City of God

by Paulo Lins

  Nothing in a favela goes unnoticed. There is always someone who sees and tells. The law of silence works only for the police. Slick went out to comb the favela just minutes after Two Wheeler’s death. Together with the brothers of the dead man and another four men, he was going to make a mess of Double Chin, who by that time had already met Butterfly in a prearranged place. He had already received the rest of the payment, shaken the traitor’s hand and was just leaving when Lincoln and Monster announced that he was under arrest.

  ‘That one there robs buses. He had more than five thousand in his pocket! And this guy’s one of Tiny’s mob,’ said Monster, pointing out Double Chin and Butterfly for the journalists milling around the police post.

  Butterfly and Double Chin were placed next to two other prisoners to have their picture taken. Butterfly covered his face with his hands, while Double Chin lowered his head.

  ‘Go ahead and take ’em to the cell,’ said Lincoln.

  ‘No, let’s leave ’em here – the car’ll be here soon to take ’em to the station.’

  ‘Can I go to the toilet?’ interrupted Double Chin.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No, not prison again! You fuckin’ cunt, Monster! I’m outta here, I’m outta here …’ thought Double Chin.

  Certain the police wouldn’t fire in the presence of the journalists, Double Chin dodged sideways, pushed Butterfly at them, took the first left when he reached the street and got a bullet in the neck.

  ‘I want cars, man, but new cars, the newer the better, this year’s models, OK? For every car you bring me I’ll give you five pounds of dope and three of coke. It’s better for me and you, know what I’m sayin’? It ain’t gonna cost you nothin’ and I’ll make more money,’ Tiny’s supplier told him one Friday night.

  ‘Deal.’

  The supplier got into his car, accompanied by two civil policemen, and headed up to Carrots’ den, where they struck the same deal. They then visited Rio de Janeiro’s twenty other dens and made the same proposal.

  That same day, Tiny issued an order for all stolen cars to be left in the vicinity of the abandoned mansion with the pool. There was a huge area of dense forest where the police didn’t go, and should one of the gangsters see the police heading that way, they were to fire a shot into the air to distract them and stop them finding the hiding place, as Tiny had instructed.

  The very first day he went out to steal cars, Skinny got three, and the following day he got another four, which encouraged the rest of the gang. But three of Tiny’s men were caught redhanded and, the next day, two more were killed by the Civil Police after a long chase.

  Skinny’s run of luck stealing cars continued. After a time, the supplier came to deliver the drugs near Building Seven, and Tiny divided them into equal parts, even though he hadn’t been pressured to do so. Skinny looked Russian Mouse straight in the eye and tossed him two pounds of dope and one of coke, saying he was a good guy. When Bicky realised he wasn’t going to get anything, he turned his back on them, stroking the handle of his pistol.

  The following week, the supplier came back to call off the car deal. Things hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted, as he’d had to fork out an arm and a leg to the Federal Police to get across the Paraguayan border with the cars.

  Marisol, Daniel and Rodrigo were the only ones of the Boys who still hung around together and carried on getting tattoos, wearing hipsters and perming their hair at home, even though the Boys thing was coming to an end – disco fever was all the rage now. They hadn’t become involved in the war, and only did robberies. They had several types of screwdrivers, pliers, crowbars, saws, knives and pistols to help them break into houses and cars. They kept their tools and weapons in a guitar case and went out to do their jobs as if they were going to a party.

  It worked because they were white, didn’t attract the attention of the police and didn’t arouse suspicion in places frequented by whites. Marisol didn’t blow the money he got. He used it to fix up his house, then bought a car. They continued until they were able to open a bar and give up crime.

  Of the many houses in which he could hide, Knockout had chosen Brickie’s place that day. Brickie left him alone, which is what he wanted. He sat on a bench, his tears splashing down onto the rough cement floor. The forty-watt light bulb barely lit the small room. The smell of cooking oil, the still cobwebs. Since there wasn’t a breath of wind, no little hand dared move to show the passing seconds. All was still. He was a criminal, a killer, the creator of a gang, a person who led youths astray. This wasn’t why he’d learned to pray when he was a child, this wasn’t why he’d always been the best student at school, this wasn’t why he’d kept to himself in the favela. His diploma in physical education had gone down the shithole, as had his honeymoon with his loved one after he’d witnessed Tiny’s penis pounding into her like a bulldozer, his grandfather’s bloody body, his house riddled with bullet-holes, Steak-and-Chips’ mother picking up the scattered pieces of her son’s head from the warm asphalt. More tears welled up. He had the awful feeling he hadn’t prayed enough for God not to abandon him, and felt fury taking root in every pore of his body. He didn’t sleep that night.

  The next morning Knockout heard that Slick was in the habit of going to parties at Skinny’s friend’s house in Cruzada de São Sebastião. Both Skinny and Slick went almost every Saturday night, stayed until sunrise, then on Sundays went to the beach in Leblon. A friend of the family had seen Slick at the council estate at weekends. He’d kept an eye on the gangster without him noticing and, as soon as he knew his movements, had given Knockout the lowdown. Carrots had always said that Slick was as dangerous as Tiny and that, if they managed to kill him, they’d knock the wind out of the Block Thirteen gang’s sails. Knockout gave his friend a phone number to call if he saw the enemy in Cruzada de São Sebastião, and the phone rang the very next Saturday.

  ‘I’m comin’ with you!’ said Fabiano. Fabiano drove the car slowly while Knockout kept his head down to avoid the police, because he thought that two men in a car would attract attention.

  It was ten o’clock at night, the sky was full of stars and the moon was in its last quarter. The Leblon nightlife enchanted Fabiano.

  ‘Get up, get up … Check out all the gorgeous girls!’ he said, driving slowly.

  They watched the colours of the Leblon night. Perhaps that really was normal life – young people just like them intoxicated with a happiness they themselves hadn’t felt in a long time. The cars, the clothes, the lights … They thought nothing in the world was worse than poverty, not even disease. They stopped at some traffic lights and a black boy offered them a Sunday paper. Fabiano shook his head, the lights turned green and they only drove off when the cars behind them honked their horns. They saw a police car parked at a corner and suddenly reality returned. Their reason for being there became clear again when they saw the .38 in the holster of the policeman leaning against the car. They sped off towards Cruzada.

  Slick, Skinny and Footy were snorting coke on the stairs of a building in Cruzada. They were talking about Bicky, who thought he was hot shit and was always sucking up to Tiny. He’d really put his foot in it with this business of setting up a den near Block Thirteen. Perhaps they could take him out during a raid and blame the enemy.

  ‘Let’s wet our whistles, then go to the party,’ said Footy after he’d snorted the last line.

  ‘Where?’ asked Slick.

  ‘In the bar on the corner over there. The guy pours a mean shot of Jack Daniel’s.’

  ‘That’s really good whisky.’

  ‘Let’s leave the shooters at your place.’

  They hid their guns, went downstairs, turned left and headed into the bar. Fabiano parked the car on the next street. They retrieved their two 45s from inside the torn upholstery of the back seat, put them in the back of their waistbands and headed into Cruzada.

  Over in the square on Block Fifteen, Paulo Groover was counting the takings from the sale an assistant had just made. He ran to
the bin, grabbed a new stash for another assistant, then headed back to the square where the enemy usually appeared; he was on lookout duty that Saturday. If he saw one of the enemy, he’d fire his gun to warn the rest of the gang who were scattered throughout the area. He reached a corner and saw the police in a poorly lit alley. He steadied his gaze, cocked his gun, waited for them to pass beneath the only lit streetlamp, decided they were customers, and relaxed.

  Inside the estate, Fabiano and Knockout kept apart. The samba was sizzling in the best-lit corner of the third building, and a little further on there were two dealers selling only cocaine. One of them asked Fabiano how many wraps he wanted.

  ‘Three,’ he said emphatically.

  The other asked Knockout the same question.

  ‘Just one.’

  Then Skinny appeared on their right, sauntering along with his arm around Footy, with Slick to his left. Knockout subtly signalled to his friend and positioned himself behind a customer. Fabiano followed. The trio’s steps were drunken and they were speaking louder than normal. They were off to have some fun at the party and pick up some hot chicks. They were less than a hundred metres away when the man in front of Knockout moved. The avenger drew his .45.

  Bicky, Tiny and Russian Mouse were chatting at Tim’s place. Tiny was sorting out gold chains from rings, bracelets and earrings. He wrapped them in paper, then filled a chest with the packages, saying he was going to hand it all over to a friend who could be trusted. Bicky remained quiet for a time, staring at a point in space.

  ‘What you thinkin’?’ asked Tiny.

  ‘I’m thinkin’ ‘bout Skinny … I’m pissed off with ‘im! He bought a brand new car, you know? He’s always loaded, and he don’t come Up Top with us no more, know what I’m sayin’?’

  ‘The guy’s thing is hold-ups, man!’ said Russian Mouse.

  ‘Hold-ups my arse. He’s got his den in the best spot here in The Flats! D’you know his den sells more than all the rest together? You really handed it to ’im on a platter!’ said Bicky.

  ‘You’ll have to sort that out with him, OK? In fact it ain’t even with him, it’s with Slick, know what I’m sayin’? You’re my pal, but you know Slick is too,’ said Tiny, opening the door with the chest of gold on his back.

  Groover didn’t recognise the policemen and waited for them to pass so he could take another look from the next corner. He started creeping along the wall, but stopped suddenly when he heard the police cocking their guns.

  ‘If you lift a finger you’ll bite the dust right where you are! Don’t turn around.’

  To Groover’s relief, Oswaldo handcuffed him. It wasn’t the enemy – better to be arrested than to die.

  ‘Where’s Knockout?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘You can tell us, ’cos we’re not after him, OK? Don’t you know he used to teach us karate down at the barracks?’

  Groover shook his head.

  ‘Well then! We wanna have a word with ‘im. Tell us where he is!’

  ‘Look, I don’t think anyone knows where he is, know what I mean? Some days he disappears, then he shows up again, then disappears again … He’s gotta watch his back.’

  ‘If you were to tell us, we’d let you go, but since you don’t wanna help … Off we go, off we go.’

  Groover was placed in the police post’s only cell, where he found himself face to face with Blubber. Both of the same age and build, they glared at one another. Groover tried to keep as far as he could from his enemy. Blubber laughed, said he was going to beat the shit out of him, and flew at him in a flurry of punches and kicks. Groover didn’t know how to fight, as he’d never hung about on the streets, where you learned. Blubber, on the other hand, was adept at swing kicks, dodging, and hitting his opponent’s vitals. It only took five minutes for Groover to black out.

  Thinking they were armed, Knockout didn’t take perfect aim. He moved too fast, not wanting to give his enemies time to draw their guns. The first bullet got Footy in the forehead, then he fired the others at Slick, who rolled back and forth on the ground. He emptied his gun at them. Skinny ran into a building, kicked down the door of a flat on the third floor, went into the bedroom, opened the window and got ready to jump if they came after him. While Knockout reloaded his pistol, Fabiano pointed his gun at the dealers and took their drugs and weapons. Slick had time to follow Skinny, but went into a second-floor flat. Knockout and Fabiano backed away firing, jumped in the car and returned to City of God.

  Footy’s brother awoke suddenly to his youngest sister’s screams and ran downstairs. When he saw his brother’s head blown open, he threw his arms around his bloody body and stayed that way until the morgue van arrived.

  * * *

  Slick’s brothers swelled the ranks of the Block Thirteen gang, just as Knockout’s younger brothers swelled the ranks of his. Brothers, cousins, uncles, all manner of relatives and friends of gangsters joined one gang or another because they felt obliged to avenge a rape, a hold-up, a robbery or any other offence, and so became soldiers.

  In some cases future gangsters had no crime to avenge, but they joined the war because the gangsters’ courage and readiness to kill gave them a certain charm in the eyes of some girls. They thought it would impress them. They admired so-and-so or such-and-such for being involved in defending the area, and they in turn felt powerful, and therefore understood. The cool guys, however, said they were born pawns, the very antithesis of born gangsters. Unsuspecting youths joined gangs and went to war, sometimes armed only with a stick, while they waited to be given a revolver.

  Shocked residents commented among themselves that in times past only the truly miserable became gangsters, driven by their own misfortune. Now everything was different. Even the best-off people in the favela – young students from stable families whose fathers had good jobs, didn’t drink, didn’t beat their wives, and had never been involved in crime – were seduced by the war. They fought for silly reasons: kites, marbles, girlfriends. The areas dominated by the gangs became veritable fortresses, soldiers’ barracks, accessible to few, and those who were unaware of this found themselves publicly humiliated and pushed around because they lived in the area of this or that adversary or because they were friends with an enemy gangster. So the war took on greater proportions, and the original reason behind it no longer mattered.

  The demarcation of territory made it necessary for the gangs to use special codes to identify allies and rivals, so as not to be pushed around, or worse, accidentally killed. Existent in the favela since the golden days of the Boys, designer clothes had begun to inhabit the imagination of the dirt-poor. The gangsters turned to this resource, which afforded them distinction, status and ease of identification, and designed a kind of gang uniform out of the nylon fabrics used by gymnasts which were so in vogue at the time. Thieves took it upon themselves to meet the gangs’ needs, each with their brand of choice and favourite colour. And so, at the beginning of a harsh winter, more than two hundred gangsters were meticulously following fashion trends.

  One hazy day, one of Knockout’s pawns, Félix, was waiting on a street corner near the house of the girl he had a crush on. When she appeared at the gate, he adjusted a short piece of wood in his waistband and took off running towards Block Thirteen, pretending he was going to make a raid on his own, like the best gangsters. He ran along, stopping at corners, pretending he hadn’t seen her. He’d turn the corner, cross the Nut Cracker, get close to where the Block Thirteen lookouts were stationed, pretend to attack and take off running. The enemy would no doubt fire a few shots, and his beloved would hear them and think him the most courageous of men.

  He crossed the Nut Cracker, reached Middle Street, caught sight of Earthquake and My Man, and swore at them with his hand on his hip:

  ‘You bastard. You’re gonna get an arseful of lead, you fuckin’ cunt!’ he yelled, then turned down the first alley he saw to double back and return along a parallel street. But he ran right into Moth and Black Valter, Slick’s b
rother, who fired at him. Félix had no alternative but to run closer to Block Thirteen; he couldn’t go back the way he’d come because of Earthquake and My Man. He took another street in an attempt to get to Edgar Werneck, but My Man and Earthquake followed him, firing.

  The first shot hit his left arm, making him spin, the second, from a sawn-off shotgun, blasted off his right arm and made him spin in the other direction. The third brought him down and the fourth just put him out of his misery.

  Knockout heard straight away that Félix was dead. He couldn’t remember who he was, but it meant yet another casualty for his gang. He angrily called together his men and headed straight down Middle Street followed by some seventy gang members.

  The shooting had been going for three hours when Knockout penetrated the labyrinths of Block Thirteen alone and kicked down the fragile wooden doors. Nine-year-old Othon fired a .32 from under the table when his front door was kicked in, and the bullet grazed Knockout’s left arm. He jumped to one side and, with just one hand, riddled Othon’s body with lead from his sawn-off shotgun, then returned to his friends and beat a retreat.

  The five policemen on duty that day didn’t dare pass the Prospectors’ rehearsal square. They showed up half an hour after the shooting had stopped to deal with the bodies of Othon and yet another newborn baby killed in the war.

  As soon as he heard about Knockout’s attack, Tiny called together his gang and headed for Block Thirteen. The policemen flew into a panic when they saw the gang. Tiny himself shouted that he wasn’t going to fire at them. They passed by the policemen as if they were ordinary residents, rounded up the Block Thirteen gang and headed off to attack the enemy on its own territory.

  The first few shots were few and far between, since it was no longer possible for Tiny to barge straight in as he had in the past. Knockout’s gang had almost as many men as his. The Block Thirteen gang split up when they got to the Rec and headed up the river’s edge. Tiny’s gang split up and took Middle Street and the alleys. The youngest enjoyed that feeling of war, thinking they were TV heroes. All Tiny could think about was the money he’d lost ever since the war had begun. He shouted, swore, pretended to attack, then didn’t. Whenever an enemy bullet whistled past, he’d laugh his quick, shrill little laugh. With his gang all together, Knockout ordered them not to go into the firing line and to do only what he told them to. He called Carrots over, reached into a bag and pulled out two hand grenades that a gang member had stolen from the barracks he worked at. He had already explained how to use them. He said he’d taunt Tiny so he’d come closer.