stares back at me hard.

  ‘Hey, guys, the cavalry’s arrived! We’re saved!’ El Jetita shouts from the far side of the kitchen, gun in one hand and a police radio in the other.

  It takes me a second before I notice that, between El Jetita and where we’re standing by the back door, there’s a ton of people. The narrow kitchen looks like the carriage of a train at rush hour. A night train speeding through the darkness. Pitch dark, no moon. Heading straight off a cliff. This much I can tell from the looks of uncertainty and panic on the faces of the passengers. Riquelme, the old whore, is standing next to me sobbing, her whole face distorted so her wrinkles look like furrows of despair. Rubén is scratching his ear with the double barrel of a shotgun and chain-smoking. Eyes wide open but vacant. Staring at some fixed point.

  Yanina is sitting on the kitchen counter. She looks like she’s about to cry. Her eyes meet mine. Her chin quivers. She clutches her old man’s shoulder tightly, hanging limply against him like a rag doll. With his turban of bandages, his dislocated jaw and his empty eyes, Fat Farías looks like a ghost.

  Next to him, El Negro Sosa is necking a bottle of gin, his frown screwed up tighter than a fist. A semi-automatic dangles from his right hand. His shirt is spattered with blood.

  Pampita looks up at me pitifully from the floor, pleading with me for I don’t know what, but I do know that whatever it is I can’t give it to her. She’s calm. Not crying. Barefoot. Wearing a sort of shabby, tattered dressing gown. With one hand she cradles the head of the skinny guy, Fabián, using the other to press a crude improvised bandage against his chest. The spreading red stain of the wound is screaming for someone to take him to hospital. Lying in a pool of blood, Fabián gasps, his face twitching like he’s got a nervous tic. I don’t know shit about anatomy, but from the site of the bullet wound, I figure it hit his liver.

  There are no windows in the kitchen. It’s just a built-in unit at the back of the bar. It’s the best place to hold out against the siege. But it’s a breeding ground for fear. Panic pervades the room, bouncing blindly off the walls, ricocheting inside our heads. We’re all aboard a night train, and the most dangerous passenger is fear. If the train goes off the rails, fear will be to blame. Simple as. Because it’s fear that’s laying siege.

  ‘Come on, señoritas, I want all of you out front. The only girls I want to see in this kitchen are the ones wearing skirts,’ roars El Jetita. He’s playing the General. He’s taking command until the invisible passenger does for him too. And he carries on. Faster and faster. There’s nothing else to do. ‘Hey, Robledo,’ he says to the fat guy with the sawn-off Itaca, ‘stay here and guard the back in case they send round a kamikaze. And Farías, dig something out of the fridges so the women can make us something to eat. This isn’t going to be over any time soon … You got any bread left?’

  Fat Farías nods. He’s so fucking scared he can’t speak. But Yanina won’t let go of him. And Farías doesn’t move until El Jetita roars, ‘Move it, che, don’t just fucking stand there. And that goes for the rest of you, move it, come on …’ He grabs Chueco by the back of the neck and pushes him, which gets the crowd moving.

  On his way out, El Negro Sosa slips him the bottle of gin and whispers something in his ear.

  ‘Hey, Sapito, how’s it looking?’ shouts El Jetita as he walks through the strip curtain.

  ‘All quiet for the minute …’

  As I step into the front of the bar, I see him. I see him in the orange haze from the street lights, because the bar itself is in darkness. And a complete fucking mess. It’s El Sapo Medina’s kid brother. He’s posted by the window at the front. He’s got his long hair in a ponytail and he’s wearing a baseball cap turned backwards. He doesn’t take his eyes off the street. The kid watches too many movies. Thinks he’s a fucking sniper. Though I have to admit he’s got the gear for it. The barrel of his rifle is resting in the small gap between the window ledge and the metal shutters, which have been pulled down. The windows have been shot to shit. A couple of the Formica tables have been blasted away too, and the football photos from the Copa Libertadores which Fat Farías had hanging on the walls. There’s glass everywhere.

  The gun he’s using is a FAL. Least I’m guessing it is, I haven’t actually seen one before. The question is where the fuck he got his hands on a piece of kit like that. Far as I was aware, Sapo’s kid brother spent all day every day hanging out with Santi. They’re both nuts about racing and cars. And he always seemed like a sweet kid. Now it turns out he’s one of El Jetita’s soldiers. And he’s handling heavy artillery. I clearly don’t understand a fucking thing.

  The police radio squawks and crackles. El Jetita puts it to his ear. Just for the fuck of it, because it looks cool. Over the static I can hear a nasal voice asking for a unit to be sent to the junction by the refinery. The cop taking the call uses all the codes and shit. This is on the Feds’ open band.

  ‘So what are we going to do with Fabián?’ Rubén says to El Jetita passing him the gin. ‘Guess he’s going to croak, huh?’

  ‘You’re saying he can’t hold out?’ El Negro Sosa butts in.

  Rubén clicks his tongue and says impatiently, ‘Hold out? Have you seen the fucking state of him?’

  ‘He’s going to have to hold on as best he can, viejo,’ El Jetita cuts him off. ‘Stay cool and calm like Gardel on that plane. What the fuck else can we do?’

  Just then, three gunshots come through the side window. One hits the bar, the other two rip through the walls. Everyone hits the floor.

  ‘Sapito, you little fucker, you’re supposed to be keeping lookout,’ El Jetita screams at him.

  ‘What can I do if they don’t show their arses?’ Sapo’s kid brother yells back, blindly firing in bursts.

  ‘If you can’t see them what the fuck are you doing wasting ammo? Jesus fucking Christ, how the fuck am I supposed to handle this with a bunch of kids?’ El Jetita rants. He says something I don’t hear to El Negro Sosa then starts shouting again. ‘Chueco, over here. And you, Gringo, the other side! Anything that moves, I want you to fill it with lead! Doesn’t matter if it’s a stray dog, a gust of wind or your fucking mother. Same goes for you, Sapito! Is that clear! Move it, loco, come on!’

  Chueco starts crawling across the broken glass between the upturned chairs and tables. I push the bag that’s still slung over my shoulder behind my back and crawl after him. Then I feel someone grab me by the ankle. I turn my head and El Jetita, looking scared, whispers, ‘If we can’t sort this thing, Gringo, you’re going to help me out. You’re going to get Toni to come and negotiate.’

  ‘Sure, maybe I can let you have my sister too. Pity I haven’t got one. Who the fuck do you take me for?!’

  I don’t say it, but that’s what I’m thinking, and from the look on my face he has to know. But I’m also thinking other stuff, like what the fuck has Toni got to do with this shit? He’s been gone from the barrio for ages …

  ‘You heard me,’ El Jetita says, seeing the expression on my face. ‘And don’t try anything smart or I’ll fucking end you. Now go on, get moving.’

  Chueco is already posted on one side of the front window, back to the wall, legs apart. He’s propped up on his left elbow so he can turn easily and he’s peering through the crack under the security shutter. What few rays of daylight are left slip between the frame and the metal shutt
er which hasn’t been rolled down completely. It’s through this gap he aims the Beretta. And through this gap that night seeps in. A damp cool breeze. The last three shots added a new constellation to the holes in the shutter. Street light glimmers through them. Like stars against a black sky.

  I crawl to the other side, take out the .38, pull the bag off my shoulder and sit on it. I watch through the crack, but nothing. The street is deserted. I look carefully to see if I can see where the shots came from. The corner, the building site across the street, the patch of waste ground further off, the roofs … But there’s nothing. We’re surrounded by ghosts. Or brothers of the invisible passenger.

  Chueco’s eyes scream despair. His eyebrows collect the sweat from his forehead. They’re dripping. Like he’s just played a five-a-side match. The passenger’s got him by the balls. And it’s not about to let go. It’s obvious. He’s about to say something to me but I signal for him to wait. To listen.

  El Jetita’s police radio is still chirruping and giving off static. He’s behind the bar with Rubén and El Negro Sosa. They’re talking. But from where I am I can’t hear what they’re saying. What I can hear loud and clear is El Jetita barking into the radio.

  ‘Commissioner Zanetti, do you copy me? Come in, over.’

  He repeats the call over and over until the radio finally crackles into life and spits, ‘Zanetti here. I copy you. Who is this? Over.’

  ‘About fucking time!’ El Jetita says before pressing the button on the radio. ‘Commissioner, it’s Ricardo. Been trying to reach you all afternoon. We’ve got a serious problem here. Over.’

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard El Jetita’s name. His real name, the one behind the alias. And it’s the first time I’ve ever heard El Jetita use this tone of voice. Meek, imploring.

  ‘Yeah … an officer told me some fool was trying to get me on the radio but wouldn’t give a name. You know you’re not supposed to use this frequency. Just this once, I’m breaking the rules for you. What do you want, sweetie? I don’t have time to waste. Over.’

  ‘Commissioner, one of my boys has been shot and unless he gets medical attention, he’s not going to make it. I need you to clear up the situation, because right now they’ve got us trapped inside Farías’s bar … Over.’

  ‘What are you coming crying to me for, Ricardito? What am I, your mamá? I thought we agreed. You sort the turf out with Charly; when that’s done you and I can do a deal. Don’t bust my balls, sweetie, I’ve got enough shit on my plate right now with the strikers and picketers down on Zavaleta Bridge and I’ve got to be up first thing tomorrow to deal with the teachers’ demonstration. Over.’

  ‘I’m calling because Robledo who’s down here with me says he saw two officers out there with the guys who’ve got us trapped.’ El Jetita’s still calm, but now he’s a little gruff. ‘What the hell’s going on, Zanetti? Come in. Over.’

  ‘Listen. Robledo’s not on the force any more, and I don’t trust anything he says. So just sort out your own business and don’t come telling tales to me. Oh, and one more thing … Remember what I told you last time. Don’t leave a bunch of gunshot stiffs lying around the place. If you give me grief or create extra work for me, the deal’s off, OK? Right … I’ve got to go … work.’ The radio gives a last belch of static and then goes silent.

  ‘Fuck you, Zanetti, fucking hijo de puta!’ Rubén explodes. ‘I’m going to make you pay for this, and pay good!’

  El Jetita joins in the litany of abuse. El Negro Sosa says something too, but I don’t hear it.

  All through this conversation, Chueco hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Now he raises his eyebrows and whispers, ‘What the fuck have we got ourselves into, Gringo?’

  ‘What choice did we have? This is a war. If we’d stayed out there, we’d be dead …’

  ‘And we won’t be in this rathole?’ he hisses.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I say without much conviction.

  Chueco groans, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, bends down a little so he can scan the street. We stay like that in silence for a couple of minutes until, without looking at me, he says quietly, ‘Gringo, you have to believe me, I’ve always been straight with you … Only reason I didn’t tell you that the bust on Farías’s place was a set-up was so you wouldn’t bail. And then after that thing with Santi, you just ended up believing what you wanted to believe … I wasn’t dealing dope, I was just getting rid of a couple of lumps of hash I nicked from El Jetita, that’s all, I swear.

  ‘We’re cool, Chueco. Jesus, what’s with you? You getting sentimental?’

  ‘I’m just saying …’

  ‘Chill, it’s all good,’ I say, and I feel a lump in my throat.

  THE LOOKOUT CHEATS

  I CHEAT. I start skipping pages, two at a time, then three at a time. And it still seems like the story’s not getting anywhere. Or if it is, it’s moving fucking slowly. Barely crawling along. Hesitant, groping its way. This bastard Ishmael goes on too much. He goes into every detail. From the shape of a whale’s jawbone to the way the crews on whaling boats party when they meet up out at sea. Sometimes it’s slower than swimming through snot.

  All I wanted was to sail off into the sunset on Captain Ahab’s ship, but the speed the Pequod moves is a joke. A piss-poor joke. It’s like it’s sailing in slow motion. Even the minute hand is moving faster. Which is saying something, because ever since we’ve been trapped here, time’s been stretching like chewing gum. Last time I asked El Sapito Medina, it was half three. And that was a long time ago. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to start getting light any time soon.

  El Sapito’s obviously bored playing the sniper. He’s propped the FAL against the shutter. Inoffensive. Right now he’s nodding off with his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. Chueco too. Dozing off then jolting awake. Every now and then he opens his eyes and gives me this strange, confused look. Like he’s woken up without knowing where he is or what the fuck is happening. I keep reading. I struggle against tiredness, against fear. I ward off fear as best I can by reading the whale book, but Ishmael’s not making it easy for me. Nothing’s happening. Nothing’s happening outside either.

  So I go on reading. I tilt the book towards the window so I can make the most of a beam of light from the street outside that filters through a hole in the shutter. I use the hole to scan the night and I skim through the pages. But nothing changes. Day refuses to break. And in the book it’s worse.

  There’s no sign of life from El Jetita, Rubén or El Negro Sosa. For a while there, they were holed up behind the counter playing truco, calling out bids like every hand was life or death. But their fondness for pills and gin moved on to class As. With every hand their nostrils blared like trumpets.

  ‘Stingy fuckers don’t even pass it round,’ Chueco whispered, half dead with fear. Now he’s asleep, his worried little face like a kid having a nightmare. Breaks your heart just to look at him.

  The three chiefs have probably fallen asleep over their cards by now. It’s the only thing that would explain the quiet. Unless they’re playing some card game for deaf mutes. Which I doubt. I’d be happy if they’d been snorting paco cut with naphthalene. Or better still, caustic soda.

  What really scares me now is the silence from the kitchen. And not because of Yani, though I feel bad for her. I can hardly bring myself to look her in the eye now. And it’s not for Pampita, however much I feel sorry for her. Or for old Riquelme or Fat Farías. And no way is it for Robledo, the fucking milico turncoat …

  No, the silence that’s freaking me out is the other guy. The skinny guy, Fabián. That kid’s down to the last cigarette in the pack. And I’m freaked out because I’ve got a feeling everyone in there is asleep except him. I feel like he’s keeping me company. As though we’re keeping watch together tonight. I’m waiting for the first streak of dawn in the sky. Fabián is ringing down the curtain once and for all. Turning off the lights and closing up. Dawn or no dawn. That’s why he’s not sleeping. Eithe
r that or he’s already woken up somewhere far from this nightmare. Although he may be wincing with pain, squeezing his eyes tight shut with every twinge, right now his eyes are wide open. I’d swear it. Open and staring out at the night.

  Just like Ishmael when it’s his turn to go up into the crow’s nest. To climb up into the barrel on the masthead to watch for the spouts of distant whales. Since Ahab can recognise the spout of the white whale, he forces his crew to stand watch twenty-four hours a day. Ishmael takes the night watch. The silvery jet of water appears and disappears in the moonlight like a phantom. They follow it for a couple of days, but it doesn’t reappear. Ishmael tells the men it’s a waste of time since what they’re hunting is not Moby Dick, but Ahab’s doom. He’s a smart-arse. All the way through the book it’s like he’s waiting for something bad to happen, like he can tell the future. But he’s cheating. Because he already knows what’s going to happen. The story he’s telling happened years ago. And he came through it. That’s the only reason why he can tell the story. He already knows what’s going to happen. I don’t. Neither does Fabián, but he can imagine.

  The gold doubloon is still there, nailed to the mast, waiting for someone to say they’ve spotted Moby Dick on the horizon. But it never happens. The days go by, and old Ahab gets crazier and crazier. The first thing he does whenever they encounter another ship is ask the captain for news of Moby Dick. And they keep going, following the trail. People die along the way. Drown. Harpoon boats are sunk. But the hunt never ends. They sail almost all the way to Japan. And just when it seems like they’re going to find him any moment now, old Ahab breaks his whalebone leg. The ship’s carpenter has to make him a new one from the keel of one of the harpoon boats that was smashed.