City of God

by Paulo Lins

  Hellraiser asked Bahian Paulo for a shot of Cinzano-and-cachaça and told him he was going to teach Francisco a thing or two. He glanced up and down the street to see if the coast was clear, and ordered a peach cocktail for the grass, like the heroes in cowboy movies. Francisco realised Hellraiser was there when he was being served. Wary of his gesture, he avoided looking at him and got ready to run. The next second he began to doubt whether he should run or not. Perhaps Hellraiser only wanted to find out what had happened and everything would be alright after a talk. He’d heard many locals say that no one escapes a good chat. But, come to think of it, those guys were always serious when it came to business – he should be hotfooting it out of there. He worked out what path he’d take, breathed deeply and took off. Hellraiser, however, was faster. He headed Francisco off before he’d rounded the second corner.

  ‘What’s up, man? Turnin’ your nose up at the drink I bought you?’

  ‘No. It’s just that I was on my way out already … um … um …’

  ‘What you all worked up about? Relax, ’cos I just wanna talk …’

  ‘I … I … I …’

  ‘I my arse, man! You’re a fuckin’ grass!’

  ‘But … but … but …’

  ‘But my arse! Let’s head over there for a chat, I’m not gonna do nothin’ to you, don’t worry,’ said Hellraiser, pointing at the square on Block Fifteen with his gun.

  Francisco had no choice but to follow his orders. Hellraiser thought about White, his friends who’d had to spend time away from the favela, Hammer and Cleide’s lost furniture. Francisco didn’t hear the dogs barking or the sound of the record player coming from the Bonfim, which gradually became inaudible to Hellraiser too. In the square, a child holding a baby was waiting for his mother, who was on her way home from work. The fearful sometimes puff up with courage when they become overly nervous. Francisco thought about his wife, his six children, the letter he’d sent and the death looming before him. Hellraiser’s voice ordering him to recite a Hail Mary made him bold enough to jump on him in an attempt to grab the gun. His murderer dodged him and sent a bullet into his forehead.

  He fired another three shots into the body already in the throes of death; eyes rolling, arms flailing. Blood ran down Francisco’s forehead. Hellraiser took twenty cruzeiros from the corpse’s pocket and the watch from his wrist and returned downhill along a different path to the one he’d taken on his way up. The child holding the baby took the opportunity to filch Francisco’s shoes.

  ‘Wanna see a stiff? Just take a spin Up Top.’

  ‘You sent him off to meet his maker!’ exclaimed Pipsqueak.

  ‘I even landed myself some dough and a ticker – I got lucky! We’d better lie low now, ’cos soon the pigs’ll being showin’ up, man,’ said Hellraiser, heading for the counter for a shot of Cinzano-and-cachaça. Perhaps a drink would slow his racing heart, pulling him out of the terrain of remorse and leaving him only with the glory of having done in a grass.

  He downed the shot, lit a cigarette and insisted on paying the bill. The kids were looking for a skin so they could roll a joint. Pelé and Shorty were playing a game on their last pool chip. Black Carlos arrived, saying there was a fresh stiff over by The Flats. It had happened while some thieves were splitting the loot from a robbery. One had wanted a bigger cut for having cased the joint and ended up getting killed by his partner.

  ‘Time for us to disappear, man. I just finished off the grass Up Top!’ said Hellraiser to Black Carlos.

  They all headed off in different directions. Hellraiser thought about going to Berenice’s house. He was sure she’d calm him down, but it’d take some cheek to knock on her door at a time like that. He decided to sleep at his new place.

  All of the bars in the estate closed their doors. At the police post, Officers Jurandy and Marçal were asleep on the second floor. Downstairs, Corporal Coelho was reading The Texas Kid Comes Back to Kill. Over at The Flats, the thief’s mother lit seven candles around her son’s body, removed the gold chain and Saint George medal from around his neck, recited the Lord’s Prayer, a Hail Mary, the Creed and sang a song to Ogum:

  Father, father Ogum,

  Hail Ogum of Humaitá.

  He won the great wars.

  On this earth we salute

  The horseman of Oxalá.

  Hail Ogum Tonam,

  Hail Ogum Meje,

  Ogum delocoh kitamoroh

  Ogum eh …

  Outside, grasses deserve a beating, but in the favela they deserve to die. No one lit a candle for Francisco; only a dog licked at the dried blood on his face.

  When the rainy morning arrived, people on their way to work went over to the corpses to see if they were anyone they knew, then went on their way. At around nine o’clock, Boss of Us All, who had clocked on at 7.30, went to see the thief’s corpse. When he pulled back the sheet covering the body, he concluded, ‘It’s a gangster.’ He had two tattoos; on his left arm was a woman with her legs spread and her eyes closed, and on his right arm was Saint George, the warrior saint. He was still wearing Charlote flip-flops, tapered trousers and a colourful T-shirt made by prisoners. At the other end of the square on Block Fifteen, however, when his steps brought him to the image of Francisco’s body, a slight nervousness in his policeman’s heart grew unchecked until it turned into all-out despair. The stiff belonged to a worker. Burning hatred seeped through his pores in a cold sweat. He suspected it was a fellow countryman. His suspicion did not betray him, for when he examined the dead man’s ID he saw that he was from the state of Ceará. His anger was renewed and the flame of revenge kindled.

  He asked around the area for information. Nothing. He headed down Middle Street, turned the corner behind the church and decided to cross the Rec. He stopped at corners, giving some people a frisking, others a punch in the face. Those who took off running got bullets – if they ran it was because they’d done something wrong. He appeared on street corners believing he was an exposed high-voltage wire. He was the thunder in the rain that was falling, he made the squares shudder, stretched the alleys – he was Boss of Us All in a fury, ready to avenge the death of a fellow countryman. Any gangster that crossed his path would die mercilessly. Before he reached Block Thirteen, he ran into two other policemen, who decided to accompany him.

  Pipsqueak raced down Front Street on a bicycle trying to get to Block Thirteen before the police. As he turned down the street where the Short-Stay Houses were, he ran into Niftyfeet strolling towards the bus stop.

  ‘Hey, man! That fuckin’ pig’s lost it and he’s headin’ down this way. I’ve come to warn the boys. Where’s Hellraiser?’

  ‘He must be at his place. Know where it is?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So nip over there to let him know.’

  A few minutes later, Pipsqueak and Hellraiser were hiding out in the Big Plot, a vacant lot near the exit on the road to Barra da Tijuca, while Boss of Us All broke down doors on Block Thirteen and fired at windows. The old woman who lived with her grandchildren threw an aluminium plate at his head, and he responded with a shot, which hit her youngest grandchild in the leg. Boss of Us All swore at the top of his lungs and knocked over bins. Killing a worker was really fucking unfair … The poor guy must have come to this hole of a big city for the same reason he had, and those niggers had finished him off like that. He broke down Lúcia Maracanã’s door and saw her lying there, completely naked. Lúcia pulled the sheet up over her breasts and her eyes gave off a false sense of calm. For a second, Boss of Us All was relieved of his hatred as he admired her strong body, but he quickly got a grip on himself.

  ‘Where’s your fella, you black bitch?’

  ‘I ain’t got no man, and you can’t just go bustin’ into people’s places like this. And you know – that’s why I don’t like the fuckin’ Military Police! Especially fuckin’ northerners!’

  Boss of Us All set into her with punches and kicks and Lúcia retaliated by biting him, but he managed to seiz
e her.

  ‘Let go of me, you filthy northerner!’

  Outside, the other policemen were firing repeatedly at Pelé and Shorty, who jumped through the window of the house in which they had been sleeping, turned down an alley, took a right and crossed the Prospectors’ rehearsal square with bullets whistling past them. They cut across Main Street to try to get to Red Hill. Boss of Us All joined the chase, but he and the other policemen were losing ground with every pace. Each shot that echoed in the fugitives’ ears was in fact making their feet go faster. They were enjoying the situation. Later they’d tell their friends every detail of the getaway. They remembered Bonanza, Buffalo Bill and Zorro. From time to time they zigzagged like the heroes on TV. It was a shame the action wasn’t on horseback like in films, and if they’d been armed they’d have ambushed their enemies from behind a tree to finish them off. They were good with marbles and slingshots, and with revolvers they left nothing to be desired. They climbed Red Hill and headed into the bush. The police tired of chasing them.

  Down on Block Thirteen, the commotion spread from alley to alley. Some wanted to file reports, while others said they’d rather stone the policeman next time he appeared in those parts. Frightened, the children ran to The Other Side of the River to calm down under trees, in the lake, the pond … Housewives shouted, and news of the previous night’s murders spread from mouth to mouth in the drizzle of that sinister morning.

  The residents went to see the cadavers. A drunk amused himself by uncovering the grass’s face for each person who came to have a peek. The afternoon teachers heard about what had happened from the children. The hearse arrived at around three o’clock. First, they removed the worker’s body, then the gangster’s. Boss of Us All passed through Block Thirteen from time to time.

  ‘Here comes that bastard!’ people warned.

  The residents took to the streets. They said nothing, just watched the policeman’s steps. Boss of Us All combed alley after alley. When he left, he was hissed and sworn at. He fired shots into the air and swore back.

  In the Big Plot, Hellraiser ate the bread and mortadella Pipsqueak had brought him. He knew he had to stay there until the following day. Boss of Us All would only clock off at 7.30 the next day and Detective Beelzebub might show up at any moment.

  ‘I’m going to Lúcia Maracanã’s to rustle up some blankets so you can grab some sleep right here, OK man?’ said Pipsqueak.

  ‘Good plan! While you’re at it stop by Teresa’s and get me a joint … And pick up a pack of Continentals without filters over at the Bonfim, and if there’s time get my .38 from the top of the water tank, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Got some money?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Go for it!’

  Hellraiser shook the branches of the tree to get rid of the rainwater. Using a stick, he made a small ditch to divert the water from the place where he wanted to roll out his mat. He thought about Cleide, Hammer and Squirt; they’d undoubtedly hear about the grass on the news. They wouldn’t be turning up any time soon. A mixture of happiness and pain tore through his chest. Killing always brought back memories of the murders he’d witnessed throughout his life. It was always the grasses, the smart-arses, those who had their greedy eyes on other people’s things and women who bit the dust. There were those who were unlucky enough to die at the hands of the police or in hold-ups. He’d always heard gangsters talking about victims who retaliated – they deserved a faceful of lead, but those who handed everything over without trying anything smart … a gangster should at least leave the dickhead a little something to catch a bus with. ‘The only ones that actually die are the fuckwits who cock things up for other people … No … I’ve seen heaps of nice guys die, done in by their pals while splitting the loot from robberies, or ’cos of schemin’, tight-arsed bitches or bar fights. There’s even back-stabbers who’ll kill a man for nothin’ just to get a reputation for bein’ mean.’ The fact that he’d lived his entire life witnessing murders for one reason or another relieved him of his pain that was not pain, because he imagined the news spreading that he was the one who had killed the northerner. He’d be feared more by other gangsters, the cool guys, the grasses. He liked seeing people afraid of him and laughed on the inside when someone crossed the street to avoid him, or when he asked someone a favour and other people offered to do it to get in his good books. One day he’d be the most famous gangster in the place. He thought about meeting Boss of Us All head-on to settle the score with him. But no… He’d be buying himself a headache for the rest of his life. Killing a pig was like signing your own death warrant. The whole battalion would take to the streets until they killed the man responsible. The thing to do was lie low until the next day, especially since Beelzebub hadn’t shown up yet. He might be preparing a surprise attack.

  The rain left for good. A waning moon appeared in the sky behind the Grajaú Range. The silence of the night calmed him, as it had done since he was a boy. The crickets were chirping. If it hadn’t rained, he could have sat by the river’s edge, but the river was full and its banks were neck high in mud. He got the spot ready for the night. Pipsqueak arrived with everything he’d asked for and then left, saying he had a headache. Hellraiser ate the food Lúcia Maracanã had made him and smoked a joint. He hoped the night would pass quickly. The next day he’d see Berenice and surely find out whether she’d decided to be his girlfriend. He’d have that tasty black arse every possible way. She seemed like a nice girl. He needed a woman to cook for him, wash his clothes and fall into his arms whenever he wanted. He believed she’d accept his offer; she’d given him the come-on at Black Carlos’s place, had insisted on serving him and had even flashed her legs at him. This had to work, as it was the only way he’d forget Cleide.

  He thought about the grass again. The scene of his last breath came back to him like a poke in the eye. He wished he were like Niftyfeet, who only stole far from the area, without attracting pigs, grasses and enemies, but this business of catching buses every day like a sucker was fucked – going around looking for a good joint to do over wasn’t his thing. The best was to hold up a big shop and go for a long time without having to worry about money … Stealing from gringos was too hit-and-miss. He remembered Pipsqueak’s plan. If all went well, he could furnish his house and there would still be a decent amount left over. People who go to motels don’t go there skint, especially on a Saturday, the day to spend money.

  The night brought a mild chill. Hellraiser covered himself, trying to get to sleep, but the mosquitoes stopped him from dropping off. His thoughts roved through the alleys of the estate, in a constant state of transformation. Families continued to come from Rio de Janeiro’s different favelas and neighbourhoods to the houses built around squares on vacant plots. Who were those people? Would any other gangsters be coming? Over at The Flats there were already loads of them, as well as on The Other Side of the River. No one would be more respected than he was. He’d bump off anyone right then and there who tried to throw their weight around. This White Hand guy only worked in the Baixada region, so he didn’t have to worry about him. The danger was that cunt Boss of Us All and Detective Beelzebub, but all he had to do was try and lie low on the days they were on duty, or always have some dough in his pocket; people had already told him that they both accepted hush money when there was no one else around.

  Pipsqueak arrived at nine o’clock with bread, coffee in a Coke bottle and news of everything that had happened in the last few hours. While he ate, Hellraiser discovered that everyone already knew it was him who had killed the grass. Boss of Us All had prowled around all night long, busted Mango and Orange smoking dope, and told Orange’s sister to rustle up two thousand cruzeiros, otherwise he was going to press charges. Pelé and Shorty had only shown up after the police had changed shifts. Detective Beelzebub hadn’t shown his face yet and that wasn’t a good sign; he might have changed his hours and could show up out of the blue.

  Hellraiser hurried back to the estate. He w
anted to go through how they were going to hold up the motel: who was going to stay out front; whether they were only going to hold up reception, or do the guests as well; whether they should call in one more partner; when they were going to case the area; where they would run to after the operation …