City of God

by Paulo Lins

  The buses didn’t leave until midnight, with red-hot samba, lit joints and lines of coke on the backs of wallets. At Portela, Tiny only paid for what he ordered. He’d already provided dope and coke and wasn’t going to spend any more money. Russian Mouse and Bicky, who’d pulled off a good job in Seca Square, were the ones who ordered beer and whisky for their friends and the cool guys.

  It wasn’t for lack of supporters that Big Voice and Little Bird’s samba didn’t win, because in addition to the supporters from the favela, the composer had others who’d attended every day of the competition to get Portela’s rehearsal hall buzzing when Big Voice’s samba was played.

  ‘OK, I know I was cheated, but thanks for the help,’ Big Voice said to Tiny when the final results came out.

  ‘You headin’ Up Top?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do us a favour and take this stuff over to Teresa – these layabouts here are all sleepin’. And if you see Sparrow there, tell ’im to nip over here,’ said Tiny.

  Against his will, Lourival took the supermarket bag full of bundles of dope, hung it on the handlebars of his bicycle and pedalled off. Tiny watched the boy leave and then, at the top of his lungs, told him to keep five bundles for himself. Lourival gave him the thumbs up and headed through the main streets with the vague certainty that the police wouldn’t stop him; this danger only existed in the vicinity of the den. He prayed for everything to work out. He’d get in Tiny and Sparrow’s good books.

  Pretending to be calm, he rode slowly down Edgar Werneck Avenue. He turned into one of the main streets without any problems, but when he got to Middle Street, he almost flew into a panic when he saw the police officers Lincoln and Monster. He was now too close to them to turn around and the only thing he could do was to keep going as if everything was normal. It was probably even better to pass by as closely as possible, to show that he was cool. This occurred to him in a matter of seconds. He pedalled quickly when he felt that the policemen were far enough away, took the first alley after the Bonfim, crossed the square in Block Fifteen breathing a sigh of relief, turned into another alley pedalling more slowly and reached The Sludge.

  ‘What’s up, Teresa!?’

  The old woman looked through a peephole and turned to Sparrow, who was counting money in one of the bedrooms:

  ‘It’s one of them playboys you hang around with.’

  ‘Let ’im in, let ’im in.’

  Lourival proudly told them how he’d passed by the police unnoticed. Sparrow patted him on the back and told him he’d always known he was bad.

  ‘Wanna smoke a joint? Tiny told me to take five bundles …’

  ‘Take ten and give five to Katanazaka. I’m not gonna smoke, ’cos I’ve gotta take this money over to Tiny.’

  ‘The pigs’re around… .’

  ‘Where was it you ran into them?’

  ‘Over near Administration.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Just Lincoln and Monster.’

  ‘Ah, if they give me a hard time I’ll pull the trigger on ’em. I’m outta here. I’ll head over to Katanazaka’s later.’

  Sparrow took the street along the river on his Caloi 10 bike, the money rolled up in a plastic bag in his jocks. Steering with his left hand and holding his .38 in the other, he pedalled fast. As he drew near the State Water Department bridge he heard Lincoln’s voice ordering him to stop. He went even faster. When he heard the police firing at him, he decided to put his gun in his waistband so he could steer better, but he fell and hit his head on the ground. He tried to get up, but his leg hurt. His only option was to throw the money onto the riverbank and, using gestures and threats, he told a boy standing nearby to take it to the den after the police had gone. He also got rid of his gun and limped through the first gate he saw, his head, legs and arms bleeding. Everything was spinning. He fainted and woke up in the cell at the police station.

  ‘Are you Tiny or Sparrow?’

  ‘Neither!’

  ‘Go on and admit that you’re Tiny, boy! Who is it that sends us money?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘You work?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I do odd jobs.’

  ‘Look, if you’re Tiny, you might be able to get off … You know you’ve got two arrest warrants out on you … If we get some dough we’ll put you back on the street,’ negotiated Lincoln.

  ‘Get the Identikit picture,’ Monster told another officer.

  ‘It’s in the drawer and Linivaldo’s got the key.’

  ‘So you’re not Tiny or Sparrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘Marcos Alves da Silva.’

  ‘Nice name!’ said Lincoln ironically.

  ‘Why were you carryin’ a gun?’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You think I’m stupid, man?’ said Monster, kicking him in the back.

  ‘Stick ’im in the cell. From what I saw in the picture, he’s Sparrow.’

  Sparrow went into the empty cell, sat on the ground and punched the wall.

  ‘That’s Sparrow, man. See the tattoo on his arm? He’s got a tattoo in the picture.’

  ‘Is there an arrest warrant out on ‘im?’

  ‘Yeah. Remember Beelzebub brought his brother in last week?’

  ‘Did you know Beelzebub’s been suspended?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was on the radio today.’

  ‘What’d he do?’

  ‘He hung a worker in the cell.’

  ‘Beelzebub’s totally crazy, isn’t he?’

  ‘I reckon he’s fucked now …’

  Sergeant Linivaldo came on duty the next day. He recognised Sparrow immediately, although he looked quite different from the first time he’d been arrested, accused of stealing money from the till at the bakery where he’d worked before becoming a shoeshiner. Still a minor at the time, Sparrow had sworn adamantly that he wasn’t the thief, but he was still beaten up every day for the three days he spent there.

  That was when he’d vowed to become a villain when he grew up, and give the police a real reason to beat him up.

  In the afternoon, Sparrow was transferred to the Thirty-Second District Police Station. He was charged with several murders.

  During his first day at the police station, Sparrow stayed in a cell by himself. His physical pain was slight now – only his conscience hurt intensely. If he were a painter like his brother Benite, he wouldn’t be locked up. If he pleaded guilty to the crimes he’d committed with Tiny, he’d be put away for the rest of his life. He cried with his knees pressed to his chest and his arms around his legs.

  It was dark. No sound reached his ears. He’d been afraid of silence and the dark ever since he was a kid, because when the two occur at the same time it’s a sign that a ghost might appear. A tortured soul was surely coming to take him to hell. He curled up even tighter, hung his head, thought about God, and tried to recite the Lord’s Prayer, but gave up after getting it wrong twice. He thought about the schoolfriends he’d left behind in Vila Kennedy, where he was born, his first teacher, his father, who had died when he was still a boy. His memories came to him in a jumble, ignoring the precise chronology of his life.

  Then his thoughts turned to the Boys, who were going camping during Carnival. He had to get out before then so he could spend a week near Patrícia Katanazaka. One day he’d pluck up the courage to tell her what he felt for her. If she wanted, he’d buy a house in Saquarema, Cabo Frio or even Barra da Tijuca so she could see her beloved ocean every day; he’d buy everything just to see that gorgeous little smile of hers.

  He’d discovered he was in love with Patrícia when he heard she was going out with a playboy from Freguesia. The news, which came from the mouth of Álvaro Katanazaka, had destroyed his peace of mind, and he’d excused himself from his friends so they wouldn’t see how upset he was. Until then, he’d thought it was only lust that he felt. When he got out of there, he’d tel
l her what he really felt for her and, if she agreed to be his girlfriend, he’d give Fly the boot. He thought about his mother back when he’d first turned to crime. The poor thing had been desperate. She’d gone out after midnight to bring him home, made vows to the Virgin, her blood pressure was always high, and she’d gone around the house crying all the time. She thought everything would have been different if her husband hadn’t died. He bitterly regretted being a gangster. He was going to go straight.

  ‘Man, in ten years’ time no one’ll be able to stop us. You could even stick the Army and all the police on the street, and we’d still be stronger, you know! First we’re gonna take the prisons. When guys get caught they know they’re gonna cross paths with us and if they don’t do things our way, they’re dead,’ Mango told Jackfruit, Orange and Acerola on the corner outside Batman’s Bar, at around 7 a.m. one Monday morning.

  ‘Where are you now?’ asked Jackfruit.

  ‘I’m managing over in Santa Cruz … The den there’s selling fucking loads, but it’s not like here, know what I mean? The whole gang gets money, everyone gets some dope and coke to sell and the manager gets fifty per cent. The guards get something on the side too. You shoulda seen what happened last week: I was drivin’ the Passat in the square … half asleep, ’cos I’d spent the night in a motel with the boss’s wife,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Then suddenly, two police cars came into the square from the other side. I had a pistol, a .38, a bag of coke this big and for sure they was gonna give me a goin’ over. I made tracks, the cops started shootin’, a bullet hit the back window … All I felt was the car shakin’ from the fuckin’ gunshot. They shot holes in all four tyres and I got the hell out of there, the chick in the car bawlin’ her eyes out. But I got lucky, I went down an alley, put my foot down, dumped the car, grabbed the chick by the arm, broke into a house, slipped through the back and scrammed. My .38 fell on the ground, but I went back and got it … Shit, man, it was a close call!’

  ‘Did you really go back, man?’

  ‘You reckon I’m gonna leave my .38?! I ain’t seen another .38 like mine, man. Those knocked-off bullets that don’t work in other .38s are like popcorn in mine. Mine’s never let me down. You reckon I’m gonna give ’em my .38 on a silver platter? Hey, I’m gonna leave some stuff with you guys and I’m off, OK? I’d take you, but you ain’t no-goods, know what I mean? I’m not even gonna bother invitin’ you. Only the heavy guys go there. I know you guys are laid-back, but if you’re ever dyin’ for a fix, just take a spin over there, ’cos it’s fine, OK?’

  Mango took a small bag of coke from his pocket, gave it to Orange, shook hands with his friends and got in his car. Before he got to Main Square, he beeped his horn at a friend and a couple of women. He drove calmly, as he knew the police rarely stopped anyone at that hour. Clean-shaven, wearing a suit, dark glasses and a wristwatch, with neat hair, a 007 briefcase and documents to show he was self-employed, no one would bother him. He headed straight for Santa Cruz.

  In the main square of Santa Cruz, people hurried past on their Monday errands and children in school uniform were everywhere. He had to wait in the square to receive eight pounds of cocaine. He pulled the car over in front of a bar, handed his weapons to the owner to hide, and walked to a street corner with his hands in his pockets. A little boy, also wearing a school uniform, walked up to him, asked him what time it was, then took three steps past him, pulled a .38 out of his school-bag and shot him in the back three times.

  In a house not far from there, when he heard the three gunshots, the owner of the Santa Cruz den said ironically to his wife:

  ‘Your lover’s dead!’

  The boy walked calmly away from Mango’s body, went into the den owner’s house and received fifty thousand cruzeiros for his work.

  Hit-and-Miss arrived in City of God one night after midnight, barefoot, shirtless, covered in scratches, dirty and ravenous. He went straight to his cousins’ house, where he finally relaxed. He and five other prisoners had escaped from the police station where he was awaiting trial. His aunt didn’t want to talk to him, and only let him have a shower, eat something and get dressed. Outside, one of his cousins told him that Carrots had got himself up and running again. The fugitive went looking for his friend. He was going to help him.

  ‘If I go over to Realengo, I’ll pick up some cheap stuff for you,’ said Hit-and-Miss after Carrots had given him thirty cruzeiros. He went on:

  ‘Thanks for sendin’ me them funds over in the slammer …’

  ‘I didn’t send anythin’, man … The money was yours – right?’

  ‘Some bastards don’t send any, know what I mean? But you did the right thing by me.’

  They stood there in a corner of the square in Block Fifteen talking about Tiny’s gang. When Hit-and-Miss heard that Sparrow had been caught, he laughed heartily and swore that one day he’d kill him. Carrots frowned at him and said:

  ‘If you kill ‘im, you’ll be killin’ the nicest gangster in the favela.’

  Hit-and-Miss went quiet for a while, took the paper lining from a packet of cigarettes and cut it. Carrots put a bit of dope on the paper, Hit-and-Miss rolled the joint and they smoked it, making small talk.

  A new day dawned and a north-westerly breeze was blowing, bringing with it a mild chill. The den assistant, who’d remained quiet most of the time, counted the money, took his cut, handed the rest to Carrots together with the remaining drugs and left.

  ‘Feel like a snort?’ asked Carrots.

  ‘A little pick-me-up before headin’ over to Realengo’ll do me good.’

  ‘Your mum lives there, don’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not goin’ to her place. I’m gonna find a pal who did time with me … He’s been out for a while, but he always sent me money while I was inside, dope, coke … He told me to go see ’im when I got out and he’d give me a hand.’

  They snorted the coke in an instant.

  ‘Thanks. Later on I’ll bring you some good weed for the den,’ said Hit-and-Miss.

  Less than two hours later Hit-and-Miss was in Realengo. He knew it was more dangerous for a fugitive to walk around there than in City of God, but he was friends with the gangsters he’d met in jail and, since his friend knew a good supplier, he’d surely give him a few pounds of dope on sale-or-return as he’d promised. He’d get the drugs and get out of there as quickly as possible.

  The transaction with his friend was over faster than Hit-and-Miss had imagined, but he’d only have a day to pay for the top quality weed. He was also given the money to take a taxi to Cascadura, but thought he’d be better off taking a bus. Taxis were for whites. He believed that blacks who took taxis were either no-goods or at death’s door.

  He gave his friend the weed, got paid and decided to have a beer to celebrate. In addition to the beer, he had a few shots of whisky and some fried sausages. He talked loudly in front of his cousins, said he’d fucked more than one dickhead in prison, remembered the good old days, and improvised a samba. Completely drunk, Hit-and-Miss saw Sparrow’s sister go past and, pretending he didn’t know he’d been arrested, said:

  ‘Tell Sparrow I’m gonna do your place tonight and I’m takin’ down whoever’s there: women, children, the fuckin’ lot …’

  Sparrow’s sister arrived home in tears and had to drink a glass of sugar water before she could tell her brothers what had happened. Edgar, Sparrow’s eldest brother, also an armed robber, decided to send the rest of the family to their aunt’s house. Edgar prepared himself in every possible way for an encounter with Hit-and-Miss, who drank late into the night, was carried out of the bar by his cousins, and slept at his aunt’s place. When he woke up, he had only a vague recollection of what had happened.

  Enraged, Edgar went looking for him as soon as it was light. Although he wasn’t friends with the men in Tiny’s gang, he complained to a couple of them who’d asked him what was going on when they saw his gun cocked. Soon, Tiny’s entire gang was looking for Hit-and-Miss, who luckily
managed to get out of the favela unscathed.

  On the bus, Hit-and-Miss panicked when he realised he’d either lost money or spent too much. He even wondered whether his own cousins had robbed him. The worst thing of all was not having a gun, and he had to sort one out urgently so he could hold up a joint and settle his debt.

  Three days later, Hit-and-Miss got a gun from Carrots in an escapade that ended in the favela. He’d held up a petrol station and was now at home alone with his aging mother, Margarida, who was short-sighted and suffered from asthma. He didn’t listen to a word she said. He’d woken up in the middle of the night and was in the kitchen frying himself an egg. Afterwards, he was going to settle his debt. He heard a noise outside, immediately thought it was the police, ran to the bedroom, opened the window and jumped into the backyard.

  A fine rain was falling that night, the streets were deserted, and the streetlamps were weak and far apart. He slipped over the fence into the neighbour’s backyard and jumped the back fence with his lithe, long legs. The intruders called out his name.

  ‘Antônio, someone’s calling you,’ said his mother, giving him away.

  When he didn’t reply, his mother walked over to the door saying her son had been there just a minute before but had disappeared. The man who’d sold him the dope, believing his mother was involved, opened fire against the flimsy wooden door. Hit-and-Miss’s mother was hit several times.

  Hit-and-Miss heard the shots and ran faster. He didn’t notice a Military Police car in an adjacent street. Without shouting that he was under arrest, the police shot at him and he returned fire. When he realised he was almost out of ammunition, he decided to turn himself in.