Free Seven Ways to Kill a Cat by Matias Nespolo Page B

up, Gringo.’
    ‘Cos it looked to me like he was the one doing the turning … and he turned you out good.’
    ‘Shut your hole!’
    ‘OK. It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll be your second in command, OK? You lead the way and I’ll follow … you piece of fucking shit!’

HAND IN THE FIRE
    ‘SO TELL ME , gunslinger,’ I taunt Chueco, ‘why didn’t you pull the gat when Fat Farías was bitch-slapping you?’
    It’s rare for Chueco to be the one to back down. Usually, however fucked up the situation, he acts first and deals with the consequences later. Luckily this time it was the other way round. If anyone had known he was strapped, the whole thing could have turned into a shitstorm and there’d have been a bunch of collateral damage. And when you’ve got people firing at random like that, there’s nothing you can do, the bad guys always win.
    Actually, I don’t really give a shit why Chueco bottled it – I’m only asking him to wind him up, force him to show his cards. But he doesn’t.
    ‘Because I left it at home, asshole,’ he says. ‘You think if I’d been strapped I would have let that greaseball get up in my face like that?’
    ‘You left it at the squat?’ I say, toying with the bottle of beer. It’s funny hearing him call the skanky crackhouse he’s bunks at home.
    ‘Yeah. Why?’
    ‘Nothing.’ I take a long swig, finish the bottle. ‘So you’re saying you
used
to have a gat.’
    ‘Are you bad-mouthing my crew,
loco
?’ He boils over suddenly like milk. ‘D’you ever hear me bad-mouth your whore mother?’
    He’s riled. I’m laughing so hard I’m starting to choke. I can feel beer bubbles up my nose …
    ‘It’s not like you could – you never knew her …’ I say, stifling a sneeze.
    ‘No, but I know all the johns who used to fuck her. Your
mamá
would do anyone with a pulse! She’d turn tricks for two pesos. She could suck a fire hydrant dry and leave it clean as a chicken bone. You know what they called her? Deep Throat …’
    ‘Keep talking, Chueco, and you’ll be shitting teeth.’
    He’s the one laughing now. I say nothing, reach into my trouser pocket to fish out my cigarettes. Chueco nearly jumps out of his skin. He thinks I’m about to shank him.
    ‘Chill, Chueco. It’s cool,’ I say, shaking out a cigarette. ‘I was only asking about the gun.’ I pick the empty beer bottle off the ground and hand it to him. ‘Here. Your round.’
    Chueco heads off to the kiosk fumbling for change in his pockets and I sit back down on the pavement.
    First time I challenge him on anything and the
loco
goes off on one. Chueco defends his tribe like they’re his own flesh and blood. Obviously in that rathole he lives in he’s found the family he never had. Well, if he’s prepared to put his hand in the fire for them, let him. I wouldn’t. The way things are these days, I wouldn’t leave a gun lying around anywhere, definitely not in a crackhouse like that. Too many people hanging around, coming and going, crashing overnight. There’s only five full-time residents, counting Chueco – old man Soria who spends all day on his soapbox preaching about shit; Willi, a tall skinny guy – total psycho – no one knows what he does but he’s always off his face on something; Pampita, a working girl from up north somewhere. She’s pretty fit and all the guys in the squat take advantage. They let her stay in exchange for the occasional free fuck. And then there’s El Chelo, a thug I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw him. He used to go out collecting cardboard for recycling but these days he seems to be involved in all the protest marches. That’s why he’s been lending his cart to Quique.
    Chueco comes back with the beer and sits down. He pops the cap with his teeth and hands it to me without even taking the first swig. He’s being polite. Personally, I’d rather he was a little less polite and a little more loyal. It’s not just about the shit he’s got me mixed up