by Paulo Lins
Shivers ran down the boy’s spine, he slowed his pace and his mother’s voice asking him how he was getting on at school resounded in his ears. Tiny motioned for the gang to stop, and aimed his machine gun at the corner with his finger on the trigger. The boy also stopped without a sound, cocked his pistol and started to walk quickly again. He was less than ten steps away from entering Tiny’s firing range.
He took seven steps, then one of Tiny’s pawns cleared his throat. The boy breathed a sigh of relief, believing that someone honest and good was coming around the corner – a gangster wouldn’t make any noise. He quickened his step and walked into Tiny’s firing range.
‘Hands on your head, cunt!’ said Tiny, and asked his gang, ‘Is this kid a no-good?’
‘Yeah!’ said Tube.
‘Let’s mess ’im up, let’s mess ’im up!’ said Russian Mouse.
‘Put the shooter on the ground and lie down! Wanna pray?’ asked Tiny with every evil bone in his body.
The boy said nothing.
‘Where’s your friends?’ Tiny asked.
The boy knew he was going to die whether he talked or not, so he kept quiet. He pissed his pants, tensed his body, and at that moment his parents’ advice came flooding into his mind. Tiny stared at him for a time, uncocked his gun and ordered the gang to go take a walk. Alone with the boy, he ordered him to get up and asked:
‘Know how to sing?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Then sing “Maluco Beleza”!’
The boy started at the chorus, stuttering at first, then sang in tune. Tiny looked at the moon, and felt the wind lightly brushing his face. The boy’s voice was like Sparrow’s singing the same song, except that Sparrow had always sung with a smile on his face and his arm draped around Tiny’s neck, jumping about on the spot like a child. In a flash the memory touched several points, it wasn’t just one Sparrow that he remembered, but many, in many different places and situations, always laughing or singing. If Sparrow were alive, maybe Tiny wouldn’t have raped Knockout’s girl and none of this would be happening; he’d certainly have a lot more money and no enemies.
The boy stopped. Tiny told him to sing again. Again, looking at the sky, he sought Sparrow’s image leaning against a star, because his voice had sounded in his ears the very moment he was going to fire the gun pointed at the boy’s head. He saw nothing. Sparrow wasn’t on a star; only his soul was there, beside him, showing him that the boy wasn’t a real enemy. He stared into space and winked, believing Sparrow would see it.
‘Get out of this life, boy … Off you go! Did someone do somethin’ to you to make you join the war? Go find yourself a school!’
* * *
Almost unnoticed, Lincoln’s gang took cover on The Hill after they’d hidden the police vans in the bush. A security guard at the construction site on The Hill jumped in alarm, but Lincoln himself motioned to him, telling him to relax. With the help of a pair of binoculars, he was able to see everything going on in The Flats. Sergeant Linivaldo came to the conclusion that they were in Knockout’s area. They’d have to wait.
Tiny told the gang the kid wasn’t a gangster.
‘The bastard wasn’t a Jerry! He was after some guy ’cos of a girl.’
They went back to The Flats.
Lincoln told his men to stay calm when Tiny’s gang gathered in the square. They needed to watch where they were going next.
‘The one next to the lamp-post is Tiny,’ said Sergeant Linivaldo.
‘Which one’s Slick?’
‘He’s the one that’s leavin’, goin’ down that alley there … He’s the boss of Block Thirteen.’
‘Gusmão, go to the van and send out a radio message that a guy in a blue tracksuit is going to cross Edgar Werneck at the bridge at the start of the avenue. He’s dangerous and armed. Tell ’em to bring ’im in, but I want ’im alive, ’cos he can give us a lot of info.’
Slick did not resist when he was told he was under arrest. He answered everything the policemen asked him at the police post itself.
‘You takin’ ’im down to the Thirty-Second, Sergeant?’
‘Only on Monday. First let’s see if everything he’s told us is true.’
* * *
Cocaine sales in The Flats increased, and in spite of the war it was common for cars to arrive with people from elsewhere wanting to buy coke, as it was the easiest area in the favela to get to. Tiny laughed whenever Good Life told him how much he’d sold on a particular day. The addicts kept bringing in household appliances, weapons and jewellery to exchange for drugs. There was no way the police could arrest so many addicts, so they only arrested those who were armed. There had still been no word from Slick. It was only when Sergeant Linivaldo shouted out in Block Thirteen that he wanted two hundred thousand to release him that his pals discovered what had become of him.
Butterfly went to Tiny, who at first didn’t want to fork out the money. He said that Slick hadn’t kept his wits about him and he wasn’t about to give money to the police to free a fool. But after much grumbling, he sent Good Life to give Butterfly the money.
Slick heard it all from Butterfly half an hour after his release. Butterfly beefed up the story, saying that Bicky had repeated twice that Tiny shouldn’t hand over the money. Slick ground his teeth.
‘Look, that Tiny owes me money, and if I ever run into ’im when I’ve got my gun on me, I’ll pull the trigger, right?’ said an addict after making some small talk, and snorting the first line of coke through a ten-cruzeiro note from the third wrap that he’d bought from Carrots’ assistant. ‘One day, I went over to his area to get some stuff and he gave me a hard time. He even punched me in the face.’
‘You’re kiddin’!?’
‘Kiddin’!? No way! He thinks we’re stupid. He hasn’t got a clue that we can get nasty too.’
‘Where’re you from?’
‘SãoJosé. So,’ he said, pausing to snort another line of coke, ‘if anyone wants to get together to take ’im out, count me in, OK? I can’t bring anyone from my area ’cos we don’t have anywhere to crash here.
Carrots’ assistant let the addict run Tiny down for a good while, always agreeing with him, then said:
‘You can say that again. But hey, go have a chat with those guys over there. Everyone there wants to get rid of ’im too.’
Mousetrap heard the same story that the assistant had heard. Then he pressed the barrel of his revolver to the addict’s head, ordered a gang member to frisk him and took him to meet Carrots. After a great deal of talking, Carrots sent for another three wraps from his den and continued to ask the names of the inmates the newcomer had done time with.
A short time later, Mousetrap arrived to say the car was ready. The mechanic had promised it would no longer stall for no reason.
That night they went to fetch Knockout from the hospital. The operation was a success. The policeman on duty at the time was screwing one of the nurses and only reported the prisoner missing two hours later.
Antunes told Knockout that he’d been thinking a lot about their mother over the last few days. He was tired of that life of bullets, death and drugs. He was going to get a job and rent a room for himself, their sister, mother, father and younger brother.
‘The guy said there’s cheap rooms to rent over in Catete … I’m not interested in this life any more, see? I’m gettin’ out before I get a record … We don’t have any peace. C’mon, man, forget this shit about revenge. You almost got yourself killed and you’ve killed loads of people.’
‘I’m getting out too, but only when Tiny’s dead!’
‘Well, it’s up to you, but it’s a cunt of a way to live! I never thought I’d ever hold a gun … It’s a dog’s life … All you have to do is go out into the street and you end up in trouble over nothing. Just yesterday I had a run in with Altar Boy and Screw.’
‘What about?’
‘They were dealing and ended up snorting the den dry – more than twenty wraps. I went to talk to them, but the
y said they were gonna take me out …’
‘I was gonna get rid of those two but Carrots told me not to, so I let it go …’
‘All I know is that I’m out of here, right? Here’s my pistol. I’m going home for a shower and a change of clothes, then Tribobó and me are going down to that petrol station on Miguel Salazar to look for a job, OK? There was an ad in yesterday’s paper saying they were looking for an attendant. I’m going to see if the guy’ll give me a job and then, if he’s got other stations, ’cos they always do, I’ll ask for a transfer.’
‘Good for you, man. Good luck!’
For Antunes, that morning had the purest air. It was the morning he was going to let go of the madness of revenge. God Almighty would see to it that Tiny got punished. Who was he to deliver justice if divine justice was stronger? He was leaving to look for a job, leaving City of God, leaving the war. Knockout would leave too. That was what his mother had said – that if he left, his brother would end up leaving too. The petrol station owner would give him a job, because he was well-spoken, knew his maths, and even though he was black, he had straight hair and his brother’s blue eyes. He looked good; that was important, very important. He showered, chose his best clothes, put on some cologne and slicked back his hair. He was meeting Tribobó at 8.30 on the corner of the former Doorway to Heaven bar. He asked his mother to pray for him to get the job and hurried into the street.
‘You’re so handsome, my boy, so smart-looking. Forget this revenge thing. That Tiny won’tlastlong. The police’ll end up killing him!’ said a woman gossiping with three others at her front gate.
People greeted him as he walked along; he was the brother of the avenger, and almost as handsome. He walked through the streets Up Top without that tense face he’d been wearing of late, without a gun in his hand or waistband, greeting housewives as he’d done in times past, without peering around corners to check for the enemy.
There on the corner, duly spruced up for the occasion, Tribobó was waiting for him with the same smile. So many times they’d gone out together to launch an attack and now they were going to look for work! It was doing wonders for his soul. And what about his grandfather’s soul? He prayed for God to take it to a good place, together with the souls of those who’d died in combat. He’d pray for them always.
‘You’ll have to fill out a form. Have you got all your documents on you?’ said the employee who received them. ‘Where do you live?’
‘City of God.’
‘That’s gonna make things difficult. The boss isn’t accepting people from City of God.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure, but fill in the form. You never know, right?’
Altar Boy and Screw watched them from behind a lorry on the other side of the street. The sun was hot and the traffic heavy. Firing from there would be stupid. If they went a little further down the street, crossed over and doubled back, keeping close to the walls until they got to the petrol station, they could surprise their enemies easily. This was what they did, unnoticed.
The first bullet came from Altar Boy’s revolver. It only served to warn their enemies and the petrol station employees. The attendants headed into a condominium next door, the employee who’d been talking to Antunes and his friend jumped into an oil container, and Tribobó jumped a small wall and fled. Antunes got two bullets in the head, spun and fell to the ground.
Without putting him out of his misery, Altar Boy and Screw ran into the middle of the road, stopped a car, got in and headed for Taquara, where they abandoned the vehicle and stole another one, then drove up Grajaú Range and were never seen again.
The news spread quickly and Antunes’ body was surrounded by people. Several police officers arrived to ask questions.
Knockout was drinking the tea his girlfriend had prepared, missing his mother’s affection and home-made remedies. The sparkle in his brother’s eyes had renewed his zest for life. He hated black tea without sugar, and held his nose as he drank. He felt pain and peered out beneath the curtain. It was already midday, but it still seemed like morning. The fresh air met his face. Perhaps if he smoked a joint time would go faster. No, no drugs. Passion fruit juice made you sleepy, yes, he’d knock back a whole jug. He called Mousetrap, who was keeping guard in front of the house. Silence. He called again. He wanted to ask his friend to buy the newspaper. There’d no doubt be a story about his escape.
‘Wait a minute,’ answered Mousetrap.
Mousetrap, Carrots, Turtle and Hairy Beast were talking in low voices about what had happened. No one stepped forward to report Antunes’ death to Knockout, who was lying down. His few movements had caused his two wounds to bleed. His friends decided to go in and tell him about the tragedy together. They opened the gate in silence. Knockout cocked his gun and slid from the bed to the ground.
‘It’s OK!’ said Mousetrap.
* * *
With their help, Knockout got back into bed, and asked Carrots to turn on the fan. He found their silence odd. Ever since he’d got back from the hospital his pals had been overly cheery. And now this seriousness for no reason, with everyone hanging their heads and dragging their feet. He screwed up his forehead, looked them each steadily in the eye and asked:
‘Who’s down?’
Nervous silence. A cry. The desperation of his friends as Knockout stood abruptly, weak at the knees. He knew it was Antunes. He held Carrots by the shoulders and said:
‘It was Antunes! It was Antunes! Where’s his body? Where is it?’
‘Over at the petrol station past the Wella building.’
‘It was Tiny, wasn’t it?’
‘No, it was Altar Boy and Screw.’
Without a word, he pulled on clothes and headed for the door, his hatred giving him the strength to walk. His friends tried to hold him back, but he jerked away, shook them off, reached the yard, went through the gate and crossed the threshold of his fate, the fate of being punished for not having prayed enough. His wounds bled and left a trail through the alleys, through the streets now full of people. His eyes stung, but that’s all – the tears did not come, and what good were tears anyway? Crying didn’t change a thing. All he could do was allow his desire for revenge to well up. He had flashbacks of the sheet covering Grandpa Nel stained red, Steak-and-Chips with his head blown off, his darling being abused, the wall of his house riddled with bullet holes, his dog full of lead, and now the image of a blood-stained Antunes was about to be embedded in his memory. He reached Miguel Salazar Street, where the morning breeze was stronger, but fuck the breeze and the sun burning his face! What he really wanted was for it all to be an illusion, for his brother to be alive. He caught sight of the crowd. Blood ran down his trouser legs and made the inside of his trainers slippery.
He approached the body. Even the police were silenced by his arrival. Just like his brother, no one seemed to move in his presence. He embraced the dead man’s body, brothers’ blood mingling, kissed his cheeks, and whispered something in his ear. Then he carefully let go of his body, backed away, looked around, grabbed a stump of wood he found nearby, took it to the petrol pump, doused half of it with fuel and held it to the flame of one of the candles around his brother’s corpse, raised the torch and ran, his heart pounding like the Devil, towards Altar Boy’s house, without even noticing the two bullet holes in his body. Physical pain was nothing – hatred could supplant any debility. He turned down an alley, where he found some gang members, who followed him. He arrived at Altar Boy’s house, took the machine gun from Carrots, handed him the flaming piece of wood to hold, and fired a spray of bullets at the door and windows. He went back to Carrots, handed him the gun, took the torch, went into the house and set fire to the curtains, asking someone to get some cleaning alcohol to splash on the doors and the roof beams. In no time at all, the small house was in flames. He stood there for a few minutes, then went to do the same to Screw’s house.
At Antunes’ funeral, Carrots ordered his entire gang to stand outside the grav
eyard holding their guns. Knockout had insisted on going, even though most of his friends thought it was a bad idea.
‘If the police or any no-goods show up, let ’em have it till Knockout can get out. He can’t run.’
But not one policeman or villain appeared.
* * *
Two days after Antunes’ funeral the combat between the gangs gained new momentum; when Tiny heard Knockout was back in the favela he decided not to give him any peace. Sometimes the fighting went on for three or four days at a time. Tiny always swore at the top of his lungs. When the battles were taking place, the police thought it best not to interfere. It was better to let them kill one another.
School classes were cancelled and no one went to work. There were deaths, especially among the pawns in Knockout’s gang who became easy prey in the ambushes – they hadn’t been brought up among villains and weren’t skilled in fleeing from the police. When the parents – always the last to know their kids were involved in the war – eventually found out, they started taking preventive measures: they moved house, sent their kids to stay with relatives far from the favela and even took them to work when they had no other choice.
After a while, a desperate Knockout banned the pawns from going to the front line. He took away their weapons and went to their homes to tell their families. He only wanted real villains with him. Tiny, on the other hand, even forced workers to fight. When they didn’t go into combat, they got a bullet in the backside.
Tiny’s dog reminded him of Sparrow, and he carried it everywhere he went. It ate top-quality food, no leftovers, and he only allowed Black Stump, whom he treated as if he were his own son, to take care of the dog. It was Black Stump who fed the animal, bathed it with special shampoo to protect it from fleas and ticks, and took it for obedience lessons. When the dog was bigger it also went into battle: Tiny set it loose and followed its steps.
* * *
The families of the dead pawns called the newspapers in an attempt to get the media to pressurise the government into putting an end to the war, which had been going on for two years. Complaints to the police had no effect, because most of the gangsters had been arrested at some stage, but almost all had been released in exchange for bribes from Tiny. Only the pawns were taken down to the Thirty-Second Police Station, where charges were pressed against them, because Tiny refused to spend money on weak soldiers.
