City of God

by Paulo Lins

  ‘Mum, everyone’s sayin’ that Maria Rita’s going out with a guy from Thirteen.’

  ‘What’s the problem, boy? Your sister’s fourteen. She’s old enough to have a boyfriend …’

  ‘Mum, you don’t get it, do ya? The guy’s from Thirteen. He’s a gangster. People’re sayin’ she’s even smokin’ dope.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I’ve only just found out, but apparently the whole street knows.’

  When Maria Rita got home, dona Maria watched her ravenous daughter clumsily taking the lids off the pots and pans on the stove, and noted her red eyes. After heaping too much food onto a plate, Maria Rita wolfed it down, drank almost a litre of water and sat down to watch TV. She was soon fast asleep. Dona Maria waited for her to wake up and asked:

  ‘You’re smokin’ dope, ain’t ya, girl? You’re hangin’ round with gangsters, ain’t ya?’

  ‘Who, me?’

  ‘Yes, you, young lady.’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘Your brother. He heard on the street and he told me and I saw the colour of your eyes when you got home. Are you goin’ out with a gangster?’

  ‘Earthquake ain’t no gangster. He just lives near them … And my life’s none of Paulo Groover’s business.’

  Dona Maria went on and on, giving her daughter a tongue-lashing. Maria Rita got angry, hit the lamp and confessed:

  ‘OK then, you really wanna know? I have been smokin’, and the guy is a gangster, but I like ’im and that’s all there is to it.’

  Blind with rage, dona Maria flew at her daughter, kicking and punching her. Maria Rita dodged her, managed to jump out of the window and, straightening her clothes, hastened up Middle Street to her stomping ground.

  ‘Where’s Earthquake, where is he?’ she asked a group of people on a street corner.

  ‘I’m here,’ he answered, walking towards her.

  ‘My dickhead brother told my mum a load of bullshit and she beat me up … The fuckin’ bastard!’

  ‘Is he in with Knockout?’

  ‘No, he’s the biggest dickhead …’

  ‘I’m gonna get ’im for the beatin’ your mum gave you! Where can I find ‘im?’

  ‘He goes to Alberto Rangel.’

  ‘What’s his name again?’

  ‘Paulo, but people call ’im Paulo Groover, ’cos he likes discos.’

  ‘So he shakes his tail and wags his tongue? I’m gonna give ’im a goin’ over so he’ll learn to keep his mouth shut.’

  That was the end of Paulo Groover’s peace. Some days he got beaten up as he arrived and left school, so he soon dropped out for fear that the abuse would go on indefinitely. Desperate, his mother decided the best thing to do was to go to Block Thirteen to talk to her daughter’s boyfriend.

  ‘If you’re goin’, I’m goin’ too,’ said her son.

  They set out determinedly for Block Thirteen and had no trouble finding Earthquake, who was with Moth and Butterfly. The conversation got off to a bad start. Dona Maria didn’t listen to what Earthquake was saying, nor did he listen to dona Maria. Groover tried to keep everyone calm, but couldn’t stop Earthquake hitting his mother in the shoulder with the butt of his pistol and landing her a swing kick. Groover picked her up with great care and carried her far away from her aggressor. But Earthquake and his pals didn’t anticipate that Groover wouldn’t let things go.

  That very same night, Groover went looking for Knockout.

  A rumour went around that the businessman Luís Prateado had sent dozens of weapons to Knockout’s gang, including sawn-off shotguns and machine guns. People were saying that the businessman’s objective was to encourage the war, so that, in cahoots with the government, he could have the population of the favela moved elsewhere. He was planning to build middle-class residences in the region where the favela was situated, between Barra da Tijuca and Jacarepaguá, because it had gone up in value considerably over the last few years. No one knew if the story was true or false.

  Luís Cândido, the dyed-in-the-wool socialist carpenter who had once made a shoeshiner’s stool for Tiny at his mother’s request, in keeping with his Marxist-Leninist principles, thought it was all a conspiracy by the dominant class and savage capitalism against the poor and oppressed. In his daily struggle to defeat these forces at the helm of the City of God Residents’ Association, he preached: ‘The people, as one, shall never be undone.’

  The rumour reached Tiny, who dismissed it. At around eight o’clock on a cloudy Saturday, he called the gang together to launch an attack Up Top. He’d have to see it to believe it. He rounded up all the men from the Block Thirteen gang too, divided them into three groups and they headed Up Top along different paths.

  ‘Listen out for where the shots are comin’ from and run to wherever things are happenin’!’ he ordered.

  Lincoln and Monster headed up Front Street with six other policemen. Knockout and his men were testing weapons in the square on Block Fifteen. Fatso insisted they should attack right there and then, arguing that it was crazy to only go out after midnight – the Jerries had wised up and were expecting them.

  ‘There’s too many kids on the street right now,’ replied Knockout.

  ‘Fuck ’em!’ replied Fatso, and continued, ‘We’ll only do what you want, right? But gangsters can’t afford to be nice! Get it into your head that we’ve gotta take that bastard out quickly! You know we’ve lost loads more than they have … You can’t afford to worry about kids! Ever heard of strategy?’

  Fatso was pedantic in his speech. He’d finished secondary school, was white, had never lived in a favela, and felt like big noise among those illiterates. He’d arrived there on the recommendation of Messiah, with whom he’d done time. He didn’t return home because his father, a general in the Army, didn’t want anything more to do with him after his involvement in drugs: he’d been arrested at the Novo Rio Bus Station with eight pounds of dope. Messiah told him to talk to Carrots, sure the dealer would help him. Carrots took him under his wing. As a way of paying him back, Fatso decided to go on a trip to get guns. During his travels hitch-hiking around the country, he’d discovered a gun shop in a small town in the state of Minas Gerais. No one knew why, but he wouldn’t reveal the name of the place to anyone. He held up the shop and brought back rifles, revolvers and even a BB gun, which won him his peers’ respect. He started talking louder and often questioned Knockout and Carrots’ decisions.

  He dried his face with the towel he always had around his neck because he sweated a lot, then left to have a soft drink at a bar on Middle Street. He walked along with his head down for a while, carrying a machine gun and a 7.65 mm pistol. Members of the Block Thirteen gang moved in single file down the side of the street in a crouching position. Fatso saw them without being noticed and went back to warn his friends. They lay in wait on the corner.

  After checking the alley, Butterfly headed in. When he was pulled back by Two-Wheeler, he exclaimed:

  ‘The coast’s clear, man!’

  ‘How d’ya know?’

  Two-Wheeler aimed his gun at the wall and fired twice. Fatso pointed the barrel of the machine gun in the same direction and fired.

  ‘See?!’ said Two-Wheeler.

  Tiny appeared at the other side of the square flanked by eight men, while the police approached the Block Thirteen gang from behind. Tiny fired when he saw the enemy.

  ‘Cunt! Bastard!’ shouted Tiny.

  The shootout was massive. Knockout’s gang had no choice but to jump the walls of nearby houses. Knockout and Weeny took on Tiny’s men alone. Not seeing Hellraiser’s son anywhere, Weeny decided to run to where the Block Thirteen gang was also trying to jump walls, to look for him there. As soon as he saw his most hated enemy, he aimed his gun at his head and fired. Hellraiser’s son fell to the ground, dead. In the square, Knockout forced his adversaries to run for it, killing one and wounding another two. Other gangsters appeared behind the policemen. Bicky only fired so the police woul
d give his friends some respite. Lincoln returned fire and hit one in the leg, while Monster cornered one of Knockout’s men, who hadn’t managed to jump the wall.

  Eight hours later Tiny did two more raids Up Top, but had to beat a retreat both times.

  ‘Those guys really did get themselves some shooters!’ complained Tiny to Slick and Skinny.

  ‘But we’ve got more men …’ said Slick.

  ‘We need even more, man!’

  ‘We should have another talk with those parachutists and get them to join us,’ suggested Slick.

  ‘You reckon I haven’t already talked to ’em?! But they said they’d only shoot if those guys show up here.’

  ‘What about the Empty Pockets?’

  ‘I haven’t seen the Empty Pockets since that day. And if they show up in the area I’m gonna kill ’em one by one.’

  ‘We should let ’em come back, have a talk with ’em and if they join us, let ’em off the hook …’

  ‘Good idea! You’re an old fox now, ain’t ya? Someone said they’re all lyin’ low over in Quintanilha. We’ll have to send a message for ’em to come back,’ said Tiny.

  ‘Hey, go get us some food, man, off you go,’ said Fatso.

  ‘What’re you thinkin’, man? Reckon I look like an errand boy?’ asked Mousetrap.

  ‘C’mon on, pal, just do it and don’t get so steamed up!’

  ‘No fuckin’ way, man!’ said Mousetrap, getting up.

  ‘If I was Knockout or Carrots you’d do it in a flash … If you don’t go, you’ll get a bullet in the arse!’

  ‘They wouldn’t ask me in the first place!’

  Fatso pointed his pistol at the leg of the guy he considered the stupidest member of the gang. Something told him that at some stage he’d cock up, because he didn’t know how to deliver a message or count, much less read. A worm. He pulled the trigger and hit his target.

  The other villains present said nothing. They just watched Mousetrap limp over to The Sludge. Gun in hand, Fatso asked if anyone was going to side with Mousetrap. Silence.

  The next day, staring at the ground, Knockout listened to Mousetrap’s account of what had happened. He remembered the hard edge to Fatso’s voice when he’d wanted to storm Block Thirteen during the day and remembered Carrots telling him that this Fatso guy was really hot-headed, and that he should watch his back when he was around, not only because of his attitude, but also because he wasn’t from the favela and no one really knew who he was. Mousetrap showed him the hole in his leg with tears in his eyes. Enraged, Knockout sent for Fatso.

  ‘Hey, man, where’d you get off orderin’ the guy to buy you food? The guy’s one of us! You can’t go round roughin’ up one of our men!’

  ‘Get fucked! You think I’m like those kids you boss around? I’m an ex-con, man! I’m not takin’ orders from no one!’

  ‘You know I don’t like swearin’ and if you wanna stay with us you’ll have to do what Carrots and I say!’

  ‘You tellin’ me you’re a gangster and you don’t like swearin’? That’s a first … You deserve to lose your granddad, dad, mum and the whole fuckin’ lot, you know! That’ll teach ya!’

  Knockout shot him first in the stomach. Knowing Knockout was too good a shot, Fatso didn’t draw his pistols. He ran across Block Fifteen, but when he got to the other side he fell squirming to the ground, his towel wrapped around his neck. Knockout strode over and shot him three more times in the head.

  Head down, he left without looking at his gang and went to his new girlfriend’s place. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but the bastard should’ve had a bit of respect for him and shouldn’t have mentioned his grandfather or brought his mother into it.

  ‘To be honest, I reckon he had a point, you know. This thing about only attackin’ at night’s all wrong. If we show up at a time we’ve never showed up before, we might get lucky. We might even catch ’em sleepin’ …’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Might be worth a try …’

  ‘Let’s go now then! Hey, Wart! Round up the guys ’cos we’re goin’ down.’

  The eleven o’clock sun was strong. Knockout’s gang slid through the alleys. None of Tiny’s lookouts were on duty. In Block Thirteen, Slick and Night Owl were smoking dope with the other gangsters. Most of them were as high as kites and more than thirty joints were alight. Two-Wheeler didn’t notice Butterfly’s hatred whenever he gave Slick a friendly pat on the back.

  Knockout and his men were faster now. Instead of going through the Nut Cracker, they decided to take the road along the right branch of the river all the way to the end, then took the last alley parallel to the river and came out in front of Block Thirteen. They stopped, checked their guns and ran to the enemy area.

  The attack was quick; their enemies beat a retreat before they were hit and then Lincoln, Monster and eight other policemen arrived, shooting.

  A few minutes before the shootout, Renata de Jesus had been sitting in her pram looking at everyone who went past. She puckered her lips, laughed and cried, as seven-month-old babies do. Her mother tried to get her away from the front of the house, but the spray from a sawn-off shotgun arrived first and blew her head off.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted one of the policemen chasing Knockout’s gang. Bira had fallen in the rush and was picking himself up, giving his pursuer time to take aim.

  They handcuffed him and took him to the police post. Bira, a fugitive from the Esmeraldino Bandeira Penal Institute, was then accused of having raped a nine-year-old girl who lived near Block Thirteen three days before. The victim herself had gone to the Thirty-Second District Police Station, accompanied by her mother, to file a report. At the post, Bira confessed to the rape after a severe beating and then, to boot, signed a confession saying he’d murdered the baby.

  * * *

  After the death of the baby girl, there was a spontaneous lull in the fighting. Knockout didn’t speak to Carrots for two days for having supported the idea of attacking by day. A child had been killed by one of his gang’s bullets as a result. No one actually knew who had hit her, but only he, his brother, a pawn, Fabiano and Weeny had been armed with sawn-off shotguns. He wasn’t going to go along with any more suggestions he didn’t really agree with, and his remorse at having killed Fatso disappeared forever. He couldn’t accept the other death. To stop it happening again, every time they planned an attack, he sent a boy ahead of time to warn the gangs from Block Thirteen and The Flats of the day and time it would take place. Tiny laughed and told his friends that Knockout was a dickhead, because only a dickhead would tell the enemy when he was going to attack. Once, Huey warned them that Knockout was planning an attack on The Flats the following Friday at midnight. Tiny set everything up to ambush him and Knockout didn’t show, because the police had closed everything off Up Top. The next time Huey went there to pass on a message, he got three shells in the head from a sawnoff shotgun.

  ‘Wanna make some easy money?’

  ‘Only bankers make easy money, man!’

  ‘Hey, I’m serious …’

  ‘When did you start handin’ out tips-offs?’

  ‘Get rid of a guy for me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Two-Wheeler.’

  ‘What’re you talkin’ about? Ain’t the guy your friend?’

  ‘I thought so too, you know, man. We grew up together … But here’s the story: remember that day they killed the baby?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He made the death sign behind my back when we were makin’ our getaway! He doesn’t know I saw.’

  ‘But if I get ‘im, I’ll have the whole gang after me!’

  ‘No you won’t, man. I’ll give you a nice little bundle so you can disappear from the favela.’

  ‘Fuck, Butterfly. You’re not up to somethin’, are ya? I ain’t got nothin’ against the guy, OK? You know I don’t take sides – I don’t want no enemies. I bet he told you to tell me this story to test me! Didn’t he?’

  ‘I’m not fuckin’ aro
und, man!? I’ll give you ten thousand cruzeiros to take ’im out.’

  Double Chin thought a bit and took a drag on his cigarette. He realised it had gone out and lit it again with his lighter, took a long drag and squeezed his nose. His movements were slow.

  ‘OK, but I want five thousand up front.’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  Butterfly fished a plastic bag full of money out of his jocks, took out five thousand cruzeiros and handed it to Double Chin, urging him to act fast.

  Double Chin had never held so much money in his hands and his look of happiness was genuine. If he killed Two-Wheeler, he’d have double the amount. He thought he’d struck it lucky, because only a week earlier he’d been released from a five-year prison sentence, the second he’d served. It really was his chance to start a new life. Double Chin knew all the tricks of the trade, not because he’d been involved in crime since he was a kid, but because he’d learned them in jail. He’d been caught red-handed in the only two robberies he’d tried to pull off.

  ‘What’s up, Two-Wheeler? Feel like a puff?’ asked Double Chin two hours later.

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Let’s go this way ’cos the filth’ve just headed down to Block Thirteen …’

  ‘On foot or by car?’

  ‘On foot.’

  ‘I’ve got some stuff here too …’

  ‘Is it from here?’

  ‘Yeah, from the den.’

  ‘I’ve got a brick … it’s from Padre Miguel.’

  They left the Nut Cracker. Double Chin went ahead. Two-Wheeler broke up some weed, tore the paper lining out of his packet of cigarettes, cut it into a rectangle, placed the weed in the middle and rolled the joint. Double Chin scanned the entire square behind Leão supermarket, didn’t see anyone familiar, let Two-Wheeler go ahead of him, took his .38 from his waistband and shot him three times.