Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (18 page)

‘Be careful what you’re doing,’ I tell Chueco. ‘Don’t fuck up …’

‘OH, IT’S YOU
. Yeah, I remember …’ says Piti, one of Toni’s friends. ‘You showed up at Lezama Park the other day with a copy of
Moby Dick
under your arm …’

I agree with my eyes. A slight, slow blink. I’ve got my mouth full, my lips round the top of a bottle. And I can’t nod, because I’ve got my head back so I can neck a litre of beer in one go.

It took him a minute before he recognised me. I had the advantage because I spotted him straight off. He’s got the kind of face you don’t forget in a hurry. Covered in scars and pockmarks. He’s ugly as a hatful of arseholes.

‘So? How’s it going with the whale?’

‘Piece of shit, that book,’ I say, scanning the street. Suspicious.

No one’s coming up from the river, and on the other side there’s only a stray dog. I’m not the only one who’s worried. Zaid the Turk is peering anxiously through the bars of his stall. All this shooting has finally shaken him out of his apathy, which means that fucking photo of his dog gets a break from having to deal with the weight of his guilt. At least this shit has done something positive – it’s given Zaid something else to obsess about. I can’t get my head round someone obsessing over a fucking photograph. I don’t care if it’s a photo of a missing kid or his mother who betrayed him. I feel sorry for the guy, because if he wants to throw a pity party, he doesn’t need bad memories to do it. I don’t do memories, good or bad. I can’t be dealing with the past. But I’m being well and truly burned by the present. The fear, the dread, and all the beer in the world isn’t going to put that fire out.

‘What you saying, dude?
Moby Dick
is a complete fucking trip!’ Piti says.

‘It’s a bunch of bullshit, and if you don’t want to believe it, that’s your problem.’

‘Fuck sake, dude, you just don’t get it!’

Piti looks at me smugly. He takes a swig of beer, hands me back the bottle and sparks up a cigarette. He studies me for a bit longer as he takes the first couple of puffs, then launches into a big lecture waving his cigarette like a pointer, like he’s some professor. He gives me this whole spiel about the human condition, the hell of madness, the nature of evil and I don’t know what all, and every couple of minutes he tells me that the whale doesn’t really exist, that it’s a metaphor for something that, if the whale didn’t exist, would be nameless.

I let him ramble on, finish the beer and ask the Turk for another. The minute I see Piti’s running out of steam, I cut in.

‘You done?’

‘More or less,
loco
, but I’m still not sure you get the book.’

‘Metaphor my arse, you’re the one who doesn’t get it. All this horseshit is like some stoner tells you he’s seen the face of the devil. It’s bull … If someone really saw the devil, he wouldn’t come out with shit about horns and hooves, nobody believes it. If he really saw the devil he’d wind up putting a bullet in his head or a needle in his arm, or he’d end up in a rubber room in some nuthouse.’

Piti pulls a face, gives me this smug smile. I go on talking so as not to end up smashing his fucking face.

‘This whole story about the whale is a total crock too. We’re supposed to believe anyone who goes after Moby Dick never comes back. So what about Ishmael? He was there and he came back, didn’t he? The writer’s a bullshit artist. He cheats. Far as I’m concerned, if it ended with Ishmael at the bottom of the sea with old Ahab, with the little fishies eating his eyes, it would have made more sense. If you’re going to bullshit, at least make it convincing. Otherwise shut your arse.’

Piti lights another cigarette. He toys with the bottle, takes a couple of swigs, and tells me there’s no way the plot of
Moby Dick
could turn out like that because that would be fantasy literature whereas Melville – that’s the name of the guy who wrote the book, he reminds me – Melville’s all about literary realism.

‘Tell me something, professor,’ I interrupt him. ‘Did you come all this way to chat literature? Quit busting my balls about literary fucking realism.’

‘Nuh-huh, dude,’ he says gruffly. ‘Toni sent me to give you a couple of messages.’

‘Why didn’t he come and tell me himself ?’

‘Ask him yourself, dude.’ The guy clearly doesn’t like being a messenger boy. And he sure as fuck doesn’t like me reminding him he’s one. ‘Toni’s waiting for you up in Zavaleta. Says not to believe the shit you’ve heard, says he had nothing to do with what happened to your old woman. Says you need to get the fuck out of the barrio asap. Charly’s going to do a little ethnic cleansing, so there won’t be much left standing.’

The air I’m breathing runs out of oxygen. I’m suffocating. The third gulp I take is a thick, smoggy hit that jolts my brain with a clarity I’ve never felt before. How the fuck does Toni know I’m after him to find out about my mother? All I told him was Mamina wanted nothing to do with him and that if I was going to go work with him, I needed to know what had gone down between the two of them. He’s hiding something. You start pleading innocent before you’ve been accused, you’re fucking guilty. Right now, the last thing I want is to know what really went down. It doesn’t matter any more.

It’s not like we were really close, but Toni was always like a brother to me … Deliberately or not, he betrayed me, he left me in the lurch. Left me an orphan. Someone’s got to pay for that.

The sudden fever I feel calms me and cranks me up. I’m dead. Just like Chueco.

‘Tell him I can’t go up there, because someone will cap me,’ I say to Piti coolly. ‘If he wants to get me out of this shit, he’ll have to come down here.’

Piti stares at me incredulous and shrugs his shoulders.

‘I can’t see that happening, dude. Your people are a bit amped right now. Someone pulled a gun on me at the station. By some miracle, I got away with my shoes, but they took every peso I had. If that’s how they treat strangers, I wouldn’t like to imagine how they’d treat the prodigal son.’ Piti finishes his beer, spits and concludes. ‘Look, I’ve given you the message. If you like, I’ll take a message back from you, but trust me on this, I don’t think Toni’s going to risk coming down here.’

I drag my bag up and sit on it next to Piti, spark up my nth cigarette and launch into an explanation. I’m calm, unruffled, like a good little boy who’s just trying to come up with a solution that works for everyone. I explain to him the mess we’re in, tell him there’s nothing I can do, that he has to convince Toni to come down and mediate otherwise it’s going to turn into a bloodbath. I explain there are women inside the bar, and at least one corpse. Rotting. I tell him that if Toni comes down unarmed, El Jetita will personally vouch for his safety. I explain about firing three shots in the air and waving a white flag. I tell him I’m going to be there too and I’m prepared to put myself on the line. I lie like a politician. I need to go through with this farce about divvying up the turf just so they’ll stop shooting for a bit which will give me time to get the girls out the back and get the fuck out of here. After that, let them cap each other till there’s no one left standing. It’s the only way.

I sound completely reasonable. Just to make sure, I recap again, laying it on as thick as shit. I tell him Toni needs to get here asap. First thing in the morning latest because otherwise the people in the bar won’t make it.

‘Jesus, what a mess, dude,’ Piti says to me. ‘OK, I’ll tell him.’

Now all I need is for Toni to believe it. I can’t, even though the plan sounds completely reasonable. I can’t because I’m already dead. I’ve snuffed it same as Chueco. Right now I’m blowing bubbles at the bottom of the ocean, slowly rotting away, just like Ishmael would be if his story was true.

YANI IS SUCKING
my cock. She’s naked, kneeling. Like she’s praying in front of an altar. Her mane of jet-black hair falls over her shoulders, curls shimmering blue in the sunlight. She arches her smooth back. I lean over and run my thumb down the ridged groove of her spine. I stop when I come to her arse. An inverted, fresh, mouth-watering summer pear, just waiting to be bitten. Beneath the blazing sun. She stops for a moment and smiles up at me. Her lips are moist. Oozing with the sweet nectar of the fruit. I’d like to taste them, but her face troubles me. It’s not Yani now, but some other woman, a woman who seems familiar. She grips my cock with both hands and goes on sucking. She’s good. She even plays with my balls. I’m just about to come when someone grabs my shoulder from behind and pulls me hard. Toni pushes me away. Suddenly I’m a kid again and he’s towering above me. He glares down at me, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like a threat. He turns his back on me, starts fondling her tits, gives her arse a couple of slaps. I feel disgusted. When he’s finished pawing her, he puts a leash around her neck and drags her away. Like she’s some sort of animal. I’m left alone. I’m standing outside my school. The last teacher has gone home, they’re closing the front gate and I know
mamá
is not coming to pick me up. That she’ll never come and pick me up again. I fumble in the pocket of my school smock for change. I haven’t got a peso. What do I do now? I feel fear and sadness course through me and I start crying, bawling at the top of my lungs.

I wake up choking on my own tears, my nose dripping snot, my face soaked. They’re genuine tears. They broke out of my dream. The nightmare is not the one still echoing inside my head. The nightmare is waking up, because now I can’t even go on crying to console myself. Even though the terror is the same. Maybe worse.

Night has fallen around me. It’s cold. I’m still a little drunk. I fell asleep pressed against the bars of Zaid’s stall, my neck at a right angle, now I’ve got a cramp. My mouth is parched. I get up and ask Zaid for some water. At least he’s still here, like always. He gives me a bottle of mineral water. Cheap bastard always looking to make a sale. I only need something for my hangover. A glass of tap water would have done just as well. But I don’t say anything. I give him the money, and I don’t regret it. It’s sweet, delicious. The problem now is that my stomach hurts. Hardly surprising, it’s been at least twenty-four hours since I last had solid food. I ask Zaid if he’ll make me a hamburger and he can’t because he’s out of gas. He offers me a sandwich instead. It’s the last one. I stare at it under the filthy plastic cover that keeps the flies off. It turns my stomach but I say yes anyway. The bread’s stale, the tomato tastes slightly rotten, I don’t even taste the lettuce. I chuck it away because it’s all slimy and wilted. But the meat is fucking awesome.

I stretch my legs, go and piss against a tree, come back and ask the Turk the time. It’s nearly midnight. Santi should be showing up any minute now. In theory. Assuming Quique managed to track him down. Assuming he said he was up for driving me to Retiro, assuming he took the money. Assuming he didn’t bottle out at the last minute, assuming Charly’s people didn’t get to him.

It’s a lot of assuming, so I don’t hold out much hope. Anyway, even if he does come, then what? I’m just going to fuck off and disappear? I don’t even try to make the bastards pay for what they did to Chueco? I mean fuck sake, the guy was my
compañero
. And what if Santi shows without Quique? Am I going to do a runner and leave him stranded? And what about Yani? Didn’t I tell her to wait for me, that I’d go back and get her?

Guilt starts eating away at my insides. Up to now, all I could think about was getting myself out of here and fuck everyone else. Look after number one. That’s the law of the streets, what can you do? The question is whether I can get out of here. And I can. Otherwise why the fuck am I calmly waiting for Santi to show? So, what am I beating myself up about?

My head’s spinning. I light one cigarette after another and still the
loco
doesn’t show. Just as well, because I’ve still got to work out what to do. It’s like a half-gutted cat hanging from a wall. Doesn’t matter who killed it. That’s beside the point. The point is what you do. You can fuck off out of there, but it won’t bring the cat back and the body will still be there. You’ve got blood on your hands whatever you do. Blood and guts. But if you stay, you have to finish the job whether you like it or not. And to do that, you have to stick the knife in, whether you want to or not.

What I really don’t want, I say to myself, is to lose it completely. It’s getting colder and I can’t stand still. I spark up the last cigarette in the pack and look over at the Turk who hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Why doesn’t he just go back to staring at the photo of his dog and leave me the fuck alone? Maybe I was talking to myself again and didn’t realise it.

I go over to the bars, ask for a pack of cigarettes and the Turk just stares at me.

‘Why don’t you go get some sleep, kid? Whatever shit’s going to happen is going to happen,’ he says. ‘Right now with your bawling and fretting and waiting for a miracle you’re making me nervous. Why don’t you just get out of here?’

‘And why don’t you mind your own business and stop busting my balls?’

Fucking retard usually can’t string two words together and when he finally does he gives me a sermon …

He throws my change onto the little counter and doesn’t say anything. I scoop up the money and he’s still staring me in the eye. Coldly, now, his eyes half closed. There’s no defiance, no hatred in those eyes. But there’s no sympathy either. Fuck knows what goes on in his head. The Turk’s always been unfathomable.

As is the night. It’s pitch black. I haven’t heard a gunshot for a long while. And by now, it’s obvious Santi’s not coming. It’s pointless hanging around waiting for him. But I stay a little longer, smoking just for the sake of it. If it wasn’t for the fact it’s only late summer, I’d swear it was freezing hard. I pace up and down to keep warm and every time I turn round, the Turk’s still standing there staring at me. Doesn’t give up. Now he’s starting to make me nervous. I’ve had enough. I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulder and take my leave.

‘See you tomorrow, Turk, sleep well,’ I say, smiling politely and giving him the finger.