Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

INVESTMENTS

THERE’S BEEN NO sign of Quique today which is weird, given that it’s Saturday. And Mamina hasn’t said a word to me. We had lunch in silence, some sort of stew with a few noodles, a couple of cabbage leaves and stray scraps of meat floating in it. I’m guessing it cost most of the money I gave her yesterday. But I don’t dare ask. I just eat. When Mamina isn’t talking it’s because she’s got nothing good to say. And since it’s not like she’s afraid to say what she thinks, it’s better not to provoke her. Right now she’s having a siesta.

I’m reading the whale book in the little courtyard out the back. I didn’t go out this morning, didn’t feel like it. Don’t feel like it now but I’m tired of prowling round the house like an animal in a cage. A very small cage. I spend the afternoon drinking mate and listening to last night’s stock-car race at Turismo Carretera until I get bored.

I’m reading to take my mind off things, but I still feel panicky. Ishmael, the guy telling the story, is a cook and whenever he gets panicky and feels like putting a bullet in his brain, he boards a ship and sets off somewhere. Doesn’t care where he’s headed, he says, but this time it looks like he’s got a good idea because he holes up overnight in this strange little inn and waits a day and a half for a boat that goes to an island from where the whaling ships set sail.

The way he talks is kind of weird, but I know exactly how he’s feeling. Makes me feel I should do the same thing. Probably wouldn’t be that easy. I’ve never tried stowing aboard a cargo ship down at the port, but if I did, I’m sure I’d be chucked overboard. Or they’d take me for a thief and throw me in jail.

I keep reading, but I can’t concentrate. I’m not getting anywhere. It’s the middle of the afternoon and the sun seems to be setting already. The stubby fig tree in the courtyard is starting to block the weak, orangey light. Every now and then the wind turns the page before I’m done reading it, and I have to turn back. The breeze is chilly. Autumn’s coming in.

I feel someone watching me. I look up and I see Chueco looking over the courtyard wall.

‘What the fuck are you doing, gay boy? Since when did you start reading books?’

I don’t answer. I settle myself on the plastic crate, lean back against the wall, pretend to keep reading. Chueco throws a leg over the wall, jumps down and comes towards me. He stops about three feet away and stands there, legs apart, blocking the light.

‘Don’t tell me you’re blowing the money I gave you on this shit, kid. Me, I invested my share of the take,’ he says, opening his denim jacket so I can see the fucker’s strapped.

‘Can I have a look?’ I reach out.

As he tries to take the gun out of his belt, he gets the trigger guard caught in his T-shirt and starts swearing and tugging. For all his gangster posing, he obviously hasn’t a fucking clue. He holds it out to me, but instead of twirling it on his finger and offering me the butt, he points it at me.

‘Fuck sake, Chueco, what the hell are you doing?!’ I shout, flinching.

I shouldn’t have shouted, I should have smashed his face in. It’s loaded. It’s a.38. It looks cool, a bit battered but recently blued. The original butt must have broken off at some point because it’s got a new pale wood butt held together with rivets with the heads sanded down, but it looks hard.

‘Where did you get it?’ I ask, handing the gun back.

‘What the fuck you care?’ he snaps.

He laughs, puts on his best thug face and starts waving the thing around. Chueco is off his head. The fucker’s more dangerous than a monkey with a machete, I’m thinking, trying to stay out of the line of fire — which is hard since he’s spinning his arm like a windmill.

‘So, what, you figure you’ve got a career as a gangster?’ I say, but he’s not listening. He’s acting his part, all he needs is a film crew. He makes like he’s pulling the gun from an armpit holster and threatening some invisible guy. He pokes it into the guy’s kidneys, the barrel pressed right against his body, grabbing him by the throat with his left hand. He plays the scene out, pretends to fire, making bang, bang noises like a kid, firing all over the place, steadying the gun with his left hand. He fires up, fires down, spins round and goes on capping a bunch of ghosts. He finishes by stretching his arm out and trying to turn the gun on himself. When he’s finally tired of play-acting, he says, ‘If the señorita is done with her books and wants to try out my new work tool, I’ve got no problem with that.’

I don’t think twice.

‘Let’s go,’ I say.

We get to the patch of waste ground that used to be a football pitch and is now a rubbish tip and Chueco picks up a one-litre can. A bit dented but intact. He positions it on a clear patch of ground and backs off five metres. He aims, fires and misses. By a mile. It raises a spray of dirt about a foot and a half from the can.

‘Let’s see what the señorita can do,’ he says and passes me the gun.

‘Keep it up with that shit and I’ll split your head open,’ I say.

‘Bring it on, señorita …’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I say, taking aim.

Chueco always did know how to wind me up. I don’t know how he manages it, but he always does. Weird, because when it’s some random fuckwit trying to wind me up, I don’t give a shit.

Just as I’m about to squeeze the trigger he nudges me to make me miss. And I miss, but not by much. I aim again, holding my breath.

‘What are you doing?’ he yells.

I ignore him and concentrate. I remember what Toni used to tell me when I was a kid about how to fire a gun. He’d take me down to the patch of waste ground that used to be on the other side of the stream before they fenced it off to make a golf course and build a gated community. Toni always managed to bag a partridge, sometimes a hare. They say the place is teeming with animals these days. And it’s not hard to believe — even without going inside the gate it’s obvious the golf course is nothing but scrubland. But no one goes in there any more, and with all the security guards watching the perimeter they sure as fuck wouldn’t go strapped.

It’s like riding a bike, you never forget, I tell myself, spreading my legs to distribute my weight, right foot forward like Toni taught me, tracing an invisible line between the eye, the sight and the target. It was easier with Toni’s shotgun, even if it did weigh a ton, because it was like a ruler — all you had to do was line it up, hold your breath and gently squeeze the trigger. If your aim was a bit off, the spread of shotgun pellets helped. Obviously if the partridge was on the wing, it was harder because then you had to trace a moving invisible line, but anything on the ground was easy. I got sick of shooting rats and weasels. I even managed to do pretty well with the.22 Toni used to have. The only difference was you had to stretch your arm out and use that as your ruler. Oh, and the recoil didn’t fuck your shoulder up. With the.22, the recoil was just a quick jolt, but Toni’s shotgun had a serious kickback to it. If you didn’t brace it properly, you’d end up with bruises on your shoulder.

Chueco’s talking to me, but I’m not listening. I hold my breath and I fire. The can whips up into the air and falls back almost in the same place, now presenting the full moon of its base. I raise the.38 and fire again. The can shudders again.

‘What the fuck are you doing, dickwad?’ Chueco says, snatching the gun from me. ‘D’you know how much bullets cost?’

He fires a couple more shots, misses, keeps firing until the chamber’s empty. He takes a box of bullets from his jacket pocket and reloads. He goes on shooting, not bothering to pass it to me any more, until he finally hits the can.

‘Who would have thought little Gringo could handle himself with a gat …?’ he says like he’s talking to someone else.

There’s not a trace of the gangster face he had on a while ago. Now he’s looking at me strangely. Seriously. Part defiant, part devious as he stuffs the gun back in his belt. God knows what’s going through his head.

‘Why don’t you get yourself a bit of kit like this one? Then you can be my sidekick,’ he suggests. ‘I’ve already got a couple of bits of business lined up. You want in, fine, if not, don’t come whining to me when I’m rich and fat.’

‘So what’s this “business”, Chueco?’

‘Come by El Gordo’s later and I’ll fill you in.’

‘Farías’s place? Are you off your head?’

‘What’s the matter? Chicken?’ he taunts me. Here we go again.

‘Fuck you, you fucking jerk! You go ahead. You do your shady little deals and you’ll wind up with your arse facing north.’

I storm off, giving him the finger as I leave. I feel calm, but I know me. I know sooner or later I’ll swing by the bar.