Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (13 page)

‘Are you going to get someone to come and look at it?’

‘They already did … It can’t be fixed, we’ll have to get a new one,’ she sighs.

‘So how do you manage?’

‘I don’t …’

From the look on my face, Yani can tell what I’m thinking. With all the cash Fat Farías spends on wine, you’d think he could buy her a new fridge, even a second-hand one.

‘The old man says he’s got three fridges at the bar so he doesn’t need another one …’ she explains.

‘No offence, Yani, but Don Farías sounds like a bit of a Neanderthal.’

‘A bit?’ she says and laughs again, but half-heartedly. Almost bitterly.

I change the subject. We talk about the movie with Libertad Lamarque, about insomnia, about the yowling of cats on heat … anything. Anything as long as there’s no mention of Fat Farías and his bar. The old man’s bar is the eye of the storm. Hers and mine. And just now, we don’t want to deal with it. The
mate
is too good to ruin it. So good we keep adding more water. At this stage, we’ve brewed every ounce of flavour from the
yerba
, and keep adding a little something until we’ve gone through a quarter of the bottle of gin. Yanina’s eyes are shining. Her cheeks are flushed.

I put the
mate
down on the counter and, without warning, grab her round the waist and pull her to me forcefully. She doesn’t resist, and I bite her lips. Yani’s tongue is dancing in my mouth. It tastes of gin, of tobacco, of plums, of cough mixture, of rosemary … and lots of other things I couldn’t begin to explain. But most of all, it tastes of desire. I slip my hands under her T-shirt and run my fingertips over every inch of her arse. She gets goosebumps. Our breathing accelerates. She pulls up my windcheater and my T-shirt, feverishly. Desperately. I cross my arms and pull them both over my head in a single movement. Time is speeding up. Or we’re speeding up. I put a hand on the small of her back. I lift her up, turn round and set her on the counter. While I pull the front of her T-shirt over her head and hook it round the back of her neck like a striker celebrating a goal, Yanina unbuckles my belt and opens my fly. The .38 falls, slides into the turn-ups of my jeans and drops to the floor with a sharp clatter.

‘Stop, stop … did you hear that?’ She’s nervous.

‘I didn’t hear anything, Yani,’ I lie.

I bite her nipples and she takes my cock in both hands and aims it at the centre of the target like it’s her own personal toy. She pulls hard, like she’s going to rip it off. With my index and middle fingers, I pull her G-string aside and trace the outline of her lips. Warm and wet. My fingers slip lazily in, opening a path. And I’m inside her. A journey into space. The final frontier. Now she’s the one biting. My earlobe. And she’s growling. Her tongue is tracing a song in saliva in my ear. I hang onto her hips like they’re the anchor for a paper boat in a raging storm. Out of sight of land. On an open sea, one that does not close. The only way is in. And I’m inside her. But the sudden contractions of her pussy as it grips me tight bring me back to earth. She whimpers and digs her nails into my side. Now I’m a trigger. The pain subsides. And I bite. I bite the dust, the last reflex of a man who’s been shot.

I give up. I rest my forehead in the cleft between her breasts. The sweat from her skin revives me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and covers my neck with little kisses. I listen as she gets her breath back. Then with a thrust of her hips, she expels me.

‘Just look what you did to me, Catwoman,’ I say, showing her the scratches down my side as I pull up my pants.

‘What about you, you little dog?’ she says, sticking out her lower lip.

There are small purple bruises where I sank my teeth into her. One of them has produced a pearl of blood.

She pulls down her T-shirt and straightens her hair. With the toe of my shoe, I push the .38 under the cupboard. And we pick up the conversation as though we’d never left off.

‘He thinks I’ve got the makings of a madame … he wants me to look after his shit.’

‘Who? El Jetita?’

‘Who do you think … ?’ she says, irritated.

‘I though El Negro Sosa took care of the girls?’ I say.

‘Don’t talk to me about that slimy bastard.
Hijo de puta
. He scares the shit out of me. He and El Jetita both want to fuck me.’

‘What does your old man say?’

‘Nothing. He agrees with whatever they say, like he owes them something …’

‘Money?’ I guess.

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘What was the deal they were doing with the police commissioner from Zavaleta?’

‘He’s agreed to turn a blind eye until Charly and El Jetita sort out the turf war. After that he’s planning on charging them both a “free trade tax”. That’s what he called it. Can you believe that?’

‘This turf war, people are going to get shot, Yani,’ I warn her. ‘If you stay on at the bar, you could get caught in the crossfire.’

‘Sure, I guess, but what do you want me to do?’

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ I say.

She looks me in the eye. And the pool of fear in her eyes threatens to drown me. Our faces are inches apart.

‘What about
papá
? I’m just supposed to abandon him?’

‘He’s a big boy, isn’t he? He knows what he’s getting himself mixed up in –’

‘What
they’re
getting him mixed up in,’ she cuts in sullenly. ‘They set things up. El Jetita and all the guys who hang around with him, like you and your friend Chueco for example.’

‘I’m not involved in any of this, Yani! Get that into your head …’ We’re like cat and dog now. The harmony that was between us is completely fucked. ‘And just so you know,’ I add, ‘I’m getting out of here. I’m heading up to the Delta.’

‘What are you going to do up there?’ Her tone is softer.

‘I don’t know. Whatever. Something will come up. If you want to come with …’

Yanina suddenly laughs, but it sounds forced. She’s scared. She wasn’t expecting me to come out with something like that.

‘And I’m supposed to just quit school when I’m about to graduate?’

‘No … ask for a deferment and do your exams up there.’

She seems like she’s thinking about it, but she doesn’t look too convinced. She frowns and gets down from the counter. I get dressed. I bend down, pretending to tie my shoelace and grab the strap.

‘You make it sound so easy, Gringo, but it’s not that simple …’ she murmurs like she’s talking to herself.

I don’t say anything. And she says it again, her eyes vacant.

‘It’s not that simple …’

I take this opportunity to slip the gun into the back of my jeans without her noticing. But Yani’s quick. She wises up. And the look she gives me says it all.

THERE ARE THINGS
about Mamina I don’t understand. All the pointless work she does, for example. But her attitudes too, the way she reacts … The more I know her, the less I understand. Right now she’s scrubbing the doorstep like she does religiously every other day. Come rain, thunder or hail she scrubs that little patch of concrete until it’s spotless. And today’s the day.

I listen to her fill the bucket from the outside tap. I watch her through the tiny kitchen window. Through the fog. She splashes out the water and scrubs with her brush. She’s stick-thin and getting thinner by the day, getting smaller and more stooped, and still she carries on with every last ounce of energy. And it’s not worth a fart. First person walks past and the pavement will be dirty again. The rain has turned the dirt road into a swamp, but still Mamina goes on scrubbing the doorstep. I don’t know where she gets the strength.

I put the kettle on the stove and brew up a couple of
mate
s. I bring a sweet one out to her. Just the way she likes it.

‘Morning …’

‘Good morning,
m’hijo
. How did you sleep?’

Like shit, but I don’t tell her that. I feel sorry for her. Quique is sleeping in my bed. Like a log. And Mamina took great pains making up another bed for me. A box and a couple of blankets. I went to bed just as it was getting light and woke up a little while later with my back fucked. After that, I didn’t get a wink of sleep, though I tried.

‘So-so,’ I say.

‘I’ll go over to Ernestina today and ask her to lend me a mattress …’

‘Don’t worry about it, Grandma, you’ve got enough on your plate with the kid.’ She glowers at me like I’d just said something terrible.

‘How’s the little girl?’ I ask in passing.

‘Still weak.’ She sucks greedily on the
mate
then hands me back the gourd.

I bring her another sweet
mate
, and when I bring her the third she says no thank you. She doesn’t want any more. She’s frugal even when it comes to
mate
.

Inside, Quique is already up. He’s taken some of the hot water from the kettle to brew himself an instant
mate
in a jam jar. He’s making himself at home.

‘Hey,
compañero
, you could at least ask first!’

‘Don’t bust my balls, Gringo.’

He grabs two sachets of sugar, tips them into his
mate cocido
and, blowing on the jam jar, wanders over to the shelf where Mamina keeps the radio. He flicks it on, turns the dial till he comes to a station playing ‘Sympathy for the Devil’, cranks up the volume.

‘I thought you were a slum-boy
cumbia
fan?’ I say to wind him up.

‘I was, and now I’m a Stones fan,’ he plays along.

‘Since when?’

‘Since right now.’

‘Fuckwit … Why?’

‘Meh … people change.’

‘Do you even know what they’re singing about?’

‘No, but I still like them.’

I like them too. Particularly this song. I like the drumming. Sounds like
candombe
. But at least I know what the lyrics mean. More or less. Santi, the mad fucker, translated them for me one time when we were in his Chevy. ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ is all about this guy who’s filthy rich and has good taste, but doesn’t tell you his name. It’s like this game, he wants you to guess his name, gives you a bunch of clues, in case you’re thick. The chorus is just ‘Who, who, what’s my name?’ like it was a riddle and he’s being all mysterious.

Drinking his
mate cocido
, Quique taps along with his foot. He glances over at me and laughs. He’s a strange little fucker. When he’s finished, he puts the jar in the sink. I’m still leaning on the counter, still drinking my
mate
. He turns and comes over to me, all mysterious.

‘If you want to keep playing the spy game, I’m up for it,’ he whispers.

I stare at him, and he stares back. He even raises one eyebrow. Who the fuck does he think he is, James Bond?

‘Yeah, why not …’ I say. ‘Just let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary.’

‘But the price has gone up, OK? Ten pesos, as long as no serious shit goes down. Otherwise, it’s more …’

‘What? Are you off your head?’

The Stones song fades out and an Argentinian rock song comes on. I spark up a cigarette. Chew the skin on my index finger. Stare out the window … Basically, I play dumb.

‘I mean, you don’t want someone gunning you down, do you?’ he says, point-blank.

‘I suppose you do?’

‘I’m just saying, because if Charly’s gang are looking to cap you, I can keep you posted.’

‘And who told you Charly’s got it in for me?’

‘After the shit you pulled with El Negrito and Medusa, stealing his stash, he’s not gonna send fucking flowers … Or if he does, it’ll be for your funeral.’

‘Who told you about ripping off the stash?’

‘Saw it myself with the two eyes God gave me,
papá
,’ he says, making a V-sign and pointing to his eyes.

Someone’s done some kind of switch on this kid. This can’t be dumb, gentle little Quique … I always had a soft spot for him … Now I want to strangle the little fucker. He took the whole spy game very seriously. He followed me when I went off with Chueco. Good job he’s on my side.

‘You are bang out of order.’ I’ve got to stop this in its tracks. ‘Is it me, or are you trying to fuck with me?’

‘No way, Gringo, I’m on your side.’

‘I’m just saying, because looks to me like you’re taking the piss …’

He thumps his chest with his fist. On the heart. He’s loyal. I hope so.

‘Here.’ I give him a five-spot. ‘Do a good job and I’ll give you another one.’

‘Very cagey,
hombre
. OK, let’s do it …’ He pulls on a jumper that’s got holes in the elbows and a woolly hat. ‘Give us a cigarette.’

‘Mamina lets you smoke?’

‘It’s nobody’s fucking business but mine,
loco
,’ He stares at me furiously. I’ve hurt his pride.

‘It’s just you’re a bit young to be smoking, kid. You haven’t even got bumfluff on your face.’

‘No, it’s just that you’re a cheap fucker. Come on, give me a cigarette.’

‘Here, take one, you little shit.’ I throw the pack on the table. ‘And get the fuck out of here, OK?’

‘What’s all the shouting about in here?’ Mamina says sternly, leaning her brush against the door frame and coming inside. It drives her up the wall, people raising their voices in the house.

Quique palms the cigarette he’s just nicked off me and acts all innocent.

‘Nothing … it’s just he’s a bit nervous.’ He pats his pockets like he’s forgotten something. ‘OK, Grandma, I’ve got to go and get Sultán. He’s been tied up back at our place since Saturday. Poor little dog …’

He heads out and Mamina stands there looking at me.

‘What’s going on with you, Gringo?’ she says. She’s worried and it worries me. She never asks me how I am. Well, sometimes, but not often. I like it, it means she cares, but it unsettles me too.

‘Nothing … why?’ My voice quavers with anxiety. I don’t know why, I feel like crying.

‘You seem preoccupied. What have you got yourself mixed up in?’

‘Nothing, Grandma. What makes you think I’m mixed up in something?’ I don’t look at her. I pour myself another
mate
, my hand shaking. It’s watery. And cold.

Mamina sighs. She sits down, puts her elbows on the table and stares at me.