Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

A DROP OF WATER

I KEEP ON reading. The old carpenter is called Perth. And he’s not just a carpenter, he works with metal too. Ahab gives him his best knives and asks him to make a harpoon. It has to be good steel if it’s going to pierce Moby Dick’s heart. So Perth forges the harpoon and old Ahab wants to christen it with the blood of the harpooners. Because they’re pagans, according to him. One of them is Queequeg, Ishmael’s cannibal friend who was about to die a couple of chapters ago. Then there’s this tall black guy and the third is an American Indian. Ahab mixes some blood from all three and, as he dips the point of the harpoon into it, he swears an oath. Like it’s a fucking macumba ritual. I can almost hear the whistle of the red-hot metal as it’s dipped into the blood. But I look up from the book and I hear the whistle again. It’s coming from outside.

A burst of gunfire drowns out everything. Suspended time explodes in a symphony of gunshots. Fear speeds up my reactions. I’m already firing back.

‘Wha …?’ Chueco jerks awake and starts firing.

El Sapito’s FAL spits bullets. The metal shutter shudders like a drumskin. Bullets still zip through the metal, taking chips out of tables and chunks of plaster from the walls.

‘Jesus fuck!’ someone shouts from behind the counter. El Jetita or Rubén, I’m not sure which.

I want to peek through the crack, but I don’t dare. The shutter is shaking hard now. If I show my face, I’m going to get it shot off. I can feel it in the trembling in my legs, the chill running up my spine. I fire blindly, not even bothering to try to aim.

I turn and see Rubén, lying on his stomach, slithering quickly towards the door, pushing the shotgun in front of him. He looks like a snake. A fat snake. He pushes the door open a crack with the barrel of the shotgun, and fires off rounds of pellets from ground level.

I’m still firing but the trigger just clicks dully. The cylinder’s empty. Chueco glances over at me and, still firing, rummages in his jacket pocket, fishes out a box of.38 shells and tosses it to me. As I’m reloading, I hear the same whistle I heard before the firing started. But this time, it goes on and on, panicked, hysterical. I know it’s Quique, and I feel a knot in my stomach.

El Jetita shouts an order I don’t hear. There’s a silence. I put one eye to the crack. My left eye. There’s a dark shape lying in the middle of the road in a pool of blood that keeps spreading. It’s got too much hair to be a kid. It’s a dog. I’m sure it’s Sultán. That’s why Quique was whistling so desperately.

Above a half-built wall in the construction site opposite, I see a gun appear. Then a head slowly follows it. But before I can even see the eyebrows, there’s a bang and it disappears suddenly. Where the head was, there’s now a gaping hole in the wall and a cloud of dust from the shotgun blast.

‘See? That’s how it’s done,’ Rubén yells, ecstatic. ‘Come on, guys, shoot the fuckers! What are you waiting for?’

One down. But the firestorm starts up again. The shutter looks like it’s about to cave in any minute now. El Sapito is still shooting in regular bursts, but it doesn’t seem to be scaring them off. On the contrary, it feels like there’s more of them. Sultán’s blood glistens red now and the street is glowing yellow. When did dawn break? All that waiting for daybreak only for it to happen without warning, the moment snatched away by the rush of adrenalin and the smell of gunpowder.

There’s no sign of the gunfire stopping, but after a while there’s a pause between the bursts. Chueco is pale, but he seems calm. He gives me a quick look out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know what to make of the gesture.

‘Gringo!’ El Jetita shouts. ‘Over here!’ He signals for me to head for the kitchen.

El Negro Sosa clears the counter in a single jump and in two steps he’s standing next to me. He’s come to take my place. He shakes me by the shoulder like he’s trying to wake me. I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing it for, since I’m not asleep. Or not as much as I’d like to be.

‘Come on, move your arse!’ he says. ‘Leave them to me.’

I grab the bag and the whale book lying on the ground, stuff the book into the bag and sling it over my shoulder. I make to stand up, but another bullet rips through the shutter and makes me change my mind. Better to crawl over.

‘And where the fuck d’you think you’re going, loco?’

‘I’m going with him,’ Chueco says curtly.

‘Stay where you are,’ El Negro snaps. ‘What are you, his boyfriend? You afraid someone’s going to bust your girlfriend’s arse?’

‘You fucking deaf? Where Gringo goes, I go,’ Chueco says in a tone that leaves no room for discussion.

‘Little shit! You think you’re a big man? I’ll fucking carve you up!’

‘Hey, girls, don’t start,’ El Jetita says to smooth things over. ‘Leave him, Negro. If he wants to risk his neck, let him. The kid knows what he’s doing.’

El Negro Sosa flips him the finger. Chueco doesn’t react.

I crawl into the kitchen and stand up again. Chueco follows me. El Jetita’s blocking my way. And my line of sight.

‘Hey, Robledo, how are things?’

‘It’s all fine,’ says the milico. ‘Been a bit calmer back here since Fabián —’

‘What? He snuffed it?’

‘Couple of hours ago. He’s cold as a nun’s cunt now.’

‘Jesus Christ! That’s all I fucking need,’ says El Jetita. ‘The straw that breaks the camel’s back.’ He walks across to the filthy mattress. There’s someone sleeping on it right next to the corpse.

Fabián is whiter than a sheet of paper. His mouth is hanging open. Someone’s closed his eyes. Old Riquelme is sitting on a beer crate next to him, face like stone, watching over him. On the other side is Pampita. Sitting on the ground. Her face even more blank.

Fat Farías stops El Jetita and pulls him to one side with his good hand — he’s still got his right hand in the dirty sling, but the bandage turban on his head is gone.

‘Ricardo, we need to talk,’ he says. ‘This whole thing has got out of hand.’ He’s serious. He’s using up his last cartridge of dignity.

‘Don’t bust my balls, Gordo, can’t you see this isn’t the right time?’ El Jetita cuts him dead, shaking Farías off him like he’s a street kid begging for change.

Meanwhile, I go over to Yanina who’s still on the counter, curled into a ball, her back pressed against the wall. Her hair falls over her eyes, her face is turned inward. She’s looking at me but she doesn’t see me. I whisper in her ear, tell her to wait for me, tell her that when I come back the two of us are getting out of here. But she doesn’t react. I feel like I’m whispering to a wax dummy.

‘The guys are going to go out the back way,’ El Jetita explains to Robledo. Then, turning to us, he says to me, ‘Griguito, you’re going to go out there and send Toni in to me. Tell him to fire three shots in the air and wave a white flag — we’ll let him in. And tell him not to try anything, OK? Tell him to come in unarmed, tell him I won’t be carrying either. We’ll sit down and hammer out a deal everyone can live with and that’ll be the end of it. You got that?’

‘Who told you Toni’s out there?’ I say.

‘It’s … I know him. If he’s not there, he’ll be here any minute now. Charly will have called him as soon as he pulled this shit … Me and those two fuckers go way back, I know them … But why the fuck am I explaining this shit to you? Just do what you’re told, kid, and shut your hole!’

‘And what makes you think I’m going to offer him to you on a plate? I walk out that door, you’ll never fucking set eyes on me again.’ I regret the words before I’ve even said them.

El Jetita gives a roar of laughter and stares at me. He twists the knife wound he’s got for a mouth, and time seems to stand still. I know this look all too well.

‘You’ve got a pair of balls on you, Gringo, I’ll give you that. You’ll go far.’ He gives me a wink.

He raises a hand as though to pat me on the shoulder, and before I’ve got time to react, he grabs me by the throat, slams my head against the wall and drags me back. Robledo steps aside and El Jetita’s hand squeezes harder. He’s choking me. El Jetita pulls me towards him until his lips brush against my ear. This leaves me facing Chueco. He blinks slowly and shakes his head. Almost imperceptibly, but I see it. If this was a game of truco and we were partnered, he’d be telling me he doesn’t have the cards to win this hand.

‘Now listen up and listen good,’ El Jetita whispers, and what has me shitting my pants is the calm relaxed tone of his voice as he strangles me. ‘There’s three reasons you’re going to do exactly what I tell you. First, if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down wherever you’re hiding and I’ll gouge your eyes out. With my bare hands. Got it? Second, because I’m guessing you want to pay Toni back for what he did to Deep Throat. I mean, she was your mamá, wasn’t she? And third, you’ll do it for the kid. Pretty little thing, Yani, isn’t she? You fancy her, don’t you? Good. Well, if you don’t do your homework like a good boy, I’ll make it my business to fuck her up. She’ll be spread like a tango dancer’s legs on a Saturday night. You won’t even be able to jerk off thinking about her again … Am I clear?’

He relaxes his grip and I breathe. I can feel my legs buckle. El Jetita gives Robledo a signal and the Fed opens the back door.

‘Now get the fuck out of here,’ El Jetita says and slaps me upside the head. ‘You too, move it …’ he says to Chueco.

We go out and Robledo closes the door behind us. We stand there, hidden behind the pile of beer crates. Undecided. I’m still coughing and spitting. I get my breath back. Chueco doesn’t open his mouth. I look at him and jerk my head towards the roof. He clicks his tongue, so I don’t push it. I’m not exactly thrilled at the idea of having to crawl across the roofs again. We’d be like ducks at a fairground up there. Easy targets. Chueco jerks the Beretta towards the low wall next to the little corrugated-iron storage shed.

‘Let’s do it,’ I say. I don’t stop to think, because if I do, I’ll never move.

Having just drawn the.38 for no reason, I stuff it in my belt, put both hands on the top of the wall and vault it. Before I’ve even hit the ground, I hear two shots. They’ve clocked us. Hunkered on the ground, I count the seconds. Four, five, six … Chueco lands next to me and there’s another burst of gunfire. In a couple of seconds they’ll be right on top of us. There’s no lock on the gate. I slam the bolt back, but the gate won’t open. Chueco grabs my shoulder. I turn and he jerks his thumb to say he’ll go first. He’s decided.

He manages to get the gate open, fires out at random and legs it. I follow, firing the.38, trying to aim at something, but I can’t see anything. Bullets whistle past us. Another swarm of angry wasps … and Chueco drops like a sack of potatoes. I need to drag him along with me. Because now I can see two figures at the corner, the dawn light framing them from behind. I aim and fire, one, two, three shots. I hear a scream and they disappear. I figure I must have hit one of them. I haul Chueco to his feet by his armpits and he lets out a hoarse moan like he’s being split in two.

‘Come on, come on … Move it, Chueco, don’t fucking bail on me now!’ I scream, dragging him behind me like he’s drunk.

We stumble across the road.

‘Go on, loco, move it!’

But Chueco slumps against me. He’s not breathing, he’s making gurgling noises, choking and spitting. They shot him up good. Everything’s going to shit. A long shadow appears at the corner and starts firing. Chueco’s head lurches and rolls until he leans it on my shoulder. His legs aren’t working. They’re like putty.

‘Stop, Gringo, stop, leave me here …’ he says and pukes up blood. A lot of blood. I feel it trickle down my side. I’m losing him. He slumps to the ground. I manage to drag him into a doorway and hammer furiously on the door, hoping for a miracle. I’ve completely lost it.

‘Open up! For fuck’s sake, open the fucking door!’

‘It’s too late, Gringo, leave it,’ he says haltingly, choking on red puke. ‘Just get out of here.’

‘Come on, loco, hang in there!’ I yell, but my voice breaks. ‘Hang in there just for a bit. I’ll go get Santi and we’ll take you to hospital …’ I say, loading the.38.

I try to do it quickly, but I can’t. It’s not that my hands are shaking, the whole world is shaking. The gun is shaking and the bullets jump out of my hands. The air is moving, the street is swaying. Chueco’s eyelids are trembling like the early dawn light, trembling like a drop of water suspended on a thread. The way a droplet hesitates just before it falls. I manage to get the bullets into the chamber, but the drop falls. And I run. Run before the droplet hits the ground. Run as I hear the wasps swarm all around me.