Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

BOTTLING POISON

THE BEER’S WARM. Looks more like milkshake than beer — two parts foam to one part liquid. But I can’t face an argument, so I drink it anyway. Besides, Fat Farías is a stingy bastard. If I make him pull a fresh one with less foam, he’ll want me to shell out and I don’t have a peso.

Chueco comes in poker-faced and pale, swaggers over to my table and shouts, ‘Bottle of rotgut red, Gordo!’

He sits down and stares at me. Eyes wide. Blank. Expressionless. Fat Farías comes over carrying the bottle and a glass in the same hand. Chueco goes on.

‘Qué onda, Gringuito?’ He tilts his head and grins like a maniac. He makes like he’s chilled, but it’s forced. It’s all an act.

‘Fine, good …’ I say, giving him the same deranged grin. Let’s see what he says. He’s making me nervous. He blinks, keeping his eyes closed a split second longer than necessary. Chueco does that sometimes. It’s like a card player’s tic, it’s hard to spot but I notice it. I just don’t know what the fuck it means.

Farías plonks the glass down on the table with a bang, tilts the bottle, but before he pours, he barks, ‘That’ll be two pesos!’

‘Chill, Gordo,’ El Chueco says. ‘What’s with you?’ He’s trying to be sarcastic but he botches it. He’s harder than a rock.

‘First things first,’ Fat Farías says.

‘Fuck sake, don’t sweat it, just pour. It’s all cool.’

On the table next to the glass is a fifty-peso note. I don’t know where it came from.

Fat Farías picks it up and fills Chueco’s glass to the brim.

‘Leave the bottle,’ Chueco says, pulling a face, not even looking at him.

Fat Farías picks up on the snub.

‘Fuck you,’ he lets fly. ‘That’s all I need, another little runt trying to make like a gangster. Who did you rip off? Your mamá?’

‘Little bit of respect there, Gordo, wouldn’t want things to kick off …’

‘Who’s going to do the kicking? You, you legless little runt?’ Fat Farías chucks the change on the table and stomps back to the bar choking back a laugh with a cough.

‘Yeah, go ahead and laugh,’ Chueco mutters through his teeth. ‘You’ll be crying soon enough.’

He winks at me and knocks back the glass of wine. I’m not going to step into the firing line, so I just give him the same crazed grin he gave me when he showed up.

‘So, what’s been happening, Gringo?’

‘What the fuck is with you? Want to tell me where you got a fifty-peso note?’

‘Don’t sweat it, it’s snide. Relax, I’ll fill you in later.’

I finish my beer. Light a cigarette. Chueco holds up two fingers asking for the cigarette I didn’t offer. I tap the bottom of the pack, shake one out and grudgingly give it to him.

‘That’s better, compañero. No need to be tight with the merchandise.’

Chueco fills his glass again and pours some into my beer glass. The wine brings the beer foam from the bottom to the surface.

‘What the fuck you doing?’ I shout.

‘Don’t be such a punk bitch, just drink it,’ he says.

I’m pissed off by his tone, but he’s got a point — this stuff’s not rotgut, it’s fucking rat poison. Doesn’t matter if you mix it with beer or Coke or piss, it’s bitter as carob juice. What’s weird is the bottle’s legit, but I’m guessing it didn’t come with this cat’s piss in it. Explains why Fat Farías always uncorks wine at the bar before bringing it over.

I figure the fat fucker has a stash of cheap wine in his cellar — the shit that comes in twenty-litre barrels — and bottles it behind the bar. Not that I give a fuck if he wants to bottle his own wine. But the day Fat Farías tries to make the spirits go a bit further and gets his hand on the wrong kind of alcohol, he’ll probably fucking kill someone. I’m guessing he knows fuck all about chemistry. Not that I do, but I know the difference between the surgical alcohol you buy at the chemist and the alcohol fuel they sell in barrels down the hardware store. One gets you wasted, the other wastes you. Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulled a stunt like that in the barrio.

I’m thinking all this while I’m sipping my poison, and before I’ve even finished Chueco’s pouring me another. The fucker hasn’t said a word, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to any time soon.

‘Hey,’ I say, ‘that fat fucker’s riding for a fall —’

‘Finish the bottle with me. I’ve got a little business proposition for you.’

The minutes pass and still Chueco says nothing. Every now and then he glances back at the bar. Farías knows he’s doing it, but he obviously thinks he got one over on us because he’s got this big shit-eating grin. And whenever Chueco isn’t looking, he’s pointing and laughing with the other guys at the bar. Chueco’s got his back to them and he’s deep in his own shit, so he doesn’t notice and I’m not about to say anything. I don’t want him kicking off.

‘So, talk or I’m gone.’

Chueco drains his glass, glances round at the bar, then turns and stares out the window at the street. Finally, he leans back in his chair and looks at me.

‘Give us a cigarette before you go then. Probably for the best. You haven’t got the balls for what I’ve got planned.’

‘You calling me chickenshit?’ I say, and the urge to put my fist through his face makes me sound tense, which just makes me more furious because suddenly I realise it’s a set-up. Clever. But I’ve put myself out there now, I can’t back down.

‘I’m not calling anyone anything,’ he says soberly. ‘Just telling it like it is.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight. But right now I’m not sure. I mean, I’d like you as my backup, but if you’re just going to tag along with your tail between your legs don’t bother.’

‘What the fuck do you take me for, Chueco? You looking for a smack in the mouth?’ It’s not a threat, it’s an invitation for him to say something, give me a good reason to smash his face. But he’s a crafty fucker, he knows me too well. He’s got what he wanted. So he just gives a soft laugh and says nothing. I clench my fists and walk out, my heart hammering in my temples.