Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (6 page)

‘Let’s see what the señorita can do,’ he says and passes me the gun.

‘Keep it up with that shit and I’ll split your head open,’ I say.

‘Bring it on, señorita …’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I say, taking aim.

Chueco always did know how to wind me up. I don’t know how he manages it, but he always does. Weird, because when it’s some random fuckwit trying to wind me up, I don’t give a shit.

Just as I’m about to squeeze the trigger he nudges me to make me miss. And I miss, but not by much. I aim again, holding my breath.

‘What are you doing?’ he yells.

I ignore him and concentrate. I remember what Toni used to tell me when I was a kid about how to fire a gun. He’d take me down to the patch of waste ground that used to be on the other side of the stream before they fenced it off to make a golf course and build a gated community. Toni always managed to bag a partridge, sometimes a hare. They say the place is teeming with animals these days. And it’s not hard to believe – even without going inside the gate it’s obvious the golf course is nothing but scrubland. But no one goes in there any more, and with all the security guards watching the perimeter they sure as fuck wouldn’t go strapped.

It’s like riding a bike, you never forget, I tell myself, spreading my legs to distribute my weight, right foot forward like Toni taught me, tracing an invisible line between the eye, the sight and the target. It was easier with Toni’s shotgun, even if it did weigh a ton, because it was like a ruler – all you had to do was line it up, hold your breath and gently squeeze the trigger. If your aim was a bit off, the spread of shotgun pellets helped. Obviously if the partridge was on the wing, it was harder because then you had to trace a moving invisible line, but anything on the ground was easy. I got sick of shooting rats and weasels. I even managed to do pretty well with the .22 Toni used to have. The only difference was you had to stretch your arm out and use that as your ruler. Oh, and the recoil didn’t fuck your shoulder up. With the .22, the recoil was just a quick jolt, but Toni’s shotgun had a serious kickback to it. If you didn’t brace it properly, you’d end up with bruises on your shoulder.

Chueco’s talking to me, but I’m not listening. I hold my breath and I fire. The can whips up into the air and falls back almost in the same place, now presenting the full moon of its base. I raise the .38 and fire again. The can shudders again.

‘What the fuck are you doing, dickwad?’ Chueco says, snatching the gun from me. ‘D’you know how much bullets cost?’

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.

‘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.

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.