Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

‘Shut your hole, Negrito, and show me your fucking hands,’ screams Chueco. ‘Don’t fucking move or I’ll end you, and I’ll cap your little friend too if he goes for that strap!’ Chueco is bricking it. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.

I’m staring at the sky. Black. Medusa has my head jerked back, tugging at a fistful of my hair like he’s about to rip it out. My neck hurts like fuck. But the difference in our ages works in my favour. I’ve still got both hands gripping Medusa’s wrist to stop him pulling the gun holstered in his pants. I force his wrist down hard, pressing the barrel into his balls. If he keeps this up, he’s going to blow his chances of passing on the family name.

‘Let it go. Let it fucking go,’ I say, and the sound of my own voice scares me shitless. I sound calmer than El Negrito Silva. Must be fear. ‘Cap him, Chueco, don’t piss about, just do it …’ I say, at the same time praying that neither of them gets a shot off.

I don’t know if Chueco thinks I’m serious, but I suddenly feel Medusa’s head slam harder against my shoulder. Chueco’s drilling a hole in his ear with the gat. Since everything with Medusa seems to go in one ear and out the other, I’m probably looking at a bullet in the shoulder. But maybe he is listening, because the threat seems to work. He goes limp. I wrestle the gun from him and step back. It’s an automatic.

‘Fucking kids …’ says Chueco, letting out all the air in his lungs. He’s pale. To calm himself, he gives Medusa a kick in the stomach. ‘And one for you too, you little hood,’ he says, kicking Silva in the back of the head. El Negrito gags, swears and swallows snot. Medusa is still doubled over on the ground, one hand on his belly and the other on his mutilated ear.

‘Now these two little shits are going to listen to me and listen good. First you’re going to make a nice little pile of everything in your pockets, right down to the last toffee, on this …’ As he talks, Chueco takes off his jacket and lays it at Medusa’s feet like a blanket. ‘Come on, do it!’ he says, and gives another slap to El Negrito Silva who’s still snivelling.

When Medusa said they had everything, he wasn’t shitting. On to the jacket they toss wraps of coke, tabs of acid, lumps of hash in every shape and size, rocks of paco , a dozen blister packs of pills of various colours, and a lot of cash in small bills.

‘I said everything down to your last Rolo, or are you trying to piss me off?’ Chueco growls, seeing them stop.

The kids keep pulling wraps out of their underpants, their shoes, from behind their ears … it’s like Mandrake the Magician.

‘Incredible … these kids are a walking pharmacy,’ Chueco says excitedly. The gleam is back in his eyes; I’m guessing fear sobered him up pretty quick. Fucking moron. He always had good reflexes, but the first time he decides to play the gunslinger, he shows up off his face. We’re lucky Medusa didn’t end us both before he had time to react.

‘Take a look at this …’ he says, taking Medusa’s gun from me.

He’s like a kid with a new toy. A.22 Beretta.

‘Careful, Chueco, mind what you’re doing!’ I yell, snatching the.38 from him.

He turns the automatic over, takes out the clip, slaps it in again and leaves it cocked.

‘Right. You know what’s going to happen now, kids?’ Chueco goes all paternal again. ‘I’m going to count to twenty and then I’m going to do a little target practice. I’m not much of a shot, but I figure I’ll still hit one of you. Whichever of you gets away should go tell your boss from El Jetita that his little game is over. From now on, any dealing in the barrio is our business. Clear? Any of Charly’s people who stroll through the park this side of the refinery won’t be strolling back to Zavaleta. And anyone who comes to try and pick up what’s left of them will wind up the same way. Are we clear?’ Chueco concludes his speech, still turning the Beretta over in his hands. He’s in his element. The two kids don’t say anything. ‘Right, now why don’t you little fuckers get running, I want to test this beauty. Have to hand it to you, it’s a nice piece … On your feet, get moving! One, two, three …!’

The two boys take off at top speed down the alley leading to the plaza. Chueco keeps counting, shouting out the numbers. By the time he gets to twenty, the kids are nearly four blocks away. He’d have a job hitting either of them. They start to zigzag. They know all the moves. Chueco fires off a couple of rounds just for the hell of it. Just to make some noise.

He bends down and starts counting the money.

‘There’s a fucking fortune here, Gringo.’ He makes three piles, pushes one towards me and says, ‘Here, you take this one, I’ll take the other, the rest we hand over to El Jetita like good little boys. What do you say? Same with the dope. Jesus, this is fucking beautiful. There’s everything here. Take whatever you want.’

I wad up the pile of money and stuff it into my pocket, pick up a lump of hash.

‘For fuck’s sake, take something decent, gay-boy. Have you ever seen so much dope in one place..?’

‘It’s cool, I’m fine with this,’ I say, nodding to the.38.

‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Gringo,’ he shouts.

I don’t answer.

‘What, you think you can take my fucking gun just like that?’

‘What do you think, Chuequito?’ I say, stuffing it into the back of my jeans.

Chueco stares at me with the Beretta in his hands.

‘What? You going to shoot me? Better make sure you aim well, because if you fuck up, I’ll end you.’

I turn my back and walk away. He hasn’t got the balls. At least that’s what I’m hoping.

‘Gringo. Gringo! Come back, che ! Don’t be such a jerk! Gringoooo!’ he wails like a sheep having its throat slit.

I don’t even turn. Let him bitch all he wants, the gun’s mine. I earned it fair and square for saving his fucking arse. Besides, I’m going to need it. I can see it coming … Let him keep his new toy. I’ve got off the merry-go-round. I’m not spinning any more.

THERE’S A LIGHT on at home. Mamina’s back. So is Quique. Through the strip curtain I see a steaming bowl on the table. A hand stirs, loads a spoon and disappears. It’s the kid. They’re talking in low voices. Mamina’s probably telling him how his little sister is doing. I don’t go in. I walk on up the lane, toying with the lump of hash. I haven’t got any skins but it doesn’t matter, I use the scrap of paper that’s got Cristina’s number on it. I keep the bit with the number but smoke part of her name and most of the directions for how to get to Toni’s gaff in the Delta. I know them by heart anyway.

I take the last couple of tokes on the bridge over the stream. The water’s pretty high right now from all the rain today. The wind’s blowing from the east, and the sky is clear. A fat, lazy full moon lights up the water as it rushes. The muddy riverbed must be all churned up.

I chuck a couple of stones, try to skim them on the water, but they just skip once and then sink. Used to be I could get them to skip six, seven times, all the way across the river. Used to be able to smoke a cigarette right down to the butt without the ash falling … Used to. Not now. Now I’ve got a.38 with six bullets in the cylinder. I counted them. I’ve got some cash in my pocket and more in the whale book back home, under my mattress. I’ve got a fucked-up feeling I might lose my balance and fall, and a kind of longing to go to hell.

I swing by Fat Farías’s place, but I don’t go inside. Chueco’s probably gone back to his squat to crash. If not, he’ll be inside doing deals with El Jetita. The bar is rammed. I go round and sit in the little courtyard out back where Farías chucks the empty wine barrels and all the rubbish from the kitchen. There’s some people in the storage shed at the far end. I know because I can see light coming through the little holes in the corrugated iron. Besides, someone’s moved all the crates of beer and fizzy drinks outside. I go closer to the shack and put my ear to the wall. I hear gasps. They’re fucking in there.