Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (8 page)

I try to break loose but he squeezes harder. He’s breaking my fucking neck.

‘Play nice,
che
,’ he growls again.

Chueco is writhing on the ground cursing and howling in pain. Fat Farías is still bellowing threats while El Jetita wades into the chaos and tries to restore order.

‘Gordo, stop! Stop a minute. Let the kid go!’

‘Like fuck I’ll let him go, I’m going to kill the little fucker – this one and the other one.’

‘Stop, Gordo, let him go! Calm down.’ El Jetita grabs Fat Farías’s shoulder.

‘These are the fucking kids who robbed me!’ Farías carries on screaming. ‘I’m gonna kill this fucker.’ He twists Chueco’s arm viciously, making him howl even louder.

‘Chill, Farías,’ Rubén intervenes. ‘If you want, we’ll waste the pair of them, but right now just chill out.’

I see the flash of a gun. Turns out Fabián’s not slow or stupid. He’s the one who’s pulled the strap. I feel a chill run down my spine. And it’s obvious I’m limp with fear because El Negro Sosa’s hand is suddenly limp too. Farías realises what’s going on and gets to his feet, giving one last kick as he does so. Chueco doesn’t stop howling until El Jetita drags him up by the hair.

Through the strip curtain I can see Yanina’s eyes. I guess she was serving at the bar and came to see what all the screaming was about. From the scene in front of her, and from the terrified glance I shoot her, she must realise things have turned ugly.

‘Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on here?’ asks El Jetita.

‘Don’t you get it? These little fuckers are the ones who ripped me off!’ says Fat Farías.

‘You think I’d get my hands dirty robbing you, you stingy bastard?’ Chueco tries to laugh it off. ‘Who d’you think you are, fucking Rockefeller?’

And things go his way, because El Jetita laughs, and so does El Negro Sosa. Rubén is still stone-faced. Either Chueco is more cool-headed than I thought, or he’s more shit-scared than I am and it’s the panic that’s making him cunning. I know lots of people who go loopy when they’re scared.

‘How do you know it was them?’ asks El Jetita.

‘Cos of the watch.’

‘This watch here?’ El Jetita is trying to sound reasonable. ‘Is this your watch, Farías?’

‘Fifteen years I’ve had that watch – you think I don’t recognise it? There’s a small crack in the glass near the bottom.’

Chueco looks at the Citizen like he’s checking the time, then goes for broke. It’s all or nothing. He’s paler than the pages of Rubén’s notebook.

‘Are you saying this is your watch, Farías?’ he says angrily. ‘This is my fucking watch. I nicked it off a couple of kids yesterday, so it’s mine. What the hell’s got into you, Farías? You nearly broke my arm, you fuckwit.’

Chueco’s a genius when it comes to bullshitting. All we need now is for them to buy it. Fat Farías clearly doesn’t believe a word.

‘
Hijo de puta
, I’m going to fuck you up …’

El Jetita isn’t buying it either, but he plays along. He winks at Rubén who’s still stony-faced, and reassumes his role as a grown-up refereeing a kids’ game.

‘Let me see that watch. Where did you get it? Tell me, or I’ll end you –’

‘I told you, it’s mine. I robbed it off a couple of kids yesterday –’

‘What kids? Charly’s gang?’ says El Jetita, gently hinting at where Chueco needs to go with this.

‘They were taking the piss –’ Chueco says, testing the water.

‘You’re the one taking the piss … I told you to run them out of the barrio, not rob the little fuckers.’

It’s like El Jetita has superpowers, like his orders get carried out even before he gives them. Putting pressure on Charly’s kids is one of the things he asked us to do a few minutes ago, but now he’s taking it for granted that that’s what we were doing yesterday. Things are starting to become clearer. I take a breath.

‘Give him back the watch, Chueco,’ El Jetita says, all paternal.

‘It’s fucking mine, if they stole it from him, too fucking bad –’

‘Give it back,
che
!’ El Jetita roars, smacking him round the head.

It’s all an act, but they’re good, really good – even I’m starting to believe this shit. Chueco takes off the Citizen and hands it to Farías like he’s only doing it because he has to. El Jetita slaps Fat Farías on the back and explains the moral of the story.

‘You see, Farías, what did I tell you? Charly’s fucking with both of us. He’s stealing customers from me, and he robbed your place. The guy’s trying to set himself up on our turf, and if we don’t stop him, he’ll bury us.’

El Jetita is the one who’s trying to set up operations here in the bar and I’m betting it’s so he can use the place as a base for his dealing. Charly is the local dealer in Zavaleta. He’s been expanding his operation lately. And it’s true that his delivery boys have no respect for boundaries. Shit, even I’ve bought weed from them a couple of times. The prices are better than El Jetita’s. But from there it’s a pretty big stretch to think Charly is trying muscle in on his turf. There’s no way he could do it. He’d have to take down General Jetita and all his top brass first, then co-opt all his middle-ranking officers. The list would be too long. And it wouldn’t be like shooting ducks at a fair.

‘So what about these two?’ Fat Farías can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘Whose side d’you think they’re on,
viejo
? Because I’m telling you, I still think they’re the fuckers who robbed me –’

‘You dissing me, Gordo?’ Chueco jumps up. ‘Because I’ll break your –’

‘Shut the fuck up.’ El Jetita cuts him dead and goes back to being the peacemaker. ‘You’re wrong, Gordo. The boys are working with me. You think I don’t know who I’ve on my team? Chill. You’ve got your watch back, so stop busting my balls. Now, let’s strike camp.’

All the time El Jetita’s been banging on, Rubén has been staring at us stone-faced from behind Fat Farías. The others can’t see him, but we can. He gives us a wink and runs his finger across his throat.

When the big boss is done talking, we all troop out of the kitchen. Rubén and El Negro Sosa sit at the bar. The skinny runt Fabían heads off. El Jetita stops in the doorway chatting to Fat Farías.

‘Let’s bounce,’ whispers Chueco.

And we’re about to leave when El Jetita calls us. He takes a couple of steps towards us with a fuck-off smile tattooed on his face. He’s acting all friendly again.

‘Kids,’ he says in a low voice, ‘what can you do with them? You give them a simple little job and they land you in the shit.’

Chueco opens his hands, palms up, raises his eyebrows, like it’s nothing to do with him. I stand there, deadpan. I don’t know what little job he’s talking about

‘You little fucktard.’ He starts poking his finger hard into Chueco’s chest. ‘What, am I speaking Chinese or something? I told you straight up to shake down Farías and make sure you weren’t seen and you show up here wearing his watch, rubbing his face in it? What is it, you got shit for brains or have you been sniffing something?’

Chueco clicks his tongue. He shakes his head. He’s pale. Everything’s starting to fall into place for me. The fifty he was flashing in the bar before we did over Fat Farías wasn’t snide like he said it was. It was front money. And fuck knows how much he got for doing the job. The worst thing is, I went along with it and I didn’t have a fucking clue. And I didn’t get a peso out of it. So that’s how it is, Chueco, you lowlife
hijo de puta
. You play me for a fool and you don’t even tell me what’s going down – you even make me think I’m the one who gave you the idea to fuck Farías over. Have to hand it to you, you played me good … until now. Because from now on, you can go fuck yourself.

‘A complete balls-up,’ El Jetita says like he can read my mind, ‘and now Gordo is on to you … Dumb fucking kids …’ he swears under his breath, his jaw clenched so Fat Farías can’t overhear.

He stares at us, sparks a cigarette and makes like he’s thinking.

‘OK, kids,’ El Jetita says, the fake smile plastered over his face. The bastard knows how to make someone brick it. ‘Let me tell you how this is going to go. I’m going to let this one slide, but I’ve got you by the balls now, so you’d better do exactly what I tell you, because the first sign of any shit I’m going to rip them off. You get me?’

He turns before we’ve got a chance to say anything, and heads over to Fat Farías.

We walk three blocks in silence. Me thinking about my shit, Chueco thinking about his. Suddenly, I decide I’m sick of his crap, so I start spoiling for a fight – but I play dumb. I make like I haven’t worked out what’s going on.

‘So, you going to turn the tables on that fat fucker?’

‘Shut the fuck up, Gringo.’

‘Cos it looked to me like he was the one doing the turning … and he turned you out good.’

‘Shut your hole!’

‘OK. It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll be your second in command, OK? You lead the way and I’ll follow … you piece of fucking shit!’

‘SO TELL ME
, gunslinger,’ I taunt Chueco, ‘why didn’t you pull the gat when Fat Farías was bitch-slapping you?’

It’s rare for Chueco to be the one to back down. Usually, however fucked up the situation, he acts first and deals with the consequences later. Luckily this time it was the other way round. If anyone had known he was strapped, the whole thing could have turned into a shitstorm and there’d have been a bunch of collateral damage. And when you’ve got people firing at random like that, there’s nothing you can do, the bad guys always win.

Actually, I don’t really give a shit why Chueco bottled it – I’m only asking him to wind him up, force him to show his cards. But he doesn’t.

‘Because I left it at home, asshole,’ he says. ‘You think if I’d been strapped I would have let that greaseball get up in my face like that?’

‘You left it at the squat?’ I say, toying with the bottle of beer. It’s funny hearing him call the skanky crackhouse he’s bunks at home.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ I take a long swig, finish the bottle. ‘So you’re saying you
used
to have a gat.’

‘Are you bad-mouthing my crew,
loco
?’ He boils over suddenly like milk. ‘D’you ever hear me bad-mouth your whore mother?’

He’s riled. I’m laughing so hard I’m starting to choke. I can feel beer bubbles up my nose …

‘It’s not like you could – you never knew her …’ I say, stifling a sneeze.

‘No, but I know all the johns who used to fuck her. Your
mamá
would do anyone with a pulse! She’d turn tricks for two pesos. She could suck a fire hydrant dry and leave it clean as a chicken bone. You know what they called her? Deep Throat …’

‘Keep talking, Chueco, and you’ll be shitting teeth.’

He’s the one laughing now. I say nothing, reach into my trouser pocket to fish out my cigarettes. Chueco nearly jumps out of his skin. He thinks I’m about to shank him.

‘Chill, Chueco. It’s cool,’ I say, shaking out a cigarette. ‘I was only asking about the gun.’ I pick the empty beer bottle off the ground and hand it to him. ‘Here. Your round.’

Chueco heads off to the kiosk fumbling for change in his pockets and I sit back down on the pavement.

First time I challenge him on anything and the
loco
goes off on one. Chueco defends his tribe like they’re his own flesh and blood. Obviously in that rathole he lives in he’s found the family he never had. Well, if he’s prepared to put his hand in the fire for them, let him. I wouldn’t. The way things are these days, I wouldn’t leave a gun lying around anywhere, definitely not in a crackhouse like that. Too many people hanging around, coming and going, crashing overnight. There’s only five full-time residents, counting Chueco – old man Soria who spends all day on his soapbox preaching about shit; Willi, a tall skinny guy – total psycho – no one knows what he does but he’s always off his face on something; Pampita, a working girl from up north somewhere. She’s pretty fit and all the guys in the squat take advantage. They let her stay in exchange for the occasional free fuck. And then there’s El Chelo, a thug I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw him. He used to go out collecting cardboard for recycling but these days he seems to be involved in all the protest marches. That’s why he’s been lending his cart to Quique.

Chueco comes back with the beer and sits down. He pops the cap with his teeth and hands it to me without even taking the first swig. He’s being polite. Personally, I’d rather he was a little less polite and a little more loyal. It’s not just about the shit he’s got me mixed up in, the stuff he didn’t tell me before we did over Fat Farías, what really pisses me off is that he’s been cutting deals with El Jetita.

‘Fancy going clubbing?’ he says, jerking the bottle I’ve just handed back towards Babilonia.

On the opposite pavement, the queue for the club is getting longer. There’s a gang of girls mouthing off.

‘Go over and have a word with Julito,’ I say, ‘but I’m not paying more than five pesos.’

Chueco turns and stares at me. He’s used to giving the orders, not taking them. I take the bottle from his hands and neck the beer.

Chueco gets to his feet without a word, crosses the road and elbows his way along the queue. I see him chatting to Julito, the bouncer, for a couple of minutes, then he comes back.

‘He’ll do us a two-for-one,’ he says.

‘I’m not putting in more than five pesos.’

‘Don’t piss me about, Gringo. We go halves, it’s eight pesos each –’

‘No way,’ I cut him off. ‘I’d rather lick my own balls.’

‘Well, you’ll be licking them on your own then. Come on … Eight pesos and we get a couple of litres of beer. Cos I’m telling you, with all that sweet merchandise queuing, I’m going in.’

‘So go,
loco
. Go on your own. You need someone to hold your hand before you can talk to a chick? I wouldn’t do it if you were my kid brother,
che
–’

‘Jesus, you’ve got a mouth on you today. Just give me a cigarette, Gringo, and let’s drop this before things turn nasty,’ he says, threatening.

‘I’ve only got one.’

Chueco knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t say a word.

Just as well. It’s all shit. Better we go our separate ways at least for tonight because otherwise we’re going to come to blows.