of hair and a mink coat showing off her legs.
I push the chain-link gate, go into the yard and pick up the doll, laughing to myself. The old woman turns out to be a bit skanky. And she stinks. The arms of her fur coat have claws on the end ready to scratch someone’s eyes out. The cat obviously bared its claws before it died and they stayed like that, stiff and razor-sharp. I stare at one of the claws and it’s moving. It’s nearly night, so I can’t really see properly. I hold the doll up to my face, gagging on the putrid stench, and I see the claw isn’t a claw. It’s wriggling like it’s waving to me. It’s a maggot, a two-day-old fly larva. I’ve seen enough flyblown animals that I don’t need to strip the doll to know its teeming with maggots. That’s one sight I’d rather spare myself. I open my hands and the plastic body bounces on the ground. If the old woman were flesh and blood, they’d be eating her alive.
OLD DEBTS
FAT FARÍAS LOOKS LIKE a sultan. He’s got a white turban of bandages round his head, he’s wearing his shirt open and he’s got bruises all the way down to his man boobs. His left arm is bandaged too. He’s using some filthy, snotty handkerchief as a sling. He’s sitting at a table like a lord. Serious. Talking to Rubén.
The bar is practically empty. The drunks in the barrio are loyal as cats. Farías only has to close up for one day and they’ve already found some other dive. It’ll be a while before they’re back. I see Chueco sitting in the far corner, staring into his glass. El Jetita is standing beside him, leaning down, hand on Chueco’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear, looking like an old friend, like a big brother giving his kid brother advice. What the fuck is going on here?
‘Hey, Gringo!’ Chueco calls over to me. ‘Over here! Pull up a chair!’
I’m threading my way between the tables when I see her, standing behind the bar where her father should be, pouring a glass of red wine for some old guy. She puts the cork back in the bottle and looks up. She’s beautiful. She’s got her hair pinned up and she’s wearing a dark apron. The thin shoulder straps emphasise her long, bare, slender neck. I feel like covering her in kisses. But Yani’s staring at me like she doesn’t recognise me. Makes sense, I suppose. After all, in here I’m a customer and she’s staff. Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her working behind her old man’s bar before. I’ve seen her come in and ask him for money or chat to him, but I’ve never seen her serving.
I’m staring so hard I walk slap bang into the back of a chair and nearly rupture my balls. I swear under my breath. Yani tries not to laugh, but she carries on wiping down the counter, she doesn’t look over. When she finally lifts her head, I shoot her a look of sheer agony that makes her laugh out loud. I love the way her cheeks dimple. Her laugh makes us partners in crime just like it did last night. When she finally stops giggling, I give her an enquiring look, jerk my chin, raise my eyebrows. She frowns, glancing quickly in three different directions – the table where Fat Farías is chatting with Rubén, the table at the back where Chueco and El Jetita are huddled, and the old man at the bar she’s just been serving. El Negro Sosa is propping up the bar. I hadn’t noticed him. That means the whole gang is here. There’s some shit going down, and if someone doesn’t tell me what the fuck is going on and soon, I’m gone. I’ll be out of here before the tango starts, because I know my luck: I always wind up with the ugly best friend. If I have to tango, I’d rather do it with Yani.
Talking of ugly, El Negro Sosa is ugly as a hatful of arseholes: he’s dark with frizzy hair, a wide flat nose and eyes too far apart. He looks like a pig. He’s got lots of nicknames – Bighead, Fatso, Thirteen – but they all refer to the same thing. Truth is, the head on his shoulders is
I push the chain-link gate, go into the yard and pick up the doll, laughing to myself. The old woman turns out to be a bit skanky. And she stinks. The arms of her fur coat have claws on the end ready to scratch someone’s eyes out. The cat obviously bared its claws before it died and they stayed like that, stiff and razor-sharp. I stare at one of the claws and it’s moving. It’s nearly night, so I can’t really see properly. I hold the doll up to my face, gagging on the putrid stench, and I see the claw isn’t a claw. It’s wriggling like it’s waving to me. It’s a maggot, a two-day-old fly larva. I’ve seen enough flyblown animals that I don’t need to strip the doll to know its teeming with maggots. That’s one sight I’d rather spare myself. I open my hands and the plastic body bounces on the ground. If the old woman were flesh and blood, they’d be eating her alive.
OLD DEBTS
FAT FARÍAS LOOKS LIKE a sultan. He’s got a white turban of bandages round his head, he’s wearing his shirt open and he’s got bruises all the way down to his man boobs. His left arm is bandaged too. He’s using some filthy, snotty handkerchief as a sling. He’s sitting at a table like a lord. Serious. Talking to Rubén.
The bar is practically empty. The drunks in the barrio are loyal as cats. Farías only has to close up for one day and they’ve already found some other dive. It’ll be a while before they’re back. I see Chueco sitting in the far corner, staring into his glass. El Jetita is standing beside him, leaning down, hand on Chueco’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear, looking like an old friend, like a big brother giving his kid brother advice. What the fuck is going on here?
‘Hey, Gringo!’ Chueco calls over to me. ‘Over here! Pull up a chair!’
I’m threading my way between the tables when I see her, standing behind the bar where her father should be, pouring a glass of red wine for some old guy. She puts the cork back in the bottle and looks up. She’s beautiful. She’s got her hair pinned up and she’s wearing a dark apron. The thin shoulder straps emphasise her long, bare, slender neck. I feel like covering her in kisses. But Yani’s staring at me like she doesn’t recognise me. Makes sense, I suppose. After all, in here I’m a customer and she’s staff. Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her working behind her old man’s bar before. I’ve seen her come in and ask him for money or chat to him, but I’ve never seen her serving.
I’m staring so hard I walk slap bang into the back of a chair and nearly rupture my balls. I swear under my breath. Yani tries not to laugh, but she carries on wiping down the counter, she doesn’t look over. When she finally lifts her head, I shoot her a look of sheer agony that makes her laugh out loud. I love the way her cheeks dimple. Her laugh makes us partners in crime just like it did last night. When she finally stops giggling, I give her an enquiring look, jerk my chin, raise my eyebrows. She frowns, glancing quickly in three different directions – the table where Fat Farías is chatting with Rubén, the table at the back where Chueco and El Jetita are huddled, and the old man at the bar she’s just been serving. El Negro Sosa is propping up the bar. I hadn’t noticed him. That means the whole gang is here. There’s some shit going down, and if someone doesn’t tell me what the fuck is going on and soon, I’m gone. I’ll be out of here before the tango starts, because I know my luck: I always wind up with the ugly best friend. If I have to tango, I’d rather do it with Yani.
Talking of ugly, El Negro Sosa is ugly as a hatful of arseholes: he’s dark with frizzy hair, a wide flat nose and eyes too far apart. He looks like a pig. He’s got lots of nicknames – Bighead, Fatso, Thirteen – but they all refer to the same thing. Truth is, the head on his shoulders is
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