Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (16 page)

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. Either 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.

The carpenter’s a weird character. And he appears out of nowhere in the middle of the book. He’s an old labourer who put out to sea because his whole family is dead. The guy’s got nothing to lose.

Suddenly, the story speeds up and lots of things start happening. Now I can’t cheat any more. Ishmael won’t let me. Won’t let me skip a single page. Things are getting worse and worse. Overnight, Ishmael’s little friend, the harpooner with all the tattoos, gets sick. He thinks he’s going to die. He gets the carpenter to measure him and make a coffin. He climbs into it with his harpoon, his idol and a bunch of junk he wants to take with him into the afterlife. Then, when Ishmael’s already bawling about him dying, the guy says he’s not ready to die yet and climbs out again. The ‘savage’ gets better just like that, because he wills it. But that’s not the half of it. It’s not over yet.

Since the coffin is about as useful as ears on a deaf guy, they decide to use it as a lifeboat, because they lost the one they had when some guy drowned. Now Ishmael really starts being a smart-arse. Now I really want to beat the shit out of him. He must think we’re all a bunch of retards. What’s he doing coming up with all this bullshit? OK, so the coffin’s made of wood and I guess wood floats, but it’s a bit of a stretch from that to deciding to use it as a lifeboat. Either you’re a stupid fuck or you already know how everything turns out. The only person who could use a lifeboat like that is Fabián.

I KEEP ON
reading. The old carpenter is called Perth. And he’s not just a carpenter, he works with metal too. Ahab gives him his best knives and asks him to make a harpoon. It has to be good steel if it’s going to pierce Moby Dick’s heart. So Perth forges the harpoon and old Ahab wants to christen it with the blood of the harpooners. Because they’re pagans, according to him. One of them is Queequeg, Ishmael’s cannibal friend who was about to die a couple of chapters ago. Then there’s this tall black guy and the third is an American Indian. Ahab mixes some blood from all three and, as he dips the point of the harpoon into it, he swears an oath. Like it’s a fucking macumba ritual. I can almost hear the whistle of the red-hot metal as it’s dipped into the blood. But I look up from the book and I hear the whistle again. It’s coming from outside.

A burst of gunfire drowns out everything. Suspended time explodes in a symphony of gunshots. Fear speeds up my reactions. I’m already firing back.

‘Wha … ?’ Chueco jerks awake and starts firing.

El Sapito’s FAL spits bullets. The metal shutter shudders like a drumskin. Bullets still zip through the metal, taking chips out of tables and chunks of plaster from the walls.

‘Jesus fuck!’ someone shouts from behind the counter. El Jetita or Rubén, I’m not sure which.

I want to peek through the crack, but I don’t dare. The shutter is shaking hard now. If I show my face, I’m going to get it shot off. I can feel it in the trembling in my legs, the chill running up my spine. I fire blindly, not even bothering to try to aim.

I turn and see Rubén, lying on his stomach, slithering quickly towards the door, pushing the shotgun in front of him. He looks like a snake. A fat snake. He pushes the door open a crack with the barrel of the shotgun, and fires off rounds of pellets from ground level.

I’m still firing but the trigger just clicks dully. The cylinder’s empty. Chueco glances over at me and, still firing, rummages in his jacket pocket, fishes out a box of .38 shells and tosses it to me. As I’m reloading, I hear the same whistle I heard before the firing started. But this time, it goes on and on, panicked, hysterical. I know it’s Quique, and I feel a knot in my stomach.

El Jetita shouts an order I don’t hear. There’s a silence. I put one eye to the crack. My left eye. There’s a dark shape lying in the middle of the road in a pool of blood that keeps spreading. It’s got too much hair to be a kid. It’s a dog. I’m sure it’s Sultán. That’s why Quique was whistling so desperately.

Above a half-built wall in the construction site opposite, I see a gun appear. Then a head slowly follows it. But before I can even see the eyebrows, there’s a bang and it disappears suddenly. Where the head was, there’s now a gaping hole in the wall and a cloud of dust from the shotgun blast.

‘See? That’s how it’s done,’ Rubén yells, ecstatic. ‘Come on, guys, shoot the fuckers! What are you waiting for?’

One down. But the firestorm starts up again. The shutter looks like it’s about to cave in any minute now. El Sapito is still shooting in regular bursts, but it doesn’t seem to be scaring them off. On the contrary, it feels like there’s more of them. Sultán’s blood glistens red now and the street is glowing yellow. When did dawn break? All that waiting for daybreak only for it to happen without warning, the moment snatched away by the rush of adrenalin and the smell of gunpowder.

There’s no sign of the gunfire stopping, but after a while there’s a pause between the bursts. Chueco is pale, but he seems calm. He gives me a quick look out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know what to make of the gesture.

‘Gringo!’ El Jetita shouts. ‘Over here!’ He signals for me to head for the kitchen.

El Negro Sosa clears the counter in a single jump and in two steps he’s standing next to me. He’s come to take my place. He shakes me by the shoulder like he’s trying to wake me. I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing it for, since I’m not asleep. Or not as much as I’d like to be.

‘Come on, move your arse!’ he says. ‘Leave them to me.’

I grab the bag and the whale book lying on the ground, stuff the book into the bag and sling it over my shoulder. I make to stand up, but another bullet rips through the shutter and makes me change my mind. Better to crawl over.

‘And where the fuck d’you think you’re going, 
loco
?’

‘I’m going with him,’ Chueco says curtly.

‘Stay where you are,’ El Negro snaps. ‘What are you, his boyfriend? You afraid someone’s going to bust your girlfriend’s arse?’

‘You fucking deaf? Where Gringo goes, I go,’ Chueco says in a tone that leaves no room for discussion.

‘Little shit! You think you’re a big man? I’ll fucking carve you up!’

‘Hey, girls, don’t start,’ El Jetita says to smooth things over. ‘Leave him, Negro. If he wants to risk his neck, let him. The kid knows what he’s doing.’

El Negro Sosa flips him the finger. Chueco doesn’t react.

I crawl into the kitchen and stand up again. Chueco follows me. El Jetita’s blocking my way. And my line of sight.

‘Hey, Robledo, how are things?’

‘It’s all fine,’ says the
milico
. ‘Been a bit calmer back here since Fabián –’

‘What? He snuffed it?’

‘Couple of hours ago. He’s cold as a nun’s cunt now.’

‘Jesus Christ! That’s all I fucking need,’ says El Jetita. ‘The straw that breaks the camel’s back.’ He walks across to the filthy mattress. There’s someone sleeping on it right next to the corpse.

Fabián is whiter than a sheet of paper. His mouth is hanging open. Someone’s closed his eyes. Old Riquelme is sitting on a beer crate next to him, face like stone, watching over him. On the other side is Pampita. Sitting on the ground. Her face even more blank.

Fat Farías stops El Jetita and pulls him to one side with his good hand – he’s still got his right hand in the dirty sling, but the bandage turban on his head is gone.

‘Ricardo, we need to talk,’ he says. ‘This whole thing has got out of hand.’ He’s serious. He’s using up his last cartridge of dignity.

‘Don’t bust my balls, Gordo, can’t you see this isn’t the right time?’ El Jetita cuts him dead, shaking Farías off him like he’s a street kid begging for change.

Meanwhile, I go over to Yanina who’s still on the counter, curled into a ball, her back pressed against the wall. Her hair falls over her eyes, her face is turned inward. She’s looking at me but she doesn’t see me. I whisper in her ear, tell her to wait for me, tell her that when I come back the two of us are getting out of here. But she doesn’t react. I feel like I’m whispering to a wax dummy.

‘The guys are going to go out the back way,’ El Jetita explains to Robledo. Then, turning to us, he says to me, ‘Griguito, you’re going to go out there and send Toni in to me. Tell him to fire three shots in the air and wave a white flag – we’ll let him in. And tell him not to try anything, OK? Tell him to come in unarmed, tell him I won’t be carrying either. We’ll sit down and hammer out a deal everyone can live with and that’ll be the end of it. You got that?’

‘Who told you Toni’s out there?’ I say.

‘It’s … I know him. If he’s not there, he’ll be here any minute now. Charly will have called him as soon as he pulled this shit … Me and those two fuckers go way back, I know them … But why the fuck am I explaining this shit to you? Just do what you’re told, kid, and shut your hole!’

‘And what makes you think I’m going to offer him to you on a plate? I walk out that door, you’ll never fucking set eyes on me again.’ I regret the words before I’ve even said them.

El Jetita gives a roar of laughter and stares at me. He twists the knife wound he’s got for a mouth, and time seems to stand still. I know this look all too well.

‘You’ve got a pair of balls on you, Gringo, I’ll give you that. You’ll go far.’ He gives me a wink.

He raises a hand as though to pat me on the shoulder, and before I’ve got time to react, he grabs me by the throat, slams my head against the wall and drags me back. Robledo steps aside and El Jetita’s hand squeezes harder. He’s choking me. El Jetita pulls me towards him until his lips brush against my ear. This leaves me facing Chueco. He blinks slowly and shakes his head. Almost imperceptibly, but I see it. If this was a game of
truco
and we were partnered, he’d be telling me he doesn’t have the cards to win this hand.

‘Now listen up and listen good,’ El Jetita whispers, and what has me shitting my pants is the calm relaxed tone of his voice as he strangles me. ‘There’s three reasons you’re going to do exactly what I tell you. First, if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down wherever you’re hiding and I’ll gouge your eyes out. With my bare hands. Got it? Second, because I’m guessing you want to pay Toni back for what he did to Deep Throat. I mean, she was your
mamá
, wasn’t she? And third, you’ll do it for the kid. Pretty little thing, Yani, isn’t she? You fancy her, don’t you? Good. Well, if you don’t do your homework like a good boy, I’ll make it my business to fuck her up. She’ll be spread like a tango dancer’s legs on a Saturday night. You won’t even be able to jerk off thinking about her again … Am I clear?’