Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

Quique stares, open-mouthed, suspicious.

‘Thanks, Gringo,’ he says and he’s off like a shot.

‘Hey, get something for your kid sister!’ I shout as he disappears through the strip curtain onto the street.

I amble after him. Outside, Grandma is leaning on her broom chatting to Ernestina.

‘Hey, Mamina, how are you this morning?’

Ernestina’s too busy shouting after Quique to register I’m there. But the kid’s already too far away to be able to hear.

‘Good, good, m’hijo ,’ she says and gives me a wrinkly smile, her face screwed up like a raisin.

Ernestina flashes me a poor excuse for a smile then goes back to talking to Mamina. Quique’s mother is not looking after herself these days. She’s aged a lot, she’s really pale and she’s lost a ton of weight. Her tits have gone south and it looks like her smile’s gone with them. You’d never know she used to be wild sexy Ernestina who turned the head of every man in the barrio.

I light a cigarette. Seeing that I’m still staring at her, Ernestina says to me, ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’

‘Heard what?’ I say.

Ernestina doesn’t answer, she goes back to telling Mamina the story, the two of them huddled together gossiping in low voices. I stand there eavesdropping.

‘… someone mugged Farías last night, nearly killed him. The paramedics had to rush him to hospital in an ambulance. Fractured his skull, they did, and broke a couple of ribs. A couple of lads, people are saying, delinquents, junkies. Did anyone see them? Possibly. It couldn’t be any of the boys from the barrio, it must be someone who came in from Zavaleta. It’s terrible. It’s not safe to walk the streets these days. Rubén says when he tracks them down, he’s going to shoot them where they stand. What about the daughter? She wasn’t in the house, thank God.’

I listen intently, not saying anything, not reacting. I don’t know how I’m even supposed to react: surprise, anger, curiosity, indifference …? The whole thing sounds so unreal, it’s like it’s got nothing to do with me. Honestly.

I know I should be worried when Rubén’s name comes up, but it just rolls off me. Rubén runs the local scrapyard, but far as I know he doesn’t go around strapped. Even if he did, he’s hardly the sort of guy to make you shit your pants. But he’s a man of his word: if Rubén says he’ll do something, he does it. That’s why even the Feds round here respect him. He never fucks them over, except maybe in the dodgy business deals they’ve got going.

What does worry me is the fact that Rubén’s tight with El Jetita. Now El Jetita really is one dangerous hijo de puta . He’s the local drugs lord, his crew handles all the weed and the merca in the barrio. If Rubén manages to convince El Jetita to sign up for this crusade to cap the guys who beat up Fat Farías, we’re screwed. No two ways.

Thing is, I can’t work out why Rubén would give a flying fuck about Farías. Maybe he’s developed a taste for the rat poison he serves. Or maybe he’s trying to make himself look like an upstanding citizen so he can get in good with someone. But I doubt that. It’s too complicated for something Rubén would come up with. There’s only two possible reasons for Rubén to get mixed up in something like this: either something’s in it for him, or it’s sheer blind rage. Problem is, I can’t see what could possibly be in this for Rubén, but I can’t see why he’d be all fired up either. Finding out who whacked a lowlife like Fat Farías isn’t the sort of thing to get people round here worked up. Especially not Rubén.

Obviously there’s the whole barrio ‘code of honour’ thing, but I don’t think it’s about that. There’s something here that doesn’t fit. Something stinks. Stinks like a dead cat …

‘I’m heading out, Mamina. You need anything …’ I say slyly as I slip a couple of big bills into the pocket of her apron, ‘apart from money?’

‘How about a kiss, my little Gringo?’ she says, sweet-talking me.

I give her a kiss; even give her a quick hug. Something about the tone of her voice bugs me. It’s weird, but when she called me Gringo , it’s like she was talking to someone else. At least that’s how it sounded.

Gringo’s not actually my name, but it might as well be. I haven’t got another one. It’s what Mamina has called me ever since I was a kid. She says it’s because my hair used to be almost blond. No point getting bent out of shape about it. I’m Gringo, even if it’s not my name.

Mamina’s not actually my grandmother either, but she might as well be. I haven’t got another one. She raised mamá , and after mamá disappeared she raised me. She’s not my mother’s real mother. But there’s no point getting bent out of shape about names. She’s more than my grandma. It’s like she’s my mother, even though she isn’t and even if she is as old as Methuselah.

Mamina’s got a couple of kids of her own. The older son’s been in jail for twenty years, the younger one has been in the wind for the past fifteen. He works in a cement plant in Patagonia. Silvio, I think his name is. I don’t know what he looks like, I’ve never met him. Actually, I might have seen him once when I was a kid but I don’t remember.

Anyway, it’s only because of this Silvio that I didn’t end up out on the street — me and the other kids Mamina got lumbered with. When we got dumped on her, Mamina was too old to go out cleaning people’s houses. But ever since he fucked off, her son Silvio sends money every month. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep Mamina alive. And not just her. The feckless kids she looked after are gone now, pissed off a couple of years ago. I’m the only one left and Mamina knows I’ll be moving on too any day now. But I stick around because I’d feel bad leaving her on her own.

‘Where did you get this?’ Mamina asks, not taking her hand out of the pocket of her apron.

‘Nowhere … I’ve been doing odd jobs.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, m’hijo .’ She stops me short. She’s not buying it. She doesn’t like it when I lie to her. And I don’t like lying to her either, but I’ve got no choice.

Mamina waves for me to go. And I go.

I PAY FOR my ticket like a proper gentleman and board the train. Life’s easier when you’ve got money. And it’s better too: the sky is bluer, the heat is more bearable, even the passengers I’m sharing the carriage with seem like decent people. But I still can’t shake off the shreds of fear clinging to me. Anyway, I haven’t a fucking clue where I want to go or what I want to do. I’ve spent years dreaming of having the cash to be able to do the things I want, but now I’ve got it, I don’t know what they are. ‘I don’t know what the fuck I want,’ I mutter, thinking about skinhead Lucas, ‘but I want it now.’ At least I know that much.

I count the money discreetly, so as not to get dirty looks from the passengers. It’s not exactly a fortune, but it’s enough to finance my vices for a couple of months. Or I could blow the lot in a couple of days.

In Buenos Aires, I get off the train at Belgrano station and walk down Entre Ríos towards the centre. It’s a bit of a slog, but the whole city’s gridlocked. There’s marches and demos and picketers everywhere — striking teachers, old-age pensioners, the unemployed, civil servants, everyone’s out demonstrating against something. Police cars and sirens. But as I cross the Plaza Congreso there’s not a living soul. Callao, Corrientes and the Avenida de Mayo have been cordoned off by the milicos — the cops. At Talcahuano I run into a little group of students with flags, placards, signs, whistles and rattles marching under a huge banner. They’re taking orders from some skinny guy in glasses who’s shouting into a megaphone. There’s only four of them, but they’re acting like there’s a crowd stretching all the way back to Liniers. What’s really fucking funny is they haven’t sussed they’re heading straight for the police cordon about two hundred metres up ahead.