City of God

by Paulo Lins

  The traffic flowed down Gabinal Road towards Barra da Tijuca beach. Hundreds of cars went past on sunny mornings. Highwayman and his friends had piled up dozens of paving stones by the edge of the road. They did this because they only had two revolvers. They knew Tiny could give them a hard time for staging a hold-up there, but feeling they had no alternative, the nine Empty Pockets threw the paving stones at nine cars all at once, then waited for the drivers to lose control so they could hold them up. They smashed in the heads of a man and two women, killing them in their first and only attack, and took everything they could in a matter of minutes. Everything had been planned by Highwayman, who’d got up early and left home forever the morning after he was beaten up by his stepfather for arriving home with no money. He’d started sleeping at friends’ houses or on the street. He didn’t join Tiny’s gang because he didn’t like taking orders. Of the five revolvers he’d got in a house robbery, Tiny had confiscated three. The plan was to hold up the cars, head through The Flats to the bush, and come out at Quintanilha, where Tube, another gang member, had rented a shack. Otávio spied them during the getaway. At gunpoint, he made them stop, took them behind Building Seven, took the loot and money from the hold-up as well as their two guns, and hit the kids his own age. Satisfied with his work, he let out a little laugh. He ordered them to put their noses against the wall and their hands up until Tiny got there.

  Two hours of shooting in the alleys Up Top. Tiny killed another of Knockout’s allies. There were now fifty of his men against thirty-five hiding in the bush. The superiority of Tiny’s gang in terms of weapons grew with the Block Thirteen gang on their side. His men fought with two revolvers each. Slick had a machine gun, Tiny had the rifle, and his five main soldiers had the sawn-off shotguns. In the bush, some of Knockout’s men were taking turns with a single revolver. Even Knockout beat a retreat. The only man killed was riddled with almost one hundred bullets in the Soviet-style attack that Tiny so enjoyed: the whole gang stood around the body and fired two bullets all at the same time.

  News of the tragedy on Gabinal Road tore through the favela. Tiny decided to stay in Block Thirteen, because The Flats had been surrounded by the police. Otávio let the Empty Pockets go and went home to lie low.

  Vítor, Leaky Tap’s assistant, announced Out Front that the dealer had a sawn-off shotgun for sale and would sell to the first buyer. One of Knockout’s neighbours, who was having a beer, overheard Vítor talking to one of the gangsters from Block Thirteen. The guy told him he’d have to wait for Slick or Tiny to wake up before he could talk to them, because they didn’t like to be woken up. The neighbour, a working man with a family to support, had never been involved with villains or drugs, but when he learned of the tragedy Tiny had caused Knockout, he sympathised with him and wanted him to win, although from a distance. But this was very valuable information and he thought it best to let Knockout know as soon as possible. He knocked back his last glass of beer in a single gulp, paid and repeated what he’d just heard to the first of Knockout’s men he saw. Knockout lost no time. He and Carrots went to The Other Side of the River and bought the gun.

  That same day, Knockout headed downhill with Carrots and Mousetrap. The idea of taking Block Thirteen had grown on him, and he knew how important the area was to his objectives. He had two pistols in his waistband and carried the sawn-off shotgun.

  Over in Block Thirteen, Buzunga had just sold two wraps of coke to Old Pal, who’d arrived from a hold-up and was now strolling down Middle Street.

  ‘Who’s over in the den?’ Carrots asked him.

  ‘C’mon, man, don’t ask me that kinda thing! It’s between you guys, right? I’m no go-between!’

  ‘Don’t worry!’ said Knockout.

  They entered a square parallel to Block Thirteen and observed the enemy area for a while. Knockout was anxious to go in but Carrots insisted on waiting, so they waited a little longer and invaded Block Thirteen when it was deserted, at two in the morning. Some of the Block Thirteen gangsters were sleeping, while others were down at The Flats. Only Buzunga was there, hoping to sell the five wraps and ten bundles that were left quickly so he could go straight to a motel with his girl. There he’d spend every last penny, because that’s where he most liked spending money. It was good, really good. All you had to do was pick up the phone and the stupid waiter brought you chips and a cold beer. He’d never be a waiter – they reminded him of rich bitches’ maids.

  He looked around, chewing his lips because of the coke he’d snorted, and thought about his girl. He’d set aside some dope to smoke at the motel to counteract the effects of the coke, which were ill-suited to nights of lovemaking. But everything was different after a joint: fantasies took form and anyway, he’d never seen a tastier piece of black arse. If he weren’t such a man he’d come quickly. As he’d learned from talking to other men, he’d think about something else when he was about to come. He could hardly wait. Although he was snorting, his penis moved in his jocks. He’d have her little arsehole again. He opened another wrap of coke. When the time came he’d give it to her good – he was a man through and through.

  Carrots signalled to his partner that the guy was his, then took aim and held his breath, as one should, and fired. Buzunga jumped up and ran. He turned down Miracle Street, took the third alley and regretted it. In front of him an enormous wall blocked the alley. He couldn’t go back. If he’d known there were only three of them he’d have exchanged fire without a worry. He dropped everything he was holding and tried to jump the wall, but failed. He was going to make it; all he had to do was steady one of his feet for support and he’d be OK, since he’d already managed to get a grip with both hands. Knockout took aim, waited for him to swing up and blew his spine to pieces. Buzunga fell with his head facing one way and his feet facing the other.

  ‘That’s how you shoot a gun!’ he said in a serious voice.

  ‘Let’s get outta here, c’mon …’

  ‘Hang on!’ said Knockout, taking the cocaine, dope and pistol.

  Buzunga’s body appeared in every newspaper in the Rio metropolitan area. According to the press, City of God had become the most violent place in town. The conflict between Tiny and Knockout had been labelled a war. A gang war between drug dealers. The daily atrocities were always in the papers and terrified those on the outside, who could only follow the conflict through the media. Newspapers sold out early and the audience for news programmes and specials on the subject increased dramatically in the favela. Besides massaging the gangsters’ egos, puffing them up with all the fame and the fear they caused, these programmes were a rich source of information. It was through them that the gangsters knew about police suspects and their ways of dealing with the situation. There was no better barometer for assessing how much the press and the police knew.

  Tiny gave the green light for muggings, rapes, the charging of tolls and theft in the enemy area. In response, although Knockout didn’t approve of it, his men did the same. The two zones were delineated; even those who had never been involved in crime could be killed at any minute, just because they lived in this or that zone. Anyone could be related to the enemy, or a friend, which is why they couldn’t allow the free passage of residents between one area and another. The armed lookout standing there in broad daylight was now more necessary than ever – just as much as the night watch. For the locals, heavy weapons became a part of the landscape. Friends no longer got together, and relatives couldn’t pay each other visits. Keep your nose clean and your head down. That’s what they said.

  ‘Hey, you guys’ve been with me for ages, right? You’re my pals and you’ve never done wrong by me. I been thinkin … Slick’s got his own den and I’ve got two here in The Flats, right? So look – go ahead and set up your own dens ’cos that’s fine by me, OK? Dope is sellin’ well, and soon we’re gonna kill that Knockout and I’ll be able to put a den Up Top again.’

  ‘But where can we put a den?’ asked Russian Mouse.

  ‘Wherever, OK? Where
ver you think is best.’

  The next day Russian Mouse’s den was up and running in the Old Flats and Bicky had one in Red Hill.

  * * *

  ‘Why’d you go and do that, man? You know a den in Red Hill’s gonna set me back, you know I …’

  ‘He said I could put one wherever I wanted, right? I thought it was the best place and that’s where it’s gonna stay!’ said Bicky to Slick that night.

  ‘I’m just tellin’ you what I think, man. I’m not lookin’ for trouble, OK?’

  ‘Fine, but if it’s trouble you want you’ve got the right man! The den’s stayin’ there, no matter what.’

  Slick fell silent, as was his habit, gave his partner a shifty look, left without shaking his hand and turned into an alley. He cocked his gun and crept back, imagining Bicky pulling the trigger on him from behind. Halfway down the alley he turned back; the bastard might go around the block and surprise him from the front.

  Bicky watched everything from the roof of a house.

  ‘Go ahead and get rid of ‘im, man! If he’s gonna make life difficult for us, get rid of ‘im. I can do it if you want!’ said Butterfly, believing what he was saying, although he’d never killed anyone.

  ‘He’s a fighter. If we lose ’im now, it’s one less that might kill Knockout.’

  ‘Forget it, man! Knockout’s gonna bite the dust any day now! That Bicky’s not such hot shit.’

  ‘Leave ’im … When he thinks he’s winnin’, we’ll take ’im out … I’m gonna head home. Get the money, put Two-Wheeler in charge and go get a stash of coke from Tiny. I’ll pay ’im later.’

  ‘Two-Wheeler went to check the lookouts over in the Rec.’

  ‘Call ’im back and put ’im in charge,’ finished Slick with his usual seriousness.

  Butterfly watched Slick walk down Middle Street until he reached his house. He wondered if Two-Wheeler was going to replace him as manager. He could see him trying to get closer to Slick, his readiness to steal, his shrewdness in combat. It wasn’t the first time Slick had sent him on an errand on which he might get caught, leaving Two-Wheeler in charge of the den. Slick could even be setting him up to get caught. He knew that if Slick and Tiny were finished off, he’d be the owner of the den in Block Thirteen. He wasn’t about to let Two-Wheeler take his place. He did as he’d been told, and took his time about it. Two-Wheeler’s excitement at being in charge of the den, if only for a short period of time, irritated Butterfly. The biggest bicycle thief in the favela slung the machine gun over his shoulder, sent Earthquake and Wildcat to the corner outside Dummy’s Bar, sent a seller to work near a square behind Block Thirteen, called in three more lookouts, told them to tell customers where the seller was, and ordered the whole gang to stay together precisely where the drugs were being sold.

  ‘Why do we have to stay here?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed the Jerries only come through there and there?’ he said. ‘So next time they’re gonna change their route.’

  Butterfly returned from The Flats, hid the cocaine at his place, had dinner, then went to Two-Wheeler and told him his set-up was wrong. Two-Wheeler tried to justify it. Ignoring him, Butterfly went about redoing everything. He fired two shots into the air to get the attention of the lookouts on the corner outside Dummy’s Bar. They turned to look and he waved them back to the den. Two-Wheeler rolled a joint. He was peeved and didn’t really understand Butterfly’s attitude. When it was time to hand over the money he kept almost half of it for himself, just to provoke Butterfly, and gave his friend a caustic smile.

  * * *

  The night was slow. A fine rain came and went, whipped by a strong wind. Knockout had already spotted the lookout at the Rec. He was alone. He stood on the street corner, waiting for a way to pass without being noticed. He was lucky. A truck came slowly down Middle Street. He stepped back, jumped on to the truck, told the driver to speed up and thought about jumping off when he reached a place where he couldn’t be seen, but decided to keep going. He got off near the square where Two-Wheeler had placed the lookouts and hurried over until he was very close to Block Thirteen. He fired the sawn-off shotgun twice, hitting one of Slick’s men right in the head. He took out his pistol and waited for someone else to appear. Butterfly came out shooting his pistol. Knockout crouched down and returned fire, one of his bullets grazing his enemy’s leg. He retreated without being followed.

  When Two-Wheeler saw his friend’s head blown almost completely off, he sent Earthquake to get the machine gun and took off running along the river’s edge. He didn’t slow down at corners and ran like the Devil. He went into Block Fifteen, didn’t see anyone, and headed for The Sludge. Deserted. He decided to go to the Two-Storey Houses but he ran into Knockout’s gang when he turned the first corner, and sprayed the air with machine-gun fire. He returned to Block Thirteen, leaving his enemies dumbfounded as they counted one dead, two wounded and a lifeless passer-by.

  He arrived at Block Thirteen dripping with sweat, and reorganised the gang so that all routes in were under surveillance. Butterfly secretly hated him, unable to say a thing.

  ‘Why didn’t you give Night Owl a den?’ Slick asked the first time he was alone with Tiny.

  ‘Night Owl’s a drinker, know what I mean? He’d make a mess of things, but from time to time I’m gonna give ’im a bit of hush money … You had a misunderstandin’ with Bicky, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sure thing, man! So many places to put his den and he went and stuck it right next to mine … It’s not right!’

  ‘Don’t get so steamed up – soon we’re gonna take out those guys Up Top and set up some dens there … Hey, let’s see if there’s any news from the slammer. The guys are back from their visit,’ said Tiny, changing the subject.

  They headed for the shops, where a few people were drinking beer. There was only one message for Slick: Skinny, a friend he’d made the first time he’d gone to prison, was about to be released and had asked him to find him a place to stay. He couldn’t go home due to constant threats from old enemies he’d made in the neighbourhood after he’d killed two members of the same family. Before his friend spoke, Tiny said:

  ‘Send ’im over. We’ll find ’im a place to crash …’

  ‘Thanks. He’s a good guy!’ said Slick.

  After five years in prison, Skinny arrived in the favela to swell the ranks of Tiny’s gang. Tiny shook his hand, looking him straight in the eye. From the guy’s face, he judged him to have balls and, to attenuate the clash between Slick and Bicky, he told him that he and Slick could set up a new den in The Flats. Skinny eagerly snorted the line of coke chopped out by Tiny to celebrate his freedom. They hung around talking until Skinny, drunk on beer and brandy, was taken to Tiny’s house, where he fell asleep despite an excruciating headache.

  The dead passer-by was an uncle of Sparrow’s friend Gabriel. In the heat of the moment, seeing his mother’s brother lying on the ground, Gabriel swore revenge. He forgot his vow soon after the funeral, but his brother Fabiano, a private in the Army, went looking for Carrots to ask him for a revolver.

  ‘Look, I can’t give you a revolver, man, but you’re one of us, right? The guys’ve been abusin’ heaps of folks, man! But we’re gonna get ’em, OK? D’ya know Knockout?’

  ‘I’ve seen ’im around …’

  ‘I’ll introduce you!’

  ‘Great.’

  The news that Fabiano had joined Knockout’s men spread among those who were not connected with either gang. A couple of friends tried to convince him to drop the idea of revenge, but he was determined. When he heard that Fabiano had become a gangster, Dé became scared – he’d had a fight with him in the past over a girl, and now he might want to kill him. At the time, he’d beaten up Fabiano, broken one of his teeth, given him a swollen left eye and twisted his right arm. And it was all Bete’s fault for having gone out with both of them. He’d never got caught up in anything more serious than street fights. Now what was he going to do?

  ‘Get out of the fave
la, man! The guy said he was gonna take you out!’ lied one of his friends, just to add fuel to the fire.

  He was up shit creek. From that point on he changed his ways. He dropped out of school, broke up with his girlfriend, and didn’t dare leave the house for anything in the world. He asked his father to go to the Navy to find out about joining up. If he got in he’d go and live for two years at the barracks in Espírito Santo, enough time for Fabiano to be killed or put in jail. He made plans.

  ‘Enrolments have closed, son.’

  One Friday sometime around noon, the shootout in Block Thirteen began: Knockout and thirty men invaded the Short-Stay Houses. Dé climbed onto the roof of his house and saw Fabiano firing away with a .38. He was sure that if his former friend saw him he wouldn’t forgive him. He’d have to get his hands on a revolver as soon as possible, to defend himself.

  After hearing him out, Slick decided to lend him a revolver and told him he didn’t have to go into combat Up Top. His sole function would be to defend him and his partners when the enemies attacked. That way everything would be fine.

  Weeny, the son of the grass murdered by Hellraiser, was invited to join Knockout’s gang, but refused. Tiny had never harmed him and he wasn’t interested in getting involved in other people’s fights. But when Carrots told him his father’s killer’s son was in the Block Thirteen gang, he decided to accept the invitation. He became a cruel thug, developed a taste for killing his victims when they had no money, raped women in the enemy area and mugged people in the favela at any hour of the day or night. In his first attack on The Flats, he took out a Jerry with a .32-calibre revolver, and in the second, he wounded Night Owl in the leg. He was daring enough to attack alone and considered himself master in the art of surprising the enemy. Meanwhile, in Block Thirteen, Hellraiser’s son felt obliged to be as dangerous as his father had been. His mother Berenice, now an alcoholic, encouraged him when there was nothing to eat in the house, saying his father had never taken shit from anyone and had never let her go hungry. Outside of the home, both Tiny and Slick exaggerated Hellraiser’s feats in the world of crime in the hope of making his son a perfect soldier.