Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

‘What the fuck’s with you?’ he says to me. ‘It’s like your face is made of plasticine.’

‘So the other girl, she’s still in there?’ I say, changing the subject.

‘Who?’ he asks, confused.

‘Yanina.’

‘Nah, she fucked off about half an hour after the cop left.’

Quique closes his eyes again and brings a finger to his temple like he’s putting two and two together, or trying to work out some code. After everything he’s told me — ‘Something and nothing,’ he said — I’m starting to think sniffing glue has turned him into a prophet or a medium. I’m wired now and I ask him what he makes of everything.

‘What the fuck do I know, Gringo?’ he says. ‘My mind’s a fucking blank …’

And just as the prophet seems about to come out with a revelation, Quique spirals into glue psychosis and starts coming out with all sorts of shit, telling me that the puddles and the street lights have been sending him messages and they’re not good.

‘I just give you the gen. You have to work out the conclusions,’ he says finally.

And that’s the last more or less coherent thing I get out of him.

I CALL AND call. No one picks up. And when they do, I wind up talking to myself and the line goes dead. I put another coin in and get an engaged tone. Without hanging up, I dial again so the fucking phone doesn’t swallow the money, and when I finally get through I push another two coins into the slot. The last of the change from doing over Fat Farías, not counting the three big bills I’ve got stashed in the whale book.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Cristina?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘El Gringo, friend of Toni’s. Could you give him a message for me?’

‘Sure, shoot …’ I find it difficult to imagine her from her voice, but she seems like a girl who doesn’t bullshit.

‘Tell him “Mamina says you’re dead to her. She won’t say why, but I don’t like it. If we’re going to work together, I need to know what went down first.” Just say it like I said it. He’ll know what I mean.’

‘No sweat. He’s coming by tomorrow to pick up some alpaca, I’ll tell him then.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she says, polite but curt, and she hangs up.

The call didn’t even take a minute, but the phone doesn’t spit out any change. I give it a couple of whacks, but nothing. I’m about to kick it, when someone grabs my shoulder.

‘Hey, loco , cut it out! Don’t go fucking up the only payphone in the barrio! If there’s an emergency, someone’s going to have to run all the way to Zavaleta to call the fucking fire brigade …’

‘And since when did you start giving a shit?’ I say to Chueco, who’s standing behind me looking shifty.

‘Since we started playing with fire, loco ,’ he says sarcastically. His eyes are glittering. But it’s not the hard glitter of coke. He looks drunk. ‘Where you been, Gringo? I’ve been waiting round for you all day. We’ve got a little job on …’

‘Well, let’s do it now,’ I play along, all friendly and shit, ‘after all, at night all cats are grey.’

‘Come on. Charly’s kids are headed down to the park by the station. I just saw them.’

‘I’m guessing you’re strapped?’

‘Too fucking right,’ he says, flashing me the butt of the gat sticking out of his belt.

We head straight down the street by the evangelical church, an old converted animal-feed warehouse decked out with neon lights. On Sunday nights the place is heaving. You can hear the pastor singing and shouting. The evangelicals pitched up in the barrio years ago now, but they’re still hunting for fools. Even Mamina, who’s no fool, was hooked for a while. But soon as they asked for money, she told them where to go.

Chueco can’t fucking shut up. He’s explaining stuff to me, telling me about his plans. How we’re well in now. We’ve fucked over El Jetita and got away with it, and when we get him to trust us, we’ll skewer the fucker big style. I play dumb. I nod and agree with everything he says but I’m not buying it. Chueco’s already fucked me over. He’s only in it for himself. When it comes down to it, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the one who got shafted instead of El Jetita.

As we come to the park, Chueco asks, like he doesn’t give a shit, ‘ Che , Gringo, you been in touch with Toni?’

My head starts spinning like a busted merry-go-round, the little wooden horses flying off as it whirls. I don’t like coincidences. Never did. I don’t like them because I don’t believe in them. Either Chueco was listening in while I was on the phone or whatever’s going down is more complicated than I thought.

‘No, why?’ I play dumb again.

‘Nothing … El Jetita asked about him this morning and I said I’d ask you. Turns out Toni was one of his men until things got fucked up, and now he wants to bring him back into the gang.’

‘I thought Toni got himself killed?’

‘No, that’s bullshit,’ Chueco explains. ‘El Jetita says the fool’s doing arts and crafts somewhere out in the Delta.’

The whole conversation rings about as true as a 32-peso piece. I don’t know who’s the bigger fool in all this, me or him.

‘So why not just ask me himself, instead of getting you to do it?’

‘What do I know …?’ He dodges the question. ‘You know El Jetita, he’s weird as fuck.’

The merry-go-round in my head is still spinning out of control. Every little blind horse that flies off is one more unexplained loose end in this fucking tangle: why did Toni have to disappear in the first place? And why can’t he come back (because those two things have got to be related)? Why doesn’t Mamina trust him? Why is El Jetita so interested in Toni all of a sudden, and what the fuck is Chueco doing caught up in this mess …?

The little horses fly off and shatter blindly against a wall of steel.

‘Hey, there they are,’ says Chueco. ‘Let me do the talking.’

Charly’s dealers are sitting along the side of the path drinking a beer. We rush over to them like we’re desperate to score.

‘ Qué onda? ’ says Chueco.

‘What you looking for?’ El Negrito Silva says, getting up.

The other kid stays sitting. His name’s Medusa. We’ve known him our whole lives. But when you’re dealing, no one’s got a name, that’s the rules.

‘Depends what you’re selling.’

‘Whatever you’re jonesing for, loco ,’ Medusa says, still not getting up. ‘We’ve got everything.’

They’re just kids, can’t be older than Quique, but when it comes to dealing, they’re pros. They’ve been running deliveries in the barrio for a couple of months now. Charly’s using them as an advance party to expand his business. And if things go wrong … well, they’re cannon fodder. That much is clear.

‘Viagra?’ Chueco says, completely deadpan.

Silva looks at me and the smile on his face vanishes.

‘Don’t piss me around, shithead.’

‘I’ll give you shithead, you little motherfucker,’ Chueco says, pulling out the strap. ‘Now be good little boys and empty your pockets.’

Little Medusa jumps to his feet and reaches for his belt.

‘Look out!’ I shout, grabbing the kid’s wrist with both hands before he can pull his gun. With his free hand Medusa grabs the hair at the back of my neck.

‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, you little shit?!’ Chueco says, shoving the gat into the kid’s ear, wedging his head between the gun and my shoulder. But Medusa keeps struggling. The seconds tick past. I’m buzzing on adrenalin. I’m shitting myself.

‘What are you doing, guys?’ Silva says, his voice calm. ‘You’re gonna get yourselves in serious shit.’