Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

‘What the fuck you giggling at, you moron? What are we supposed to do now?’

I can’t say anything. I’m holding my sides, laughing so hard I feel like I’m about to dislocate something. As I wipe tears from my face, I hear a metallic twang I recognise. It’s the spring of his flick knife.

‘Only one thing for it, we’ll have to wake up our fat friend and persuade him to give us the combination,’ he says, running his thumb along the blade, and the almost affectionate tone of his voice scares the shit out of me.

‘Hold up, you mad fucker. Look at this thing.’ I rap on the safe with my knuckles. ‘Can’t you see it’s a piece of shit?’

It sounds like a biscuit tin, which surprises even me. The door’s rusted along the bottom, at the top and around the lock itself, which has one of those big handles you get on bank vaults. It’s a Mickey Mouse safe. A toy for gullible misers. The sort of thing a kid would pull apart just to see how it works.

Without a word, I retrace my steps, pick up the crowbar I whacked Farías with and head back into the bedroom. Chueco is pale. He opens his mouth but he doesn’t say anything. I signal for him to stand back. I give the handle a vicious clout and it comes loose from the rust-eaten door. I jiggle it until it comes off, blow into the hole, some flakes of rust flutter out, and I slip my fingers inside. Using a fingernail I release the catch and the safe opens. Simple as. Like I’ve been doing this shit my whole life.

I don’t have time to wonder how I came up with this brainwave because Chueco has already got both hands in the safe and is pulling everything out: old documents, invoices, receipt books, porn mags, mortgage deeds, leaflets from wine merchants and meat suppliers from years back and, lastly, a shoebox tied with string.

‘Bingo …’ Chueco says, cutting the string with his flick knife.

He takes off the lid and banknotes in every colour of the rainbow spill out — blue, brown, green, red, purple … They’ve all got lots of zeros and they all bear the face of El Libertador. We stand there, staring at them like idiots. I remember notes like this, and I’m sure Chueco does. A brown one used to buy you a bag of popcorn, for a blue one you could get a bottle of Coke. If you had a red one, you could have a blowout. Pesos ley , they were called back in the late 1970s. They haven’t been in circulation for nearly fifteen years.

Hands shaking, Chueco tips out the contents of the box, and when he sees there’s no legal tender, he starts cursing and swearing, his voice quavering and shrill like he’s about to cry any minute.

‘Don’t fuck about,’ I warn him. ‘Someone’ll hear us.’

This just makes it worse. He starts screaming and lashing out, kicking anything within reach.

‘Chueco, come on, we need to get out of here. It’s over.’

He’s not listening. I grab him by the shoulders and push him towards the door. When he sees Fat Farías lying at the far end of the corridor, his rage boils up again. He gives him a savage running kick that lifts the fat bastard off the ground, for all his weight. Farías seems half dead. He barely whimpers now as Chueco lays into him.

‘Stop! Chueco, stop! Fucking animal!’ I shout and plant myself between his boot and Farías’s head.

I bend down and check Farías over. There’s a roll of bills in his shirt pocket. It’s not much, but at least it’s real money.

‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s get the hell out of here.’

‘No, wait,’ Chueco says. ‘I’m confiscating this too.’ He rips off Fat Farías’s wristwatch — a Citizen that’s at least ten years old — and waves it under my nose. His eyes are shining now, and the moron is laughing.

‘Come on,’ I shout, ‘let’s do one.’

‘GRINGO!’

‘Huh …?’

‘Gringo! Gringooo!’

Someone’s shaking my shoulder.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Gringo!’

I open my eyes. It’s Quique.

‘What you doing here? Where’s Mamina?’

‘She’s outside having a chat with my old woman.’

Unwillingly I crawl out of bed and start getting dressed. It’s hot. The window’s open. The sun’s already high and hammering down hard. Quique is yakking away but I’m not listening. My brain is a fog. I put on some slippers and head into the bathroom. The cold water brings me round a bit. I’m awake now.

‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ I ask.

Quique looks at me pleadingly.

‘No school today. Teachers’ strike.’

‘You had breakfast?’ I say, wandering into the kitchen.

Quique trots after me like a lapdog. He’s been following me around for days now — I’ve only just noticed.

‘You had breakfast?’ I ask again, putting the kettle on the hotplate.

‘Yeah …’ He doesn’t sound convinced.

The water boils. I brew up some strong mate . Quique sits at the kitchen table watching me. I put the two mate s on the table, look to see if there’s any bread but there isn’t, but I do find a packet of biscuits with three left. I chuck the kid two of them, wolf the other one and sit down. Quique blows on the steaming mate , carefully dunks the first biscuit and eats it slowly. He repeats the operation with the second biscuit. When he’s finished, he blows on the mate again and takes a sip. He squeezes his eyes shut and swears.

‘Fuck sake, I just burnt my balls. It’s fucking scalding.’

‘Just like it should be,’ I say.

I like the little runt. He’s a good kid.

He keeps on blowing and tries again. This time he pulls a face.

‘What’s up, viejo ?’ I say.

‘Got any sugar?’

‘My apologies, sir,’ I say with a bow.

Quique looks at me warily, but I’m not taking the piss — I forgot the sugar because I don’t take any. I get up and fetch a spoon and a couple of those little sachets I steal for Mamina from McDonald’s whenever I pass one. She likes her mate sweet. Really sweet.

Quique toys with the sachet for a second or two, thanks me with a nod, then rips it open and tips in the sugar. He stirs it carefully, like it’s some explosive mixture. We drink in silence.

When he’s done, he tosses down the spoon and gets up.

‘So? We going, or what?’

‘Where?’

‘Shit, loco , I told you already!’ He’s angry now.

Nobody likes having to repeat stuff because someone couldn’t be bothered to listen. Not even kids. Especially not Quique. From the way he moves, his silences, even his expression, it’s like he’s a miniature adult. Like he’s been forced to grow up before his time.

I pat him on the back. ‘So where was it we were going to go, champ?’ I ask again. Truth is I’ve got no idea. He probably told me while I was getting dressed but it didn’t register.

‘Down the dump, collecting cardboard. El Chelo lent me his cart. He’s not going down there today, something to do with the march, the teachers’ strike and all that shit.’

‘I can’t,’ I lie. ‘I’ve got stuff on.’

He looks up at me with big round eyes, disappointed. Either he’s pissed at me, or he really needs the few centavos he’ll get for twenty kilos of paper. Both probably.

‘Hey … don’t take it like that, che . It’s no big deal. I mean, it’s not worth it, is it, slogging your guts out all day for a couple of pesos …?

Quique sighs, stares into the distance. It’s like he’s not there. I stuff my hands in my pockets, feel the roll of bills in the right-hand one. I’ve got some cash. I peel off a five-peso note and hold it out.

‘Here, go buy yourself something … and make the most of your day off.’