Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (9 page)

‘
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 little 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.

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
mate
s 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 the 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.

‘I think so, let’s see if I remember …’

‘You have to discard sets of trumps or cards of the same value,’ he explains, ‘and if you think the other player’s lying you shout Bluff! The first person to get rid of all their cards wins.’

I call trumps: cups. Quique puts down three cards and picks up a card from the pack. He doesn’t look like he’s bluffing. Me, I’m lying like a politician. And he’s letting me. I’m down to only two cards when Quique shouts Bluff. He turns over my last card and I have to pick up the whole discard pile. We start again. Swords are trumps. I use a four to change suit to coins. It seems like a good idea since I picked up the discard pile, but it doesn’t turn out that way. Quique discards two, as if the trumps he didn’t have earlier have magically multiplied. He has only one card left. I call Bluff and Quique gives me a devious smile. He wasn’t lying. He had to be bluffing earlier, even when he picked a card up from the pile and looked disappointed. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense. We keep playing and he keeps picking up cards and then on the fourth discard he wins the hand.