by Paulo Lins
When he arrived there he found his wife lying on the sofa sobbing helplessly. If the bastard hadn’t been armed he wouldn’t have got past the front gate. He would have been man enough to floor the guy once he got his hands around his neck. He’d save up to buy a revolver and waste that evil bastard, that scum of the earth. His wife insisted they return to Paraíba as soon as they could. All they had to do was sell everything they had and take off. He didn’t have the courage to ask what the bastard had done to her. Several times he wrenched his eyes away from the rumpled bed. He filled his glass with cachaça and downed it in a single gulp, repeating his promise of revenge with every minute that passed. He felt like shit for not having stood up to the thug, gun and all, but it was best not to make trouble. Squirt’s hour would come. His wife wept uncontrollably. The pain she felt was greater than her husband’s. She never imagined that she would one day sleep with a man that way, much less have anal sex. She had pretended she was enjoying it to save her and her husband’s lives. Those thugs killed mercilessly. It was almost morning when they made up their minds to return to Paraíba as quickly as possible. Her husband would work until the end of the month, and meanwhile they’d sell their things.
Squirt wanted to rustle up a stack of money so he could throw a party for his friends; a top-notch spread on the day of the final of the Rio Football Championship. With any luck, Flamengo would thrash Botafogo with a shitload of goals. He’d buy ten wraps of coke and ten or so bottles of imported whisky to celebrate Flamengo’s victory. He wanted to get back in with his friends; he hadn’t seen much of them since he’d made his pact with the Devil. He didn’t need partners in hold-ups, but he knew they were true friends, although the next time one of them tried to stop him from sending a soul off to the Beast he’d have to get tough – he’d show them that things could get ugly. He had an obligation to send a soul to hell every Monday. He’d get rich, he wouldn’t be killed by a bullet, the police wouldn’t see him and false friends would become sitting ducks in his path.
Now he had to pull off a big job, hit the jackpot once and for all. He stayed home all morning. He cocked and uncocked his gun several times, practised firing while lying down, ran through the backyard as if exchanging fire with someone chasing him, practised target shooting with his left hand only – driving his neighbours crazy – and put the rest of his ammunition behind the fridge to warm it up. He repeated seven times that he was the son of the Devil, then hurried into the streets, straining to think of a place where there was lots of money. In front of Batman’s Bar, he saw Orange hightailing it to Main Square.
‘How’s it goin’, Orange? Know where I can land myself a decent wad?’
‘Look, man, I’m in a hurry. I ain’t got time to shoot the breeze!’ he called back without slowing his pace.
Squirt didn’t answer, but made a note to kill him one Monday. Orange had found out a few minutes earlier that his brothers and sisters had rushed their mother to the emergency ward. Unconcerned about Squirt, he ran to the other side of the square, jumped into a taxi and took off.
Squirt wandered on. He didn’t bother to look around, much less behind. He took the same route as Orange. He sat on a bench in the square, taking in the tiniest details of the afternoon. He remembered the woman from up north; he’d have her whenever he wanted. The wind blew on his face; the sun warmed his body from the mild cold. He saw a bus go past carrying only the driver and conductor, and in a split second realised where there was plenty of money. He’d hold up Redentor Transport. He got up and headed for the taxi stand. If the driver didn’t lend him the car without a fuss, he’d regret it. It was probably even best to kill someone to distract the police, and while they were busy he’d do the job.
He was crossing the street when he heard the sound of a car crash. Something made him head towards the scene of the accident. He fired two shots into the air. After frightening away the onlookers, he searched the car and took the gold chain from around the driver’s neck. He was already beginning to come around, so Squirt thumped him over the head with the butt of his gun so he’d keep sleeping. He found a revolver in the glove box, along with cheque books and a pocket watch. He was already a few steps back into the estate when he decided to go back and have a look under the seats, where drivers usually hid their most valuable objects. It didn’t take him long to unearth two bundles of US dollars. His smile travelled on the wind and scattered itself with the sunlight in the eyes of those watching from afar. He thought out loud:
‘The Devil writes crooked with straight lines! Just as well that Orange hadn’t stopped to talk. He might have suggested some worthless little dump.’
He strolled down Main Street, turned into the street where Batman’s Bar was and cut across Blonde Square. Over in Main Square, the Military Police had gone to the driver’s aid. No one dared say a word about what had happened. The lamp-post had been knocked but hadn’t fallen, and there was a cut in the power supply.
‘Hey, Squirt! What’s up, naughty boy?’ shouted Lúcia Maracanã.
‘Fuck! I was just thinkin’ about you … Can you hide this for me?’
‘Fuckin’ hell!’ exclaimed Lúcia when she saw the dollars.
‘Take some for yourself and if you see Hellraiser or Hamm …
‘Hammer’s over there playin’ footy,’ said his friend pointing towards the Rec.
By the time he found his pal, the game had finished. They lit up a joint. Minutes later they were at Batman’s Bar playing the best of three at pool. Squirt saw Orange going into the pharmacy. His desire to kill the dope head was rekindled, but he’d leave it for a Monday. He had never actually liked that little shit. He thought he was tough just because he smoked a bit of weed. Who was he to say he didn’t want to shoot the breeze? Not even the gangsters gave Squirt any backchat. Orange’s fate was tucked away in the barrel of his gun. Squirt lost the game because he wasn’t concentrating.
The week flew past for the gangsters. A friend of Hellraiser’s gave him a good tip-off. He told him that the wages for the construction site he was working on always arrived at lunchtime in a yellow Opala with only two guards. It was easy money. On Saturday, Hellraiser went alone to hold up the construction site and everything went according to plan – he even got the guards’ guns. That afternoon, he sent a boy over to fetch ten wraps of coke from the favela of Salgueiro. He spent the night snorting with his friends. They were still at it at daybreak. Squirt sent another boy to rustle up another ten wraps, and they carried on into Sunday night. At around four o’clock in the morning the cachaça-and-Coke ran out. They went into the late-night alleys looking for a bar that was open.
‘Only Noel’ll be open at this hour,’ said Hellraiser.
He was right. Only Noel’s Bar was carrying on into that moonless night, along with a few drinkers.
‘We’ll have a cachaça-and-Coke,’ said Hammer.
Noel poured the cachaça and Coke into the three glasses he’d just placed on the counter. Hammer asked for two one-litre bottles of Coke and a bottle of cachaça, and said he’d return the bottles the next day.
They went back along the river to Hellraiser’s place. Real gangsters never take the same route twice. Gangsters only pass once. Gangsters are always on their way. Along the way they ran into a guy who was always sucking up to gangsters. The dickhead was smoking a joint on a corner and insisted they have a puff. He wanted to be a gangster, but didn’t have the courage. He talked like one, dressed like one, hung around them whenever he could, did them favours, ran errands. Those who didn’t know him thought he was one. They smoked the arse-licker’s weed. The trio listened to him saying that the police had shot at Green Eyes Out Front, but the dope head had been smarter than them and had slipped away through the alleys. When Squirt heard the name Green Eyes, he remembered Orange. He tried to bite his tongue, but couldn’t help himself and said:
‘Hey, when you see that Orange, tell him I’m gonna finish him off!’
His friends asked why. Squirt just answered that h
e had his reasons. They finished the joint and went home for another snort.
Monday dawned bug-eyed. The friends couldn’t seem to go their separate ways. The only thing to do was to send for more, since everyone had enough money to snort shitloads. Hammer hadn’t done any jobs, but he’d worked all week on the construction of a garage in the neighbourhood of Araújo. He wasn’t flush, but he had enough to have a laugh.
Berenice woke up and went straight to the bathroom. She got washed and dressed and left the house saying she was going Out Front to wait for a friend who was coming to visit.
By early afternoon, Squirt was completely out of it; when he tried to stand he almost ended up face down on the ground. He’d snorted the entire morning, drunk cachaça-and-Coke and sent for a bottle of whisky, which was already half-empty because he was showing off in front of Berenice’s friend. Those who drink whisky have money. His headache outweighed his drunkenness, but he still trotted out a few old sambas accompanied by Hammer’s badly played tambourine. From time to time he ogled Berenice’s friend, who returned naughty smiles. She was the only reason Squirt was still there. And she, in turn, was waiting for him to jump her bones, as she had also taken an interest in him.
Somewhere around five o’clock in the afternoon, he put the moves on her. She was receptive. They left and went straight to a motel on Catonho Road. It was already eight o’clock by the time Squirt managed to have sex, then he had a quick bite to eat so he could return to the mulatta’s body. There he stayed, completely forgetting the pact he’d made with Lucifer.
Squirt left the motel worried. By the time he’d remembered Satan it was already after midnight. It was the first time he’d let the Beast down, but he didn’t think he’d have a problem with the Lord of Hell, he’d sent him extra souls on several occasions. The night was deserted. He got out of the taxi Out Front. He walked quickly down Main Street checking his shooters. Orange and Acerola were having a beer at Batman’s Bar. Squirt was only a hundred yards from seeing them. As he passed Orange’s house, he thought about breaking into it and killing the little shit in his own bed, but like hell he would! It’d be better to kill the northerner and grab his wife for good. He’d fuck her little arse whenever he wanted. He’d force her to live with him, because women were like dogs – they got used to their new masters with time. He wouldn’t let her want for anything at home and would send her to the beauty parlour every weekend. Women liked money and stiff dicks. The bitch had shimmied around eagerly on his cock the first time. She’d enjoyed herself, otherwise she wouldn’t have come. He passed Orange and Acerola without noticing them. He was walking so quickly that at times he practically ran. The Devil was a cool guy – he’d see that he’d lost track of time, but had come through the very minute he’d remembered their pact.
He turned into Middle Street with his heartbeat faster than his steps. He was a man through and through, because he’d just had the mulatta and now just the thought of the girl from up north was giving him another hard-on. He’d have both of them. He crossed over the right branch of the river, without seeing anyone or anything that caught his attention. He opened the wooden gate without a sound, then walked slowly over to the electricity meter and turned it off. The cold that night made it difficult to manipulate the wire he used to open the living-room window. First he stuck his head in, then the rest of his thin body. Inside the house only the silence bounced off the walls. Squirt thought he was doing everything perfectly. When he opened the bedroom curtain, he saw the woman asleep by herself. He went back into the living room and went through the other rooms. No one. He went back into the bedroom. First he stroked her legs, his dick exploding in his jocks, then bent over to nibble at her neck. She writhed about in the bed, murmuring softly. Squirt placed his gun on the bedside table and began to undress. Without even opening her eyes, the woman tossed and turned in the bed, making him all the more excited, then her husband dropped from the rafters holding a knife. The first stab tore into Squirt’s left lung, the second, into his right one. The third, fourth and fifth tore his heart to shreds. The others had no effect; they represented nothing more than the fury of revenge fulfilling its destiny.
Only Lúcia Maracanã went to her friend’s funeral; otherwise Squirt would have been buried without tears. His pals were afraid the police might raid the cemetery. There were no drums at his wake, no street-corner games, drinks, dope, coke, no promises of revenge. Squirt’s parents only found out about their son’s death eight days after he had been buried. The northerner returned to the state of Paraíba with his wife. He told people he’d finished off a local bastard with a knife.
The days passed, leaving traces, piles of memories, allowing unfulfilled hopes to die along the wayside. Mineiro, a friend of Hammer and Hellraiser, gave them a good tip-off: he told them his friend worked the till in a steak house on Taquara Square.
They made plans for the following Sunday. To get a car, Hellraiser had to kill its owner. The steak-house robbery went off without a hitch. They took off slowly so as not to arouse suspicion, but went faster and faster as they headed up Gabinal Road. It occurred to Hammer to dump the car and head down through Quintanilha, but his friend would say he was a big wimp, a worrier, jinxed even. They reached the end of the road without running into any trouble. Their feeling of success made them laugh. Hellraiser said he’d get a friend to strip the car, to rustle up some more dough. They followed the river to steer clear of the police station and turned down the road that ran along the right branch of the river. Happiness must be experienced intensely, so they headed for Teresa’s to buy twenty bundles of dope to celebrate. Everything was going according to plan until a Robbery and Theft Squad car spotted them. At first Hellraiser didn’t accelerate and they didn’t even glance at the policemen to avoid looking obvious, but their ploy was in vain.
The police followed them. Hellraiser changed into second and went as fast as he could, weaving in and out of the streets of the estate with machine-gun fire tearing into the rear of the Opala. It was impossible to return fire. They gained ground on Middle Street, dumped the car in the New Short-Stay Houses, passed the Two-Storey Houses and made it to the bush. The police split up. Two stayed to examine the abandoned car, while the other three went after them. Hellraiser and Hammer didn’t open their mouths in the bush. They trained their minds on the exus that protected them. The minutes passed slowly while their hearts pounded, but the time it was taking the police to come after them put an end to their tormenting nervousness. Hellraiser’s thoughts took off down several paths, but Hammer’s followed a single line:
‘I’m gettin’ out of this life once and for all. If I don’t I’m gonna kick the bucket or get screwed in the slammer. This crime business is for nutters.’
Hellraiser came out of hiding an hour after the chase. Hammer tried to convince him to wait a little longer, but his friend ignored him. He stayed there alone until daybreak; he didn’t want to risk running into the police. At around nine o’clock, he slowly climbed down from the tree he was in, stretched, took a leak and started walking. He wanted to find Cleide so he could tell her he wanted to leave that place for good. He was a good bricklayer and could get a job whenever he wanted. He wanted to live in peace, have a kid and be happy with his wife. No, it wasn’t fear he felt – he’d never been a coward, just cautious. It was just that this life of getaways and murders had become a pain in the arse. He spent the morning weaving his way through alleys until he reached Middle Street, where Boss of Us All was walking along with his machine gun cocked to take out no-goods. The policeman had heard what had happened when he got to work. His determination to kill any gangster at all had nothing to do with the robbery. The murdered car owner had been his friend. Again, a desire for revenge gathered and smouldered in his heart. He correctly figured that the gangsters had already come out of the bush, so he walked down one side of the pavement alone, to attract as little attention as possible. Hammer never thought he would run into the police at that hour, imagining that both Military
and Civil Police would be changing shifts. There were children playing in the alleys, others going to school, and people on their way to work that morning. He watched a boy walking along in front of him. His son would be as beautiful as that boy, but he wouldn’t let him run around barefoot in tattered shorts and no shirt. He’d bring his son sweets every day when he got home from work. The fresh morning breeze caressed his face, made his thoughts soar. His gaze followed the tips of his toes with each step. He didn’t check the alleys and was unconcerned about danger, since he no longer considered himself a gangster. A dog barked. The reformed gangster clicked his fingers and the dog wagged its tail. He noticed some shame plants on the ground and went over to touch them with his foot, causing their leaves to close. Everything that happened to him was good and seemed to be converging towards a happy ending. The herons flew in the light, dry wind that whistled and sighed through the bare branches of the trees and blew across his face, giving him the impression that everything that had been bad in his life until then would leave with it. Boss of Us All strode along the opposite pavement with the jauntiness and eye of a killer, an attitude and expression that were typical of him. He had already crossed over the right branch of the river. He wanted to catch Hellraiser and Hammer together. They were the thugs who kept him on his toes most. There was a guy called Luís Sting who also had to be taken out so he could have a bit more peace and quiet. But wasting any gangster at all would be fine that day. He’d bet the other police officers that he’d kill one before noon. Passers-by veered away when they saw him. He stopped to tie his boot, then continued, quickening his step, peering around corners before crossing intersections. Up around the Bonfim he slowed his pace, swept his eyes over the area and only saw a few drunks. Luís Gonzaga’s voice on the radio calmed him a little. The sun burned his face.
