Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (11 page)

‘And since when did you start giving a shit?’ I say to Chueco, who’s standing behind me looking shifty.

‘Since we started playing with fire,
loco
,’ he says sarcastically. His eyes are glittering. But it’s not the hard glitter of coke. He looks drunk. ‘Where you been, Gringo? I’ve been waiting round for you all day. We’ve got a little job on …’

‘Well, let’s do it now,’ I play along, all friendly and shit, ‘after all, at night all cats are grey.’

‘Come on. Charly’s kids are headed down to the park by the station. I just saw them.’

‘I’m guessing you’re strapped?’

‘Too fucking right,’ he says, flashing me the butt of the gat sticking out of his belt.

We head straight down the street by the evangelical church, an old converted animal-feed warehouse decked out with neon lights. On Sunday nights the place is heaving. You can hear the pastor singing and shouting. The evangelicals pitched up in the barrio years ago now, but they’re still hunting for fools. Even Mamina, who’s no fool, was hooked for a while. But soon as they asked for money, she told them where to go.

Chueco can’t fucking shut up. He’s explaining stuff to me, telling me about his plans. How we’re well in now. We’ve fucked over El Jetita and got away with it, and when we get him to trust us, we’ll skewer the fucker big style. I play dumb. I nod and agree with everything he says but I’m not buying it. Chueco’s already fucked me over. He’s only in it for himself. When it comes down to it, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the one who got shafted instead of El Jetita.

As we come to the park, Chueco asks, like he doesn’t give a shit, ‘
Che
, Gringo, you been in touch with Toni?’

My head starts spinning like a busted merry-go-round, the little wooden horses flying off as it whirls. I don’t like coincidences. Never did. I don’t like them because I don’t believe in them. Either Chueco was listening in while I was on the phone or whatever’s going down is more complicated than I thought.

‘No, why?’ I play dumb again.

‘Nothing … El Jetita asked about him this morning and I said I’d ask you. Turns out Toni was one of his men until things got fucked up, and now he wants to bring him back into the gang.’

‘I thought Toni got himself killed?’

‘No, that’s bullshit,’ Chueco explains. ‘El Jetita says the fool’s doing arts and crafts somewhere out in the Delta.’

The whole conversation rings about as true as a 32-peso piece. I don’t know who’s the bigger fool in all this, me or him.

‘So why not just ask me himself, instead of getting you to do it?’

‘What do I know … ?’ He dodges the question. ‘You know El Jetita, he’s weird as fuck.’

The merry-go-round in my head is still spinning out of control. Every little blind horse that flies off is one more unexplained loose end in this fucking tangle: why did Toni have to disappear in the first place? And why can’t he come back (because those two things have got to be related)? Why doesn’t Mamina trust him? Why is El Jetita so interested in Toni all of a sudden, and what the fuck is Chueco doing caught up in this mess … ?

The little horses fly off and shatter blindly against a wall of steel.

‘Hey, there they are,’ says Chueco. ‘Let me do the talking.’

Charly’s dealers are sitting along the side of the path drinking a beer. We rush over to them like we’re desperate to score.

‘
Qué onda?
’ says Chueco.

‘What you looking for?’ El Negrito Silva says, getting up.

The other kid stays sitting. His name’s Medusa. We’ve known him our whole lives. But when you’re dealing, no one’s got a name, that’s the rules.

‘Depends what you’re selling.’

‘Whatever you’re jonesing for,
loco
,’ Medusa says, still not getting up. ‘We’ve got everything.’

They’re just kids, can’t be older than Quique, but when it comes to dealing, they’re pros. They’ve been running deliveries in the barrio for a couple of months now. Charly’s using them as an advance party to expand his business. And if things go wrong … well, they’re cannon fodder. That much is clear.

‘Viagra?’ Chueco says, completely deadpan.

Silva looks at me and the smile on his face vanishes.

‘Don’t piss me around, shithead.’

‘I’ll give you shithead, you little motherfucker,’ Chueco says, pulling out the strap. ‘Now be good little boys and empty your pockets.’

Little Medusa jumps to his feet and reaches for his belt.

‘Look out!’ I shout, grabbing the kid’s wrist with both hands before he can pull his gun. With his free hand Medusa grabs the hair at the back of my neck.

‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, you little shit?!’ Chueco says, shoving the gat into the kid’s ear, wedging his head between the gun and my shoulder. But Medusa keeps struggling. The seconds tick past. I’m buzzing on adrenalin. I’m shitting myself.

‘What are you doing, guys?’ Silva says, his voice calm. ‘You’re gonna get yourselves in serious shit.’

‘Shut your hole, Negrito, and show me your fucking hands,’ screams Chueco. ‘Don’t fucking move or I’ll end you, and I’ll cap your little friend too if he goes for that strap!’ Chueco is bricking it. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.

I’m staring at the sky. Black. Medusa has my head jerked back, tugging at a fistful of my hair like he’s about to rip it out. My neck hurts like fuck. But the difference in our ages works in my favour. I’ve still got both hands gripping Medusa’s wrist to stop him pulling the gun holstered in his pants. I force his wrist down hard, pressing the barrel into his balls. If he keeps this up, he’s going to blow his chances of passing on the family name.

‘Let it go. Let it fucking go,’ I say, and the sound of my own voice scares me shitless. I sound calmer than El Negrito Silva. Must be fear. ‘Cap him, Chueco, don’t piss about, just do it …’ I say, at the same time praying that neither of them gets a shot off.

I don’t know if Chueco thinks I’m serious, but I suddenly feel Medusa’s head slam harder against my shoulder. Chueco’s drilling a hole in his ear with the gat. Since everything with Medusa seems to go in one ear and out the other, I’m probably looking at a bullet in the shoulder. But maybe he is listening, because the threat seems to work. He goes limp. I wrestle the gun from him and step back. It’s an automatic.

‘Fucking kids …’ says Chueco, letting out all the air in his lungs. He’s pale. To calm himself, he gives Medusa a kick in the stomach. ‘And one for you too, you little hood,’ he says, kicking Silva in the back of the head. El Negrito gags, swears and swallows snot. Medusa is still doubled over on the ground, one hand on his belly and the other on his mutilated ear.

‘Now these two little shits are going to listen to me and listen good. First you’re going to make a nice little pile of everything in your pockets, right down to the last toffee, on this …’ As he talks, Chueco takes off his jacket and lays it at Medusa’s feet like a blanket. ‘Come on, do it!’ he says, and gives another slap to El Negrito Silva who’s still snivelling.

When Medusa said they had everything, he wasn’t shitting. On to the jacket they toss wraps of coke, tabs of acid, lumps of hash in every shape and size, rocks of
paco
, a dozen blister packs of pills of various colours, and a lot of cash in small bills.

‘I said everything down to your last Rolo, or are you trying to piss me off?’ Chueco growls, seeing them stop.

The kids keep pulling wraps out of their underpants, their shoes, from behind their ears … it’s like Mandrake the Magician.

‘Incredible … these kids are a walking pharmacy,’ Chueco says excitedly. The gleam is back in his eyes; I’m guessing fear sobered him up pretty quick. Fucking moron. He always had good reflexes, but the first time he decides to play the gunslinger, he shows up off his face. We’re lucky Medusa didn’t end us both before he had time to react.

‘Take a look at this …’ he says, taking Medusa’s gun from me.

He’s like a kid with a new toy. A .22 Beretta.

‘Careful, Chueco, mind what you’re doing!’ I yell, snatching the .38 from him.

He turns the automatic over, takes out the clip, slaps it in again and leaves it cocked.

‘Right. You know what’s going to happen now, kids?’ Chueco goes all paternal again. ‘I’m going to count to twenty and then I’m going to do a little target practice. I’m not much of a shot, but I figure I’ll still hit one of you. Whichever of you gets away should go tell your boss from El Jetita that his little game is over. From now on, any dealing in the barrio is our business. Clear? Any of Charly’s people who stroll through the park this side of the refinery won’t be strolling back to Zavaleta. And anyone who comes to try and pick up what’s left of them will wind up the same way. Are we clear?’ Chueco concludes his speech, still turning the Beretta over in his hands. He’s in his element. The two kids don’t say anything. ‘Right, now why don’t you little fuckers get running, I want to test this beauty. Have to hand it to you, it’s a nice piece … On your feet, get moving! One, two, three …!’

The two boys take off at top speed down the alley leading to the plaza. Chueco keeps counting, shouting out the numbers. By the time he gets to twenty, the kids are nearly four blocks away. He’d have a job hitting either of them. They start to zigzag. They know all the moves. Chueco fires off a couple of rounds just for the hell of it. Just to make some noise.

He bends down and starts counting the money.

‘There’s a fucking fortune here, Gringo.’ He makes three piles, pushes one towards me and says, ‘Here, you take this one, I’ll take the other, the rest we hand over to El Jetita like good little boys. What do you say? Same with the dope. Jesus, this is fucking beautiful. There’s everything here. Take whatever you want.’

I wad up the pile of money and stuff it into my pocket, pick up a lump of hash.

‘For fuck’s sake, take something decent, gay-boy. Have you ever seen so much dope in one place .. ?’

‘It’s cool, I’m fine with this,’ I say, nodding to the .38.

‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Gringo,’ he shouts.

I don’t answer.

‘What, you think you can take my fucking gun just like that?’

‘What do you think, Chuequito?’ I say, stuffing it into the back of my jeans.

Chueco stares at me with the Beretta in his hands.

‘What? You going to shoot me? Better make sure you aim well, because if you fuck up, I’ll end you.’

I turn my back and walk away. He hasn’t got the balls. At least that’s what I’m hoping.

‘Gringo. Gringo! Come back,
che
! Don’t be such a jerk! Gringoooo!’ he wails like a sheep having its throat slit.

I don’t even turn. Let him bitch all he wants, the gun’s mine. I earned it fair and square for saving his fucking arse. Besides, I’m going to need it. I can see it coming … Let him keep his new toy. I’ve got off the merry-go-round. I’m not spinning any more.

THERE’S A LIGHT
on at home. Mamina’s back. So is Quique. Through the strip curtain I see a steaming bowl on the table. A hand stirs, loads a spoon and disappears. It’s the kid. They’re talking in low voices. Mamina’s probably telling him how his little sister is doing. I don’t go in. I walk on up the lane, toying with the lump of hash. I haven’t got any skins but it doesn’t matter, I use the scrap of paper that’s got Cristina’s number on it. I keep the bit with the number but smoke part of her name and most of the directions for how to get to Toni’s gaff in the Delta. I know them by heart anyway.

I take the last couple of tokes on the bridge over the stream. The water’s pretty high right now from all the rain today. The wind’s blowing from the east, and the sky is clear. A fat, lazy full moon lights up the water as it rushes. The muddy riverbed must be all churned up.

I chuck a couple of stones, try to skim them on the water, but they just skip once and then sink. Used to be I could get them to skip six, seven times, all the way across the river. Used to be able to smoke a cigarette right down to the butt without the ash falling … Used to. Not now. Now I’ve got a .38 with six bullets in the cylinder. I counted them. I’ve got some cash in my pocket and more in the whale book back home, under my mattress. I’ve got a fucked-up feeling I might lose my balance and fall, and a kind of longing to go to hell.

I swing by Fat Farías’s place, but I don’t go inside. Chueco’s probably gone back to his squat to crash. If not, he’ll be inside doing deals with El Jetita. The bar is rammed. I go round and sit in the little courtyard out back where Farías chucks the empty wine barrels and all the rubbish from the kitchen. There’s some people in the storage shed at the far end. I know because I can see light coming through the little holes in the corrugated iron. Besides, someone’s moved all the crates of beer and fizzy drinks outside. I go closer to the shack and put my ear to the wall. I hear gasps. They’re fucking in there.

I slip behind the wall of beer crates and creep towards the kitchen door. I hear the hoarse voice of a famous sports commentator and people shouting. They’re showing the highlights from today’s matches. That’s why the place is rammed: Farías has got a TV in.

The door opens unexpectedly. I take a step back and hold my breath. Between the crates, framed against the light, I see El Negro Sosa. He can’t see me. I’m standing in the shadows.

‘Pampita!’ he yells. ‘Time’s up!’

He goes back inside, leaving the door half open. I can hear people talking in the kitchen pretty clearly.

‘You want me to put the mattress down in the middle of the corridor?’ a woman’s voice says, husky from gin and cigarettes. I recognise it. It’s La Riquelme.

‘Obviously – it’s not like there’s any fucking space anywhere else,’ El Negro Sosa says irritably. ‘Why, were you planning to make up a camp bed on top of the stove,
vieja
?’

‘OK,
papi
, no need to take that tone with me. I was just asking …’

‘Less of that
papi
shit. It’s Señor Sosa to you. You better learn some respect or I’ll beat it into you.’

I can imagine him raising his hand. El Negro looks exactly like you’d expect a pimp to look. It’s like he was born to play the part.