by Paulo Lins
It was a sunny Sunday, and market day Up Top. It was the weather for kites to colour the sky over the estate, the weather for children to grind glass into powder in milk tins, mix it with furniture glue, and coat their kite strings with it in order to cut the strings of other kites. It was already late morning when Hellraiser, Squirt, Cleide and Hammer met at the Bonfim. Between one mouthful of beer and another, Squirt told them how he’d pulled off the robbery.
‘I told you I’d cased the house, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah,’ said Hellraiser.
‘So …’ He took a long gulp of beer and ran his tongue across his lips. ‘First I rode past and checked it was empty. There was no one on the street and it was too early for the sucker to get home from work. So I stopped …’
‘Were you tooled up?’ asked Hellraiser.
‘No, I didn’t have my revolver on me. I pretended to be the meter man and started shoutin’, “Electricity!” No one came so I went round the back and broke the kitchen window and got in. Man! That house was amazing, there was shitloads of stuff … If I’d’ve had a partner, we’d’ve cleaned up. Then I split, got my bike and went really fast till I came off Jacarepaguá Road … So what’s this I hear ‘bout a commotion down at the dance?’
‘Fuck! If it wasn’t for Niftyfeet, we’d’ve been in the lock-up getting the shit bashed out of us by the cops … And it was the Civil Police, man – they love a bashin’!’ said Hellraiser before recounting what had happened at the dance.
When he said he’d spent the night in the bush with Cleide, his voice faltered because he’d thought all that shit, but Hammer didn’t notice. Cleide complained about her ordeal, all wet, with those mosquitoes attacking her. She added that they’d only left the bush when they felt the police were no longer on their trail.
They decided to go to Batman’s Bar for a beer. Squirt wanted to foot the bill as he had enough money to pay for the lot by himself. Hammer disagreed. He didn’t want to drink Out Front because the police already knew who Cleide was and the robbery was very recent.
‘If you’re caught within twenty-four hours it’s still considered “in the act”,’ warned Hammer.
They decided to stay at the Bonfim, in the street market, in the middle of the crowd. Squirt was in a festive mood that day. The whole thing had just shaken them up a little. The only thing bothering him was that the police knew where Cleide and Hammer lived. ‘How’d the pigs find out? Who grassed? Hammer’s gotta get the hell out of that place. He’s gotta grab a squat Down Below, fast,’ thought Squirt. He looked at his friend, noticed his concern and decided not to bring up the subject. The friends enjoyed themselves listening to Martinho da Vila, drinking beer and eating chicken gizzards.
Down at one end of the market, Lúcia Maracanã and Vanderléia stopped at the busiest stalls. Vanderléia held open her bag and Lúcia tossed the groceries in without the stall owners noticing. She did this on Sundays and Wednesdays. Lúcia didn’t follow the example of her mother, who would go to each market at the end of the day to scrounge for greens and vegetables that had fallen on the ground, or beg stall owners for a little of this and a little of that. They filled the bag and went for a beer at the Bonfim.
‘I know who grassed on you lot,’ said Lúcia Maracanã when she ran into her friends.
‘Who was it, who was it?’ asked Hammer.
‘It was that drunk that only talks to you when he’s sloshed. He’s your neighbour, man!’
‘Who?’ asked Hammer again.
‘The guy that always wears red shirts, slicks back his hair with Vaseline and drinks peach cocktails. He’s always here.’
‘Ah, I know the one you mean …! That cunt! I’m gonna bump ’im off, man!’
‘Yeah, do it, man. Grasses deserve to die. If I see him, I’ll do him myself,’ said Squirt.
They spent the morning at the Bonfim drinking Cinzano-and-cachaça and beer. All Hammer could think about was moving house. He couldn’t keep his mind on anything else. Beelzebub and his sidekicks had turned his house upside down. They’d broken furniture, knocked over the fridge, ransacked his drawers, the wardrobe. Only his statuette of Saint George was still intact.
‘Great Ogum!’ said Hammer when he saw the state of his house an hour after Beelzebub had gone back to the club with Cleide, to try and get her to turn in her husband.
When he was still a child Hammer had promised himself that he wouldn’t go without as he had when he was a kid living with his parents. The youngest of six brothers and sisters, only he had taken the risks to one day hit the jackpot. He had managed to hide his crimes from his family. Every now and then he got a job as an assistant bricklayer on construction sites down in Barra da Tijuca. He had calluses on his hands to show the police when they approached him. He played for the club football team, treated everyone with respect and tried to stop his pals from giving the other locals a hard time whenever he could. He had met Cleide when he was a parachutist in the army.
‘It was love at first sight,’ said Cleide when she told her friends about her husband.
Hammer had never killed anyone and had never considered the possibility. He could even be arrested, but he’d only take someone’s life if it was to save his own, even though he was a good shot. He was quick in getaways, good with his fists, discreet, well-spoken, and those who knew him said he didn’t seem like a gangster.
The alleys were scorching that Monday. Stringy and Rocket had left school early because their teacher hadn’t shown up. They hung around playing footy with their friends down at the Nut Cracker. They staked out goalposts with two stones and called it mini-footy. They took off their school shirts and played until 11.30, when Speed Racer came on TV.
Squirt, Cleide and Hammer went to Cachoeirinha to spend some time at Squirt’s friend’s place until things cooled down.
Hellraiser woke up late, thinking about holding up the gas truck. He went Down Below to put his plan to Shorty and Pelé. They decided to hold up the truck the following day at the Rec, because neither Boss of Us All nor Beelzebub would be on duty. They stuck together until late afternoon, scored some dope at Madalena’s, played pool and drank beer.
Tuesday dawned with a blazing sun. Hellraiser, Pelé and Shorty met at around eight o’clock at the Rec. They waited for forty minutes for the gas truck to arrive.
‘Looks like the bastards’ve worked it out!’ complained Hellraiser, as he said goodbye to Shorty and Pelé . He headed towards Batman’s Bar, where Mango and Acerola were chipping in to buy some weed. They were a bit short of cash and hoped Orange or Jackfruit would show to make up the difference. The milkman clanged past, the breadsellers shouted: ‘Bread for sale, bread for sale …’ Housewives were watering their plants. Acerola had left home early; he’d had breakfast with his younger brother and got ready as if he were going to school, but there he was, skiving off, wanting to smoke a joint so he could laugh the morning away.
‘What’s up, Hellraiser – everythin’ alright?’
‘Not so good, Acerola. The gas truck didn’t show … Things’re lookin’ a bit grim, man. If somethin’ doesn’t give soon, I’m gonna jump on the first sucker I see.’
Mango tried to convince Hellraiser to pitch in, but in vain. He already had some weed and didn’t feel like getting stoned right then. He thought about giving the heads a joint, but as he didn’t have much, he kept quiet. He was going to look for someone to mug or a shop to hold up. He said goodbye and headed up past the pharmacy. Acerola and Mango hung around waiting for a friend to appear.
As he crossed the right branch of the river, Hellraiser noticed a small crowd.
‘Faggot, faggot, faggot …’
A white boy, toothless and shirtless, suggested:
‘Shove a brush handle up his arse!’
At first Hellraiser thought it was funny, but when he saw who the brunt of the bullying was, he felt like hiding his face someplace where he wouldn’t see anyone. But he couldn’t turn a blind eye and keep on walking. He fired a shot in the
air in a moment of lucidity, otherwise he would have shot at the crowd. It was Ari, in brown boots, a black leather miniskirt, yellow silk blouse, a flaming-red wig, large earrings and a blue shoulder bag, with an enormous beauty spot drawn on his left cheek. Yes, it was Ari, the Marilyn Monroe of São Carlos, his mother’s son who wanted to be a woman. He looked like a samba school sprawled across the road. The two of them were left alone. A few people dared to go to the corner for a gawk. This time Hellraiser fired at them, but missed.
‘Didn’t I say I didn’t want anyone here?’
‘It’s just that Dad won’t stop drinkin’, he won’t eat anythin’ and he’s always gettin’ sick. Mum’s pissed off and broke. That shack’s awful and when it rains everythin’ inside gets wet. We’ve heard it’s much better here than there. Mum’s tired of goin’ up and down the hill carryin’ water. We want her to come and live here. I came to tell you and ask if you’ve got some cash so we can buy some medicine for Dad, ’cos I’m skint.’ He straightened his wig and continued: ‘I’m goin’ up to your place to tidy up a bit, ’cos Mum’s thinkin’ about comin’ sometime this week.’
‘You ain’t comin’, are ya?’
‘No, for God’s sake!’
‘I’ll get a woman in to tidy up, man. I don’t want no homos at my place. If you were a man it’d be alright, but you’re such a faggot, perv, queen, slut, homo nancy …’
Ari didn’t dare make a single objection to what his brother said. He remembered the time he’d disobeyed him and got lead in his foot. Hellraiser ordered Ari to come and talk only after midnight. And to enter without anyone seeing him. He turned his back on his brother, wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible. He walked aimlessly, reached the river’s edge and crossed the State Water Department bridge. He walked through the bush until he arrived at the lake, where he sat for the rest of the afternoon. He rolled a joint staring into the water, thinking about Ari.
He remembered when Ari was born, everyone saying it was a boy. And the bastard had turned into a queer. He remembered how he used to carry him on his back along the paths of the favela when he went to pick him up from school or buy something at the shop. He’d tried to get his younger brother to play footy, fly kites, climb trees and nothing – Ari was a big wimp, didn’t chat up girls, got hurt for no reason and was afraid of everything. That was when Hellraiser began to suspect his brother might be a homo. As soon as he started going out at night, everything was confirmed. Several people saw him dressed as a woman in the Red Light District. He was once attacked by the residents of Maia Lacerda Street for carrying on with a sailor in a corner bar. Now there he was again with that camp look of his. It’d be really fucked if that fairy decided to live in the estate.
It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon on that cloudless Tuesday. Panela Rock, Gávea Rock and the Grajaú Range were fully visible, but they were not bigger than the pain of having a brother who was a faggot. He took one last toke on the joint and flicked the roach into the lake, that horizontal giant that drew in his gaze as if it belonged to its watery body.
Hellraiser returned to the estate at nightfall. He had to send money to his mother. He couldn’t say he’d send it later because he didn’t want Ari to come back to City of God, and also because his father was sick. He went into the first shop he saw, since he didn’t have time to choose a good joint to hold up. With his gun cocked, he ordered:
‘Everyone quiet! Start handin’ everythin’ over or the shit’ll hit the fan!’
The three men drinking beer didn’t immediately obey him. They tried to talk to him. When they didn’t readily comply, Hellraiser punched the one closest to him square in the face and ordered them to put their belongings on the counter. An old woman clung to a child, begging him, for the love of God, not to do anything rash. He collected the shop’s takings for the day, the men’s money and watches, and the child’s gold necklace, then left in his own good time. He strolled down Middle Street holding his gun in his right hand, sizing up people, shops and houses. Along the way he mugged those who looked well dressed and shot a youth that looked as if he was about to fight back.
He was an outlaw in need of quick cash. In that situation he’d mug anyone, at any time, in any place, because he was prepared to confront anyone who didn’t watch their step, have a shootout with the police or what-the-fuck-ever. Everything he wanted in life he would get one day with his own hands and lots of macho attitude; he was a man through and through. He also had the strength of his pombagira, who gave him protection, because she would work some strong magic so he’d hit the jackpot when the time was right. With loads of money, the world is your oyster, you can do whatever you want whenever you want, all women are the same to a man with money, and the next day will dawn even better. The thing to do was to show up at the Salgueiro or São Carlos rehearsal hall wearing some really smart kit and fancy footgear, order beers for the boys, buy heaps of coke and go round chopping out lines for his friends, send for a shitload of weed and roll joints for the cool guys, make eyes at the prettiest black girl and invite her for a glass of whisky, order a serving of chips, toss a packet of smokes with white filters on the table, play with the key to his wheels so the bird would know she wouldn’t be hanging around the bus stop later on, buy a flat in Copa-cabana, screw doctors’ daughters, have a phone and TV and hop over to the States from time to time like his aunt’s employer. One day he’d hit the jackpot.
He turned on only the bathroom light, counted the money, checked the watches, chains and bracelets, wrapped some of the loot in a plastic bag and left it right there for that damn Ari to take, then stashed the rest under the bed. He was hungry, but wasn’t about to make himself a sitting duck for the police – he imagined the pigs arresting him while he was having his grub. He lit a cigarette, remembered he had some dope down at the bottom of the yard, rolled a joint and puffed away with the happiness of one who has fulfilled his duties.
Hellraiser had lived among gangsters since he was a child over in São Carlos. He liked listening to their stories about hold-ups, robberies and murders. Even when he passed them at a distance, he made a point of greeting them. He never refused them favours, and gladly skived off school to help the movers and shakers: he cleaned their guns, wrapped up dope and, to get in their good books, he sometimes used his own money to buy the kerosene they used to clean their weapons. When he got bigger he’d get himself a gun so he could get rich in robberies, but while he was still a kid he’d continue stealing his dad’s loose change. He never noticed anyway because he was always pissed as a fart. His mum was no fool with money – she was really sharp. He liked his mum, even though she was a gossiping, foul-mouthed slut. The happiness and confidence he felt at the time Spliff asked him to hide a revolver at his place grew a lot after Spliff was killed. That beautiful shooter had been handed to him on a platter. He treated the .38 as if it held the answer to all his problems. A wild cure-all cared for with kerosene and a longing to hit the jackpot.
After his grandmother died, Hellraiser decided he’d never be skint again. Work like a slave? Never. He wasn’t going to eat packed lunches and take orders from white guys, always doing the donkey work with no chance of moving up in life, waking up really early to start work and earn peanuts. In truth, his grandmother’s death only encouraged him to continue down the path on which he had already taken his first few steps, because, even if his grandmother hadn’t been killed, he would have followed the path that led him away from slavery. No, he wouldn’t be a sucker on a construction site – he’d gladly leave that job to the guys who arrived from Paraíba dying of thirst. The third time he did a hold-up he had a shootout with the police, but was lucky enough to come out unscathed. The idea of sweating it out on a construction site with the thirsty bastards from up north seemed more attractive, but like hell it was – the best gangsters have luck on their side. One day he’d hit the jackpot.
Not one of Hellraiser’s victims reported him; only the boy he had shot had to file a police report be
cause there had been a policeman on duty at the hospital where he was treated. Another guy who had been mugged played for Unidos, knew Hammer, and was one of the cool guys. Aluísio had come from the neighbourhood of Irajá, played tambourine with the local samba school, and studied at the same secondary school as some of the heads who hung around with Orange. He felt humiliated, so he talked to some of the cool guys and told them his story, trying to get them to side with him, or at least establish a network of sympathisers. Regardless of whatever came of that, however, he was going to do something about it. He couldn’t let a gangster give him a hard time, otherwise what would become of his life in the estate? People might think he was a wimp and he’d never hear the end of it. Things definitely couldn’t be left like that.
It was already after two in the morning when Hellraiser saw Ari out front through a crack in the window. He opened the door without making any noise and gestured for his brother to be quiet as he entered.
‘There’s money, a watch and a chain for you to sell over in Estácio. Tell mum if she wants to come, she can come tomorrow, because I’m already outta here, OK? Just tell her to say she doesn’t know me, and everythin’ll be fine.’
