Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

‘OK, Toni, that’s enough to be going on with, viejo .’ With everything he’s told me, I’m already excited.

We say nothing for a couple of minutes but when he’s finished packing up he says, ‘When you make up your mind, let me know. I’ve got this girl I work with who’ll do me a good price, she’ll even bankroll me.’

‘How do I find you?’

‘We’re out on an island in the Tigre Delta until next month.’ He takes a scrap of paper and a biro from his backpack and writes out the address. ‘It’s easy to find. You can’t miss it,’ he says looking at me and smiling. ‘But I’ll give you the girl’s phone number. Cristina, her name is; she always knows where to find us.’

I slip the piece of paper into my book and say goodbye. Toni doesn’t say anything. He gives me a big hug and slopes off with the rest of the gang. After a couple of steps he turns and gives me a wink. And I stand there, alone in the park, sorting things out in my head.

THERE’S FIFTEEN MINUTES before the train leaves. It’s the last one back to the barrio. I check the time on the rusty panel in Buenos Aires station. A guard has just turned the handle that controls the three timetables: destinations, times, platforms. After mine, on the south branch line, there’s one train twenty minutes later heading south-west. After that, nothing.

If I’d hung around a little longer, I’d have had to spend the night in the station. And I can’t say I much fancy the idea. There’s not even a clean bench you could stretch out on. Next to the ticket office a filthy tramp is setting up cardboard boxes to bed down for the night. Further along, a cripple with a begging sign is ranting and raving like some psycho. He’s necking a carton of panther piss and arguing with the ghosts clouding his vision. To complete the set, a dark-skinned guy with a pockmarked face is closing up the news-stand and kicking the metal shutter down.

Up on the platforms there’s a gang of kids sniffing glue from Coke cans. Not much chance of a good night’s sleep with them around. When they’re stoned, they could easily set fire to you while you’re asleep — just for a laugh. I think I recognise one of them from the barrio. I think he hangs with Quique, but I’m not sure. They’re all the same, those kids. Doesn’t matter whether they’ve got mothers, fathers, brothers, their real family is on the street. Chueco was like that. So was I. But we’re grown up now and we’ve got things sussed. No one calls us sons of the street now, they call us sons of bitches.

I dodge a couple of delinquents fucking around on the platform and spot a café that’s still open. I go in and sit at the counter. The guy’s already closing up. He’s just finished cleaning the coffee machine and started in on the grill. He picks out a piece of dried-up meat and puts it on a plate. Just as he’s about to throw away a burnt piece of sausage, I say, ‘Hey, if you’re going to toss it, give it to me, boss.’

The guy turns and glares at me. He obviously doesn’t find the joke funny. I back down, I don’t want any grief.

‘Could I get a sausage sandwich, please boss, and a glass of wine?’

‘If you want it hot, you got no chance, kid, there’s no charcoal on the grill.’

‘No, as it comes is fine …’ I say.

While he’s dealing with the food, I fumble for my money. A handful of coins to pay him. I slip the number Toni gave me and a couple of big bills into my book. I put the rest back into my pocket. The wine is even worse than the muck Fat Farías sells and the bread is stale. When you’re served rat poison there’s nothing you can do. I use the bread to sop up the chimichurri sauce which makes it just about edible. As I’m taking the second bite, I hear my train called over the loudspeaker. I knock back the wine, pay up and leave, still chewing.

By the time I climb aboard the train, it’s already pulling out. I walk through the carriages towards the front of the train. I don’t really know why — it’s not like there’s no empty seats. There are only a couple of passengers in each carriage, stretched out so they can sleep. In the third carriage, I see her. She’s sitting in a window seat, her back to me. I recognise her straight off. Without thinking, I plonk myself down next to her.

‘Yani! Qué onda? ’

‘Fine,’ she says, startled. ‘How are things with you?’ She’s lying; she looks terrible. It’s hardly surprising.

‘How’s your old man?’ I ask. I sound like an arsehole, but I genuinely want to know.

‘You heard then? He’s OK. I’m just on my way back from the hospital. The doctors did X-rays and a brain scan, and it turns out there’s no serious damage, thank God. They gave him five stitches, put a dressing on the gash in his head. He’s got a broken rib, but it’s not serious. They’re letting him out tomorrow.’

‘That’s good. Are you going to pick him up?’

‘No. El Jetita is going to collect him in his car,’ she says.

‘El Jetita?’ I slip up.

‘Yeah. It’s really weird,’ she says, studying me carefully. ‘These days, he and my old man are inseparable as arsecrack and underpants. He even showed up at the hospital today …’

I swallow hard, trying to think of a way out of this mess.

‘What about you? How are you bearing up?’

‘Fine …’

‘What’s with the face then? Were you worried?’

‘No, of course not. I knew he’d be fine. You know what my old man’s like. By the time I found him, he was washing the blood out of his hair, and was all for closing up the wound with superglue. Didn’t even want to see a doctor. It took me an age to get him to go to the first-aid clinic.’

‘So what is it then? What’s up with you?’

She clicks her tongue, sighs, stares out the window. She’s pissed off or she’s scared, one of the two. But mostly, she’s cute. Her mouth tightens up like a purple flower. She half closes her eyes and the ends of her eyebrows curve upward. She looks like a cat on heat. All she needs is a pair of little pointy ears. She pushes back her long black hair and gives me a sidelong glance.

‘OK, I’ll tell you, Gringo, but you can’t say a word to anyone, OK?’ She’s staring at me evenly now.

I try to read her eyes, but they’re inscrutable. I nod and wait for her to say something.

‘I’m worried about what’s going on between El Jetita and my old man. I don’t know what deal they’ve got going, but whatever it is I don’t like it. El Jetita’s following me around all the time and coming on to me and papá doesn’t say anything …’

‘ Because your Papá is a first-class cunt ,’ I think, and the more I think about it the angrier I get. Fat Farías has always been the gamekeeper, keeping poachers away from his little girl, and now he’s prepared to serve her up on a plate to that fucking pervert. Either he’s getting something out of the deal — and it would have to be something big, otherwise it wouldn’t make sense — or else El Jetita’s got him by the balls and he’s got no choice but to turn a blind eye. But whatever the reason, the fat fucker is prepared to peddle his own daughter. I should have let Chueco kick him all the way into the next barrio.

‘Don’t let it get to you, Yani,’ I say, choking back my anger. ‘You can count on me, anything you need …’

She looks at me sceptically. I go on.

‘El Jetita’s a fucking psycho, playing the gangster. Someone needs to put a stop to it, that’s all.’

‘And you’re the one to stop it?’ she asks mischievously and smiles at me.

‘What, you think I’m chicken?’ I say like it’s a joke, but I’m deadly serious.