Seven Ways to Kill a Cat Read Free Page B

invoices, receipt books, porn mags, mortgage deeds, leaflets from wine merchants and meat suppliers from years back and, lastly, a shoebox tied with string.
    ‘Bingo …’ Chueco says, cutting the string with his flick knife.
    He takes off the lid and banknotes in every colour of the rainbow spill out – blue, brown, green, red, purple … They’ve all got lots of zeros and they all bear the face of El Libertador. We stand there, staring at them like idiots. I remember notes like this, and I’m sure Chueco does. A brown one used to buy you a bag of popcorn, for a blue one you could get a bottle of Coke. If you had a red one, you could have a blowout.
Pesos ley
, they were called back in the late 1970s. They haven’t been in circulation for nearly fifteen years.
    Hands shaking, Chueco tips out the contents of the box, and when he sees there’s no legal tender, he starts cursing and swearing, his voice quavering and shrill like he’s about to cry any minute.
    ‘Don’t fuck about,’ I warn him. ‘Someone’ll hear us.’
    This just makes it worse. He starts screaming and lashing out, kicking anything within reach.
    ‘Chueco, come on, we need to get out of here. It’s over.’
    He’s not listening. I grab him by the shoulders and push him towards the door. When he sees Fat Farías lying at the far end of the corridor, his rage boils up again. He gives him a savage running kick that lifts the fat bastard off the ground, for all his weight. Farías seems half dead. He barely whimpers now as Chueco lays into him.
    ‘Stop! Chueco, stop! Fucking animal!’ I shout and plant myself between his boot and Farías’s head.
    I bend down and check Farías over. There’s a roll of bills in his shirt pocket. It’s not much, but at least it’s real money.
    ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s get the hell out of here.’
    ‘No, wait,’ Chueco says. ‘I’m confiscating this too.’ He rips off Fat Farías’s wristwatch – a Citizen that’s at least ten years old – and waves it under my nose. His eyes are shining now, and the moron is laughing.
    ‘Come on,’ I shout, ‘let’s do one.’

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
mate
s 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