Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (17 page)

He relaxes his grip and I breathe. I can feel my legs buckle. El Jetita gives Robledo a signal and the Fed opens the back door.

‘Now get the fuck out of here,’ El Jetita says and slaps me upside the head. ‘You too, move it …’ he says to Chueco.

We go out and Robledo closes the door behind us. We stand there, hidden behind the pile of beer crates. Undecided. I’m still coughing and spitting. I get my breath back. Chueco doesn’t open his mouth. I look at him and jerk my head towards the roof. He clicks his tongue, so I don’t push it. I’m not exactly thrilled at the idea of having to crawl across the roofs again. We’d be like ducks at a fairground up there. Easy targets. Chueco jerks the Beretta towards the low wall next to the little corrugated-iron storage shed.

‘Let’s do it,’ I say. I don’t stop to think, because if I do, I’ll never move.

Having just drawn the .38 for no reason, I stuff it in my belt, put both hands on the top of the wall and vault it. Before I’ve even hit the ground, I hear two shots. They’ve clocked us. Hunkered on the ground, I count the seconds. Four, five, six … Chueco lands next to me and there’s another burst of gunfire. In a couple of seconds they’ll be right on top of us. There’s no lock on the gate. I slam the bolt back, but the gate won’t open. Chueco grabs my shoulder. I turn and he jerks his thumb to say he’ll go first. He’s decided.

He manages to get the gate open, fires out at random and legs it. I follow, firing the .38, trying to aim at something, but I can’t see anything. Bullets whistle past us. Another swarm of angry wasps … and Chueco drops like a sack of potatoes. I need to drag him along with me. Because now I can see two figures at the corner, the dawn light framing them from behind. I aim and fire, one, two, three shots. I hear a scream and they disappear. I figure I must have hit one of them. I haul Chueco to his feet by his armpits and he lets out a hoarse moan like he’s being split in two.

‘Come on, come on … Move it, Chueco, don’t fucking bail on me now!’ I scream, dragging him behind me like he’s drunk.

We stumble across the road.

‘Go on,
loco
, move it!’

But Chueco slumps against me. He’s not breathing, he’s making gurgling noises, choking and spitting. They shot him up good. Everything’s going to shit. A long shadow appears at the corner and starts firing. Chueco’s head lurches and rolls until he leans it on my shoulder. His legs aren’t working. They’re like putty.

‘Stop, Gringo, stop, leave me here …’ he says and pukes up blood. A lot of blood. I feel it trickle down my side. I’m losing him. He slumps to the ground. I manage to drag him into a doorway and hammer furiously on the door, hoping for a miracle. I’ve completely lost it.

‘Open up! For fuck’s sake, open the fucking door!’

‘It’s too late, Gringo, leave it,’ he says haltingly, choking on red puke. ‘Just get out of here.’

‘Come on,
loco
, hang in there!’ I yell, but my voice breaks. ‘Hang in there just for a bit. I’ll go get Santi and we’ll take you to hospital …’ I say, loading the .38.

I try to do it quickly, but I can’t. It’s not that my hands are shaking, the whole world is shaking. The gun is shaking and the bullets jump out of my hands. The air is moving, the street is swaying. Chueco’s eyelids are trembling like the early dawn light, trembling like a drop of water suspended on a thread. The way a droplet hesitates just before it falls. I manage to get the bullets into the chamber, but the drop falls. And I run. Run before the droplet hits the ground. Run as I hear the wasps swarm all around me.

THE GIANT REEDS
scratch my hands, my face, rip my clothes to shreds, but I can’t sit still. I can hear a voice talking to me. Sending me conflicting messages. It whimpers, swears, launches into some long-winded speech until it chokes, whispers, sobs. It’s following close behind and I can’t seem to shake it. I peer through the reeds looking for the source, but all I can see are rats. The rats that nest in the rubbish tip on the riverbank. They shriek as I get close and disappear.

I haven’t got a hanky so I blow my nose into my T-shirt. It’s like cardboard. The blood Chueco puked up over me has dried. I peel off the T-shirt, go down to the water and wash myself. The river is black, stagnant and stinks of rotting garbage, but I still wash myself in it. I stink of something far worse. The smell of fear.

I take the clean T-shirt stashed in my bag and pull it on. My trousers are stained too and they’re ripped at the knee, but I keep them on. They’re the only pair I have. And it’s cold. I put on my windcheater again even though it itches like fuck. The nylon keeps getting snagged on things as I make my way through the scrubland.

As I blow through my thumbs, whistling to Quique, the voice fades. The arsehole who’s been tormenting me finally shuts up. Cupping my hands, I whistle again and it’s only then that I realise I’ve been talking to myself all fucking morning. It’s enough to drive me insane.

I need to get a grip. I go back to the reeds, find a little clearing and try to sleep for a bit. Rats are the least of my worries. What’s inside my head is much more dangerous. I can’t really switch my brain off completely, but at least I manage to rest. After a while, I feel much better. I keep whistling every now and then, though it’s probably pointless. Doesn’t matter how loud Quique makes the non-existent bird call, I’m never going to hear him if he’s on the other side of the barrio. But I don’t give up hope, I keep whistling.

As the sun reaches its height, the sky clouds over. And I start to feel thirsty. I don’t feel hungry at all. It doesn’t feel like I have a stomach any more, I lost it while I was running. Instead I feel a gaping hole there. A storm drain swallowing up my twisted insides.

An animal barks in answer to my bird call and I go quiet. I hear the lazy squeak of a wheel axle. I pull my gun and, through the reeds, I can make out the scrawny dog snuffling around close to me. A cart slowly rumbles past. I recognise it from the half-dead nag pulling it. It gets turned out to graze on the waste ground by the station. I’ve seen it a couple of times. I’ve never seen the bearded guy holding the reins before, though. The dog trots along behind the cart. And the squeak of the wheels gradually fades as the cart heads for the rubbish tip. The guy’s a
cartonero
– picks through rubbish for cans, paper, bottles, anything worth anything. A long hard slog, sifting through garbage. Today’s no different as far as he’s concerned. Doesn’t matter to him that there’s guys firing guns a couple of blocks away. He’s got a day’s work to do. It’s just another day for him. Not for me.

I can still hear the squeak of the axle in the distance and the sound soothes me a bit. When it finally fades, I start up with the bird calls again. After a while, I think I hear the same call answering me, but from another dimension. I don’t know if maybe what I’m hearing is just an echo, but I keep on whistling. And gradually, the other person takes shape. Comes closer. He’s followed the whistle all the way through the barrio. This last stretch is the hardest. Quique’s trying to work out exactly where the call is coming from. A couple more bird calls and he gets to the cart tracks. I pop my head above the reeds so he can see me. He makes like he’s leaving so as to throw anyone who’s watching off the scent and ducks into the reeds.

‘They killed my dog, Gringo,’ he says, his voice quavering.

‘They capped Chueco,’ I say, my voice trembling like his.

He doesn’t say anything. He comes over, hugs me and pats me on the back. Like we haven’t clapped eyes on each other for fucking years. I feel embarrassed. I feel my face crumple like I’m about to cry, but I don’t want him to see me go to pieces. I hug him hard then quickly light a cigarette. I give him one.

Quique smokes it slowly, staring at the ground. A rotting carpet of leaves, twigs and garbage. He looks up at me and says, ‘There’s some guy been looking for you since yesterday …’

‘Who?’

‘No fucking clue. He’s not from the barrio. He’s some rocker with a bunch of scars on his face.’ Quique drops the cigarette butt, stamps it out and carries on, looking intrigued. ‘Whoever the dude is, he’s fucking weird. He says he’s got a message for you from Toni.’

‘And you haven’t seen Toni around?’ I ask, fumbling to get another cigarette out of the packet, but it’s difficult because the cigarettes are trembling harder than the bullets earlier. At least this time I don’t have to load them into a chamber. I’ll be happy just to get one out of the pack. When I finally manage, I give the pack to Quique and he has no problem fishing one out. He’s the one who gives me a light. I can’t get the fucking lighter to work.

‘I dunno, Gringo … I never met the guy.’

‘Sure you met him, you just don’t remember. You were a kid at the time …’

Quique stares at me and shrugs. He’s right. Doesn’t matter if he ever met Toni or not. I try to think, but I’m so parched I can’t.

‘So where is this guy?’

‘At Zaid’s place. I told him to wait for me there, said I’d try and track you down.’

‘And how the fuck am I supposed to get there?’ I ask, thinking about the litre of beer I’ll neck soon as I get to the Turk’s place.

‘Long as you’re sneaky and you don’t go near the station, you’ll be fine. Silva and Medusa have staked out the square in front of the station, they’re not going to let this go … They’re fucking psycho. Some of the kids said they’re even looking for me.’

Quique heaves a sigh and lies back on the ground, arms folded behind his head. Closes his eyes. He’s pale. He looks five or six years older. He looks like a plaster statue. Or a corpse.

‘You look wrecked … You sleep?’

‘A couple of hours, maybe.’

‘Where did you spend the night?’ I ask, putting my bag behind my head as a pillow and lying back.

‘At Mamina’s.’

‘And you got in and out without anyone seeing?’

‘Yeah, they fucked off sometime in the middle of the night. There was nothing happening and they got bored hanging round,’ he explains.

‘So did you see Mamina?’

‘She didn’t come back.’ Quique clicks his tongue and curses under his breath. ‘… neither did my
mamá
.’

‘You still worried about your sister?’ I say, and I don’t know why, but I think about the maggoty doll.

Quique opens his eyes, turns and flashes me a dirty look.

‘You think?’ he says and closes his eyes again, and I feel like a shit.

‘Fuck you … how is this my fault?’ I think, but I don’t say it. For a while neither of us says anything. I listen to him breathing. Calm now. Like he’s asleep. I can’t sleep. The fear is eating me up inside.

‘So what do we do, Gringo?’ he asks unexpectedly, sitting up again.

‘Well, I’m getting the fuck out of here. No way I’m sticking around so they can cap me. You want to come with me, that’s up to you.’

Quique opens his mouth. He hesitates. He looks at me, hard as stone.

‘That’s sweet,
loco
, that’s cool. And how you planning to get gone? Take the four o’clock train?’ he says. ‘I mean, you could always ask Medusa and El Negrito to do you a solid, stop the 4.25 express. Throw a sleeper across the tracks like the railway workers did the day of the general strike and bye-bye. No, I’ve got a better idea … Why don’t you walk to Zavaleta, ask one of Charly’s boys to pay for a cab. What d’you think?’ To rub it in, he gives me a serious look like he’s expecting me to pick one of these options.

Turns out even Quique is taking the piss out of me now. The kid is frantic. And I don’t blame him. If this shit is too much for me, it’s a whole lot worse for him. Besides, I suppose maybe I sounded a bit harsh.

‘I’ll pay my own cab,
papá
. I’ve got more than enough cash,’ I say, taking a fistful of bills from the bag. ‘Here, go find Santi and give him this.’ I make the big bills into a wad and hand it to him. It’s a lot of cash, but I don’t count it. If I can’t buy my way out of this shit, I doubt I’ll get a chance to splash the cash later.

Quique takes the money with kid gloves. Like there’s shit on it, like he might catch scabies. A crumpled bill falls away. He picks it up and puts it with the others, never taking his eyes off me. Hardcore.

‘Tell him to swing by the Turk’s place at midnight. Tell him if he drives me down to Retiro in his Chevy, I’ll give him the same again.’

Quique scratches his head. He digs his shoes into the ground. He’s got them properly laced up now. Long laces tied twice around his ankles.

‘He’s not gonna give you a ride …’ he says, and sighs like he’s telling his kid sister there’s no Santa Claus. ‘The guy’s shitting himself, there’s no way he’d risk it. Charly’s people know about the Chevy. Any suspicious move, he knows they’ll end him. Besides, how can he take you if the road’s blocked? There’s a shitload of Feds at the crossroads outside Zavaleta, something about the teachers’ strike or the unemployed … The whole thing’s a clusterfuck …’

‘So what? We go round by the refinery, or take the old road: if Santi’s up for it, I don’t see the problem. Just take him the money, tell him what I told you. What, you think he’s chicken?’

‘He won’t do it, Gringo.’

‘Just listen to me and stop bitching. I’m telling you, he’ll be well up for it.’

Quique heaves a sigh, rubs his eyes. He’s not convinced. Neither am I, but it’s the only escape route I’ve got left.

‘Go on,
loco
, make like the Duracell bunny and fuck off,’ I say. ‘Once we get to Retiro, we can swing by the children’s hospital if you want. I know the way,’ I lie, taking advantage of the fact his kid sister’s sick. Keeping company with the local rats is clearly having an effect on me. All I need is a tail and I’d be one of them.

Quique looks at me for a second, then he says we might as well try and he leaves. I shout after him to give me a whistle if he spots anything dodgy on his way back to Zaid’s place, and I wait. I wait too long, because Quique’s warning never comes and, instead of getting my arse in gear, I sit there thinking about Chueco. And the arsehole who was tormenting me a while back shows up again and starts busting my balls. Before I realise, I’m talking to the dead like it was nothing weird.