Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

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 …’