Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

A LITTLE CHAT

‘GRINGO!’

‘Huh …?’

‘Gringo! Gringooo!’

Someone’s shaking my shoulder.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Gringo!’

I open my eyes. It’s Quique.

‘What you doing here? Where’s Mamina?’

‘She’s outside having a chat with my old woman.’

Unwillingly I crawl out of bed and start getting dressed. It’s hot. The window’s open. The sun’s already high and hammering down hard. Quique is yakking away but I’m not listening. My brain is a fog. I put on some slippers and head into the bathroom. The cold water brings me round a bit. I’m awake now.

‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’ I ask.

Quique looks at me pleadingly.

‘No school today. Teachers’ strike.’

‘You had breakfast?’ I say, wandering into the kitchen.

Quique trots after me like a lapdog. He’s been following me around for days now — I’ve only just noticed.

‘You had breakfast?’ I ask again, putting the kettle on the hotplate.

‘Yeah …’ He doesn’t sound convinced.

The water boils. I brew up some strong mate. Quique sits at the kitchen table watching me. I put the two mates on the table, look to see if there’s any bread but there isn’t, but I do find a packet of biscuits with three left. I chuck the kid two of them, wolf the other one and sit down. Quique blows on the steaming mate, carefully dunks the first biscuit and eats it slowly. He repeats the operation with the second biscuit. When he’s finished, he blows on the mate again and takes a sip. He squeezes his eyes shut and swears.

‘Fuck sake, I just burnt my balls. It’s fucking scalding.’

‘Just like it should be,’ I say.

I like the little runt. He’s a good kid.

He keeps on blowing and tries again. This time he pulls a face.

‘What’s up, viejo?’ I say.

‘Got any sugar?’

‘My apologies, sir,’ I say with a bow.

Quique looks at me warily, but I’m not taking the piss — I forgot the sugar because I don’t take any. I get up and fetch a spoon and a couple of those little sachets I steal for Mamina from McDonald’s whenever I pass one. She likes her mate sweet. Really sweet.

Quique toys with the sachet for a second or two, thanks me with a nod, then rips it open and tips in the sugar. He stirs it carefully, like it’s some explosive mixture. We drink in silence.

When he’s done, he tosses down the spoon and gets up.

‘So? We going, or what?’

‘Where?’

‘Shit, loco, I told you already!’ He’s angry now.

Nobody likes having to repeat stuff because someone couldn’t be bothered to listen. Not even kids. Especially not Quique. From the way he moves, his silences, even his expression, it’s like he’s a miniature adult. Like he’s been forced to grow up before his time.

I pat him on the back. ‘So where was it we were going to go, champ?’ I ask again. Truth is I’ve got no idea. He probably told me while I was getting dressed but it didn’t register.

‘Down the dump, collecting cardboard. El Chelo lent me his cart. He’s not going down there today, something to do with the march, the teachers’ strike and all that shit.’

‘I can’t,’ I lie. ‘I’ve got stuff on.’

He looks up at me with big round eyes, disappointed. Either he’s pissed at me, or he really needs the few centavos he’ll get for twenty kilos of paper. Both probably.

‘Hey … don’t take it like that, che. It’s no big deal. I mean, it’s not worth it, is it, slogging your guts out all day for a couple of pesos …?

Quique sighs, stares into the distance. It’s like he’s not there. I stuff my hands in my pockets, feel the roll of bills in the right-hand one. I’ve got some cash. I peel off a five-peso note and hold it out.

‘Here, go buy yourself something … and make the most of your day off.’

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.