City of God

by Paulo Lins

  ‘No way, man! You should run off so they go after you and I’ll throw it.’

  ‘OK, do it.’

  Knockout fired two shots with his sawn-off shotgun and Tiny responded with a spray of machine-gun fire, destroying a section of the wall they were using as a trench.

  ‘Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!’ shouted Knockout.

  Tiny, Black Stump and Slick advanced and Carrots threw the grenade.

  They crossed the square, reached The Sludge and found themselves face to face with the Block Thirteen gang. The dozens of shots fired had no specific target; they just had to shoot straight ahead. Only Knockout, Carrots, Mousetrap and Antunes actually aimed at the enemy. It wasn’t very different for their adversaries: their bullets lodged in the most diverse places. Approximately one hundred men exchanging fire and only two casualties for Knockout’s gang, and another two for the Block Thirteen gang, whom he’d killed himself.

  The grenade exploded, but only gave Tiny and his men a fright; it had fallen into a drainpipe without a cover and only split and shook the ground. Startled, Tiny looked at Slick and said:

  ‘This shit’s dynamite!’

  ‘Fuck!’

  Knockout took three Molotov cocktails out of his bag and told the rest of the gang to stay put. He asked Mousetrap to cover him and headed back to where Tiny was. This time he appeared right in front of his enemies, firing at them with a machine gun and, with his left hand only, lit one of the bombs and threw it at the head of one of Tiny’s men before running off. Tiny and company were horrified to see Couscous running about, blue flames covering him from head to foot, his deep cry contrasting with Tiny’s quick, shrill little laugh, his gymnast’s clothes melting and sticking to his body which, with slowing movements, fell to the ground and burned in silence.

  Tiny realised his machine gun was out of ammunition, tossed it to Slick, took his pistol from his waistband and went out alone into the alleys. He found his enemies in one and ran at them, firing. Knockout’s men retreated a little, and he stood there alone returning Tiny’s angry shots, but his machine-gun fire failed and didn’t hit its target. A clash of titans. A shootout with no hide-and-seek, some of Knockout’s men peering out from behind a wall, Tiny’s from another. Knockout ran out of ammunition. The second he placed his hand on the butt of his other pistol, he was hit in the stomach. He fell and rolled backwards hoping to find safety in the trench, while five of his men went after Tiny.

  ‘I got ‘im, I got ‘im, I got the bastard, I got Knockout!’

  Just as Knockout was being rescued, My Man emerged alone from an alley and killed another two of Knockout’s men.

  Over in The Flats, happy that Knockout had been hit, Tiny bought beers for whoever wanted them and handed out drugs for free in his dens. Euphoria reigned.

  At that stage in the war, Carlos Roberto’s friends advised him to quit managing Tiny’s dens; anyone who was tight with Tiny was, naturally, his enemies’ enemy. Carlos Roberto, who was already managing rather half-heartedly, started handing over his duties to Good Life, who liked handling money. After a short time, Good Life took over everything and, to get in his brother’s good books, started going around armed, giving orders and participating in the decision-making. He bought two houses, one in Realengo and the other in Bangu, for Tiny to hide in when he needed to. He bought himself a brand new car, a boat and diving equipment, as he thought his own was out-of-date. He rented a house in Petrópolis, where he often went horse-riding, began to dress more smartly, always frequented posh restaurants, and went water-skiing in the Barra da Tijuca canal. The bastard knew how to spend money.

  ‘What’s up, Leonardo? I always see you with the guys, but you keep to yourself, dress smart, like to swim, and you’ve always got a nice girl on your arm. Wanna make some easy money so you can have even more fun?’

  ‘That depends. I’m not lookin’ to get into trouble!’

  ‘This is a piece of cake, man! You’ve got your licence, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘All you gotta do is drive for me, OK? Didn’t you like it those times I took you horse-ridin’ in Petrópolis? Didn’t you like it when we went divin’? Well then! Now we can do this stuff every week, know what I’m sayin’? You won’t have to use a gun, right? We’ll only be spendin’ about two days a week here, and the rest of the time we’ll just be havin’ fun. You just drive, OK? I’m gonna get my brother out here every week and when he goes we go too. But don’t tell anyone, right? I’ve rented a huge house in Petrópolis.’

  ‘With him?!’ scoffed Leonardo.

  ‘No man. We’re goin’ somewhere else.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Money’s no problem, man. I’m the one runnin’ my brother’s business, know what I’m sayin’?’ said Good Life.

  Tiny walked along with his head down, believing the rumour that Knockout was dead. Now the only one left was that cunt, Carrots. He went up to Leonardo and his brother and said:

  ‘Here’s the story: in that last attack, loads of ammo was used and almost no one got killed, right? Hey, you – you’re not doin’ nothin’,’ he said, looking at Leonardo. ‘Round everyone up and take ’em over behind The Hill – we’re gonna practise target shootin’. Tell a kid to get us some bottles to practise on, OK?’

  ‘OK!’

  ‘And you listen up,’ he went on, talking to Good Life. ‘Go buy me some clothes, right? But don’t give ’em to me in front of anyone.’

  Over on The Hill, where more blocks of flats were being built, an irate wind tugged at the low green vegetation. The muddy, rocky slope extended all the way down to the abandoned mansion with the pool, and halfway down there was a flat area overlooking most of the estate, the back end of the neighbourhood of Araújo and part of the North Zone of Rio. There was also a view of the Recreio dos Bandeirantes hills and Knockout’s neighbourhood, which Tiny squinted at suspiciously, then laughed his quick, shrill little laugh.

  Dozens of bottles were lined up on the muddy slope, and each man had the right to ten shots. The one who missed the most had to buy beers for the gang. Leonardo didn’t waste a single bullet, prompting Tiny to say:

  ‘I don’t like this kid, I don’t like ‘im!’

  On the way back, Tiny went up to Leonardo.

  ‘Did you tell Skinny to come?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t say nothin’.’

  He quickened his pace until he caught up with Bicky.

  ‘That Skinny thinks he’s hot shit, you know. He had nothin’ when he got here and now he don’t even listen to me, know what I’m sayin’? He’s makin’ more than the rest of us put together. D’you see the car he bought?’

  ‘It’s all above board. It’s not hot … The car’s brand new!’

  ‘Remember that time he didn’t give you coke for your den and he gave some to Russian Mouse?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Well, I reckon he’s got it in for you, and another thing: the day I got Knockout I saw ’im makin’ the death sign behind your back.’

  ‘You’re kiddin’!?’

  ‘It’s true, man. But I’ve already been to the terreiro and the guy said everythin’s fine, you’re not goin’ down … but the guy’s got it in for you.’

  They walked down The Hill and stood around in the square for a few minutes. They could see Skinny washing his Beetle. The radio was on, there was a half-empty bottle of whisky sitting there, and Skinny trotted out a few dance steps from time to time, his revolver near the bucket of water and kerosene.

  ‘Get rid of ‘im!’ Tiny told Bicky as he watched him.

  ‘Do we have to get rid of Slick too?’

  ‘Let’s wait a bit, ’cos he’s on good terms with the kids on Block Thirteen, know what I’m sayin? We don’t know if Carrots is gonna continue the war, but don’t worry – I’ll take care of ‘im.’

  Bicky reloaded his pistol and went around the building, leaving Tiny with a grim s
mile on his face. Skinny was lying on the ground rinsing off the mud flaps and didn’t notice Bicky walking over. Bicky fired twelve bullets, at point-blank range, into his friend’s head.

  After a month, the newspapers were saying that the death toll in City of God was higher than that of the Falklands War in the same period of time. The estate had become one of the most violent places in the world. A TV camera showed pictures of Knockout at Miguel Couto Hospital. He answered all of the reporter’s questions without blinking. At the end of the interview, he stated that the war would only end when he or Tiny died.

  ‘Then the war ends today. It’s gonna end today ’cos I’m goin’ down to Miguel Couto to get ‘im. I’m goin’!’ shouted Tiny when he heard about the report. ‘Leonardo, you’re drivin’ me down there …’

  ‘Why don’t you cover your arm in Mercurochrome and say you’re hurt?’

  That night, Tiny doused his arm with Mercurochrome and tied his pistol to his ankle. He laughed his quick, shrill little laugh. He got in the car and slid down in the back seat. Leonardo started the engine and a shootout began.

  Ten civil policemen had gone in disguised as dustmen, hanging off a dump truck and firing at any black face they came across. Leonardo accelerated and took the road behind the square, where he and his brother abandoned the car and disappeared between the buildings.

  In his flat, before the shooting started, Sharky had punched his mother in the head, kicked her in the stomach twice, headbutted her in the mouth and hit her across the back of the neck with the butt of his gun, bringing her to the ground. The old cow was always telling him to put his clothes away and to not leave his belongings scattered around the house. Every time he went to the toilet, she checked to see if he’d wet the toilet seat. It was as if she was possessed. He’d already told her that if she insisted on bossing him to do this or that, he’d bash her head in. The bitch hadn’t believed him.

  When he heard the shots, he thought it was Knockout’s gang and went out to fight: if he killed Carrots, he’d be looked up to and Tiny might even give him a den. At that moment the Military Police showed up. Without shooting, they wove their way quietly through the buildings and came face to face with a confused Sharky, whose pistol wasn’t even cocked. He tried to cock it. A spray of bullets cut him through the stomach. His sister came after him and shouted:

  ‘Kill the bastard – he bashed up mum and almost killed her!’

  When he heard Sharky’s sister, Sergeant Linivaldo went into the middle of the street, motioned to the policeman driving the van, took the steering wheel and ran the back left wheel over Sharky’s head several times.

  The policemen grouped together and the sergeant counted them; one was missing. He appeared with a pawn in handcuffs. They put him in the back of the van and headed for Knockout’s area. They hid the van in an alley, took the pawn into the middle of the square on Block Fifteen, and removed his handcuffs.

  ‘Now run that way, run, run!’

  They fired a shot into the air and left. Knockout’s men found the pawn and killed him.

  Carrots told everyone to lie low. He’d only resume fighting when Knockout returned. He was afraid; he didn’t have what it took to run the gang. The police were breathing down their necks, the newspapers ran stories on City of God every day, and his name was always splashed across the front page.

  He took cover at the house of a friend whose wife had disappeared more than a week before. Now he was able to take Carrots in without having to listen to the bitch going on and on because he’d brought a gangster into the house. Carrots’ hands were shaking, his heart beat fast. His friend was asleep in the bedroom, completely drunk, grinding his teeth, breaking wind and tossing about in bed. What a fucked life he had. He didn’t even want to be in this stupid war. He’d always liked money, money was what he wanted, and there was that dickhead wanting to take over his den. The greedy bastard; he’d never liked Tiny. He remembered the days when he’d worked as a cleaner at the Catholic University, the only time he’d donned a sucker’s uniform. He knew he wouldn’t get rich cleaning up white kids’ mess, and only suckers worked knowing they’d never enjoy the good things in life. That was why he’d given it up, and he’d never gone back to that bitch of a life. Dope, coke, that was where the money was. If it weren’t for Tiny he’d be rich.

  He thought about his kids. He wanted them to study at the Catholic University; he’d always heard that the best schools were the Catholic ones. Two kids. What did he have to leave them? The most obvious inheritance was the war. Knockout had better come back soon, to help him fly at Tiny with all the hatred he felt at that moment. Kill him, take the den on Block Thirteen and work hard for a year. He’d buy a property in the countryside, where he’d raise chickens, put in a pool and build a bathroom with a sauna. He tried to remember how to make Molotov cocktails, but nothing came to him. His soul was filled with anguish. His gastritis came back to punish him. Milk. In the fridge there were only some rotting potatoes and a blackened piece of steak on a layer of dirty white grease. There was a bottle of brandy on the shelf. He didn’t hesitate, and drank it all to get a good night’s sleep. If one of his enemies arrived there’d be no problem; he’d die in his sleep. There are moments when one’s own death seems imperative.

  * * *

  No one knew how, but Butterfly appeared on a street corner in the middle of one night. When people asked how he’d got free he replied that he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He knew about everything that had happened. The only thing he couldn’t understand was why they were all standing on the street corner if Sergeant Linivaldo was on the prowl.

  ‘If he comes, we’ll give it to ’im in the chest!’ said Tiger seriously.

  Butterfly looked at him. He only knew the gangster by sight, and there were others with him he didn’t even know were in the gang, but Tiger was the only newcomer to come forward and had been so incisive that Butterfly fell silent. Tiger continued:

  ‘We should be Up Top right now, you know. There’s a shitload of guys up there that only dare come out when Knockout’s around.’

  ‘Go get the guys from The Flats,’ said Butterfly to a pawn.

  ‘What’s this about gettin’ the guys from The Flats, man? We can take care of this ourselves. That Tiny’s a bit messed up in the head. He wasted a friend that Slick brought in and only shows up to give orders.’

  ‘He let Bicky take out Skinny because the guy’d made the death sign behind his back. I was in the slammer, but I heard about it. Look, you’re with us, but the only ones who give orders round here are me, Slick and Tiny!’ said Butterfly.

  Tiger grew serious, looked at the entire gang, scratched his nose and said:

  ‘If you’re the boss, that’s cool then!’

  Tiny’s gang appeared at the other end of the street. The Block Thirteen gang waited for them to approach in silence.

  ‘Hey Slick, I’m skint, you know. I need a little somethin’ to buy some guns with, know what I mean? So here’s the story: you give me what you used to give Skinny, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  Tiger looked at Butterfly and My Man, then screwed up his nose and moved off.

  The two gangs headed up Middle Street together, with orders to pull the trigger on anyone, even the police. Butterfly looked at My Man with knowing eyes, doing his best to make his friend understand that he didn’t agree with Tiny’s instructions. My Man understood, but tried to hide his reaction amidst the two uniformed gangs.

  Over at the police post, Lincoln and Monster were arming themselves. They were going with six other police officers in two vans to The Flats to try to take the enemy by surprise.

  Up Top, members of Knockout’s gang were in a meeting at Groover’s house, where the pawn was telling them what had happened in the cell down at the police post. He said the policeman wanted to have a serious talk with Knockout, believing he really was a friend of the chief. They were eating bread and mortadella. They were filling their bellies so they
could snort the half-ounce of coke already chopped out on the plate. First they’d smoked some dope and now they were thirsty.

  ‘Eating this shit dry sucks!’ said Mousetrap.

  ‘Hey, kid. Nip over to Palhares’ Bar and buy us a family-size bottle of Coke.’

  The pawn stood up, took the money and asked:

  ‘Anyone got an empty bottle?’

  ‘What’s this shit about an empty bottle, kid? You’re a gangster, ain’t ya? You should be stealin’ it.’

  ‘Take my shooter!’ said Mousetrap.

  The white, curly-haired boy walked with small steps, his eyes bulging. The fear of losing his life only came to him in that instant. He’d never felt it before, but now, in the deserted streets, after Carrots had ordered the entire gang to lie low, his regret at having dropped out of his second year of secondary school, at having left his part-time job to fall into the clutches of the war out of sheer fascination, was patent.

  In the next street, Tiny ordered his gang to be quiet. Something told him he was about to catch his enemies unawares. The boy walked faster. It was best to act quickly; the next day he’d give up his life of crime. Tiny, who only had his sawn-off shotgun cocked, silently cocked his machine gun. Gangsters, cats and the police are all alike – they pop up in the most improbable places and bring the silence to life.